A Pen, Paper, and Knife

A short story reminiscent of old fairytales.

A Pen, Paper, and Knife

By M. A. Sanderson

A Cautionary Tale


There was a hill with a rectangular hole by the base, lined with stone and moss soft to the touch. It didn’t go directly downwards, but in the hillside perpendicular to the ground. Some tall grass and prickly weeds surrounded the area, leaving the hole barely visible to someone who didn’t know it was there. The hole was also frankly small, only the size to tightly fit a loaf of bread. When I noticed it on my morning stroll, my first instinct was to leave it be as anything else of similar worth, but something about that hole drew me towards it. Curiosity, as it does, gets the better of us sometimes.
My first action was to toss a pebble into it—mayhap I would be able to get a rough estimate of its depth. I grabbed a stone from some nearby shrubbery and carefully aimed my hand inside the hole. As I dropped it, I could only count to one ‘fore the stone hit the ground. The ensuing sound echoed greatly, repeating itself perhaps six times. Clack. Stone against stone.
“Hello?” Called a frail voice from inside. “Who goes there?” He didn’t say it as a threat, but a question warranting an answer.
“Rainson.” I called back, startled slightly. “Would you happen to be one who is imprisoned in this hill?”
“Long have been. But perhaps—may I be so selfish to request for drinking water?”
“How may I be sure you deserven’t thine fate?”
“I assure you, strongly, I am no evil man.”
“Then I’ll be back in roughly a mileway.”
“I won’t have gone anywhere.”
In perhaps an hour I’d returned to the area with three bottles of water and wine. I circled the hill a few times to find the hole, where I knelt down and pulled the nearby fauna from my hand’s way. “Hello? I’ve returned.”

“Salvete ! You’re far earlier than expected.”
“Can you reach your hand through the opening?”
“Allow me to try.” After some rough shuffling sounds, his pale, bony hand reached from the hole and moved its fingers. “It seems I can, quotha.”
“Turn your palm to the sky and grasp what I give you.” He obeyed, and I gave him one of the water bottles. “Handle it carefully. It’s glass.”
“Sir, I—I owe you infinitely and more. I—”
“Bring your hand back. There’s five more.”
“…Five?”
“Indeed.” One by one, I passed him the drinks as he slowly grabbed and placed them. By the last bottle, I told him, “That’s six. Drink wisely and you should survive a fortnight.”
“Sir, I—I thank you greatly. Your gifts have prolonged my life far longer than I could have expected to live. Would it…perhaps be an inconvenience for you to return tomorrow?”
“More than likely,” I reassured him. For the next week I gave him many gifts—books, meals, games, and a few things I brought on my own whim, like a set of clothes that hardly fit my slender body and a few odd-colored blankets nobody would pay for. He’d thank me profusely, but after a few times it would glaze over my mind. The tasks became a little arduous, but I never once failed to provide. Unfortunately, I had a rough question to ask him.
“I’m back with the book.”
“Already? You’re always much faster than I expect.”
“I have quick feet,” I said. “However, I do have news to give you. I will be going on a trip for my job tomorrow and I shall be back in perhaps three days. Do you have enough food and drink to survive until then?”
“Yes, and some extra.”
“Then I’ll be off.” I handed him the book: “Servitude”—some old tale from centuries ago, which, by legend, a slave wrote from empty pages in books. Whether it was true or not, it bothered me not. I didn’t believe it as truth anyway.
Nine days was my trip to and from the mountain village—me and the other merchants came back with satisfied pockets and donkeys relieved of the load they’d brought. They had good beer too—and rather comfortable beds. I could hardly stop grinning by the rewards I’d reaped—O, where should I start? Perhaps I should get a new pillow for my bed—my old one was hard as rocks. Or perhaps some new fine wine—the luxury one that all the aristocrats drank. What a successful voyage! Successful indeed.
By sundown I returned to the man in the hill, carrying cheaper wine and misshapen bread that was on sale at the market. I called into the hole a few times before he responded. I had to pull out the regrown weeds to avoid hurting myself.
“Hello? Is that you?” He called weakly.
“Yes, yes, it’s me. Reach out your hand.”
“Alright, give me a moment.” After a few minutes of shuffling and echoed footsteps, his hand shakily reached out and opened. As I was handing him things, he said,
“Have there been any…complications among your trip?”
“No, everything went very smoothly.”
“Then you lied to me.”
I paused. “I’m confused by what you’re referencing.”
“You said you would be back in three days. You came back in nine. I barely, just barely had enough to survive until now. Have you no care at all?” The memories came through. The late nights drinking with my friends. The early mornings I awoke with headaches and weak knees. The feasts. The parties. The days I had no cares in the world.
“You can’t seriously expect my life to revolve around yours.” He paused. He paused for many minutes.
“Then bring me a rope before nightfall.”
“Hasty, are we?” In time I couldn’t name I returned with a three meter long rope which was fraying at some points. It was old and useless. I used to use it for donkeys.
“You know you can’t fit through that hole no matter how skinny you’ve made yourself, right?"
“Well aware, sir.” We both hesitated for a moment.
“May I ask, Mister Rainson, why do you bestow upon me such gifts?”
I stopped to think. “You are a man. As am I. If I turn down the life of a man than I am to die with him.”
“Very well then, sir.” He coughed a few times. “Will you be back tomorrow?”
“Count on it.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” The sun hadn’t even risen yet when I returned with a music box and cards.
“I’ve returned.” For a moment there was no response.
“So early?” The man in the hill croaked.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I said, handing off the items.
“Would you mind staying and telling me about your trip?”
“Not at all,” I said, grinning. I then told him of my adventures; the mountains we hiked upon, the one who lost his donkey, the crazy old man at the village, the sights and creatures we saw, and many more. I even recited some tales I told my fellow traders in a drunken stupor. There was one man I knew, a friend’s friend, Adel, who used to always tell stories, but I informed the man in the hill that they were always badly told, Adel a man with a lack of wit. My fellows and I never failed to tell him so. I told the man in the hill that Adel told maybe two, maybe three or four good stories, but they didn’t count, I’d said.
“Why would you ignore the good from him and focus on the bad? Treating someone like that, ignoring the things they do right, will convince them, too, they are bad.”
“It did me good. He doesn’t tell his damn stories anymore, for one!” I laughed heartily as the man sat in cold silence.
“You explore a lot, don’t you?” The man asked, changing the subject.
“All the time.”
“Would you be perhaps able to bring me a drawing of a boat sometime? You speak of them constantly, yet I have never seen one before,” he asked politely. Suddenly, my entire head started throbbing with emotion and rage, still hungover from the day before.
“Seriously? I just came back and you want a fifth item in the span of two days? In fact, do you even appreciate the things I do for you at all? You have never even said ‘thank you’ to me once, the man who is single-handedly keeping you alive against impossible odds. Can you even name a single time you thanked me?”
“I—I…cannot remember,” he stammered.
“Exactly. Mayhap I should leave for another nine days, and we shall see how pleased you are when I am not around.”
“I never said anything against you!”
“Shut your mouth, you snake.”
“Then how about I give one more request, and I shall never ask of you anything again.”
“Go on,” I started, my tongue pressed against my teeth.
“I shall ask for three separate items, and the only condition is that you return here tomorrow.”
“Those items are?”
“A pen, paper, and knife.”
“Fine then. But if you ask for one more thing afterwards, I’ll make sure you die by that very knife,” I said, already starting to walk away. “How ironic would that be…to die by your own gift…”