Everyday Canvas

Dybbuk

Lyn’s Prompt: Something beginning with the letter D. Something metallic. Something green. Something winding. Write a poem or a story inspired by I Spy, the guessing game popular with kids during car rides and other long periods of downtime, in which the spy offers descriptive clues that hint at a visible object for other players to guess. Have fun.

duffle bag, scimitar, green shirt, winding road

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Dybbuk

A woman trudged on the winding road, carrying a stuffed duffle bag on her back. An ordinary woman except for the scimitar on her right hand and the picture of a wild hog and some words resembling hieroglyphs on the green tee-shirt she wore. Underneath the shirt, her Levis and black boots were only commonplace.

On she walked, looking around her, as if searching for another soul, but the road was lonely and still, and the sun made everything to bright to stare at, letting its beams shine off the scimitar.

Hearing a cough on the side of the road, the woman stopped and spun around.

“You shouldn’t have come,” said a heavy voice. “I was coming to you.” Then, from the woods on the side, a man stepped on the road with a slow gait. He was old with silver hair parted on the left, and a hint of a rattle was heard from his lungs as he breathed out.

The woman raised the scimitar. “You’re not the one I want. I need someone younger.”

“But why not? It’ll be easier on you and in a shorter time.”

Before the woman could swing down the scimitar, from behind the man, a young woman appeared, carrying a sleeping infant. She screamed. “Daddy, don’t! Please, come back home.”

The old woman lowered the scimitar. “Ooooh!” She uttered a joyful cry. “Just what I want.”

“No, please, no!” The man begged. “Please, not my daughter.”

“No?” The old woman’s voice was full of sarcasm. “No one can say no to me, but I have no intentions on your daughter.”

“Please,” said the younger woman, “Don’t touch my father. Here, take all I have instead.” She reached into the pocket of her full skirt and pulled out a box. “This is all my jewelry. Please, leave him alone.”

“Oh, what good are your trinkets, girl? However, I am not touching him. I am not touching you, either, but the baby. A new life! A long, long life!”

As she said that, she threw the scimitar a few yards away and neared the young woman whom she had rendered motionless. “The only way to get rid of me will be to kill the baby with that scimitar,” she told the man. “Can you kill your grandchild?”

Then without any warning, she jolted forward. Immediately, the sun in the sky hissed down and darkness set upon the road for a second or two.

The baby had begun crying incessantly just before the sun came up again.

The young woman began to howl together with the baby. The old woman had disappeared, leaving her duffle bag on the road. A few yards ahead, the scimitar shone under the sun’s rays.

The grandfather took a few steps toward the scimitar, but gave up and picked the duffle bag. When he opened it, he saw the banknotes filling it.

“At least, a generous dybbuk,” he murmured. “Something ironic in the honorific!”

“Daddy,” the young woman sobbed. “What good is all the money in the world when my son will have the dybbuk in him?”

“Dybbuks can be tamed, but if you’d rather…” He turned around and took a step toward the scimitar.

“Noooo!” The young woman begged. “I can live with the taming.” In her arms, the baby bawled, twisting his legs.