“Does that include me?” I asked “Am I one of these ´Maybe´? Father?” I noticed
he chose not to answer, but instead to deflect, “Since you can read already, I am sure
your writing skills are close behind, and so I would have you do something for me.
Something quite important.”
“I know writing, I mean what that is.” I remember waving my finger around as
I tried to mimic the words on that sign “But I am not sure I can do it myself. Not yet.”
“It will come to you,” He smiled, his most appreciated attempt at inspiring any
confidence in me, “and when it does, I would like for you to write down everything
that is going to transpire tonight.” He then rummaged through that big bag he had
been readying for the last moments, before finally slapping his forehead after realising
what he was looking for was already in one of his pockets. He took it out, and then
proudly handed it to me. That very same notebook that you now hold in your hand,
“Can you do that for me?” He insisted.
“I am not sure I -”
“It will come to you, all the memories and much more.” He smiled as he handed
me some pencils too, “And when you know how, when you feel confident enough to
start, I want you to write down everything concerning tonight. Write as much as you
can - use whatever sight is available to you; pen down whatever your eyes or your mind
decide to show you – keep writing until you find yourself out of here.”
“Can I make it like a story?” I asked shyly, “Of sorts...”
“Yes, if it pleases you. You can try and structure it like that if you want but do try
and avoid any glib words.” He took another quick and desperate peek through that
still barely opened crimson metal door “Then you can read it back to me, and to others,
once we are far and away from this place - safe and under the sun.”
“Can I make some drawings too?” My heart jumped in expectation. “Well,”
He looked at me again, with the most patient of smiles “yes, certainly. Whatever helps
you in the telling, why not?” He rummaged again for some crayons which he then
Stolen story; please report.
handed to me, and then he hesitantly returned his worrisome look to what was waiting
on the other side of that door.
“Are we going now?” I asked while holding all the things he gave me as tightly as my
little weak hands possibly could, “Father?”
“Where could they be?” I heard him whisper “Well, no matter.” He took a deep breath,
“Our way seems to be clear.” He then turned to me, with his eyes staring at mine in a
more serious way than I had thought possible. “This is it. Are you ready?”
“Yes...” I scattered all the pencils and crayons across all pockets available to me and,
while holding that notebook tightly in my right arm, I slowly extended my left one.
He gently took hold of my hand, caressed my fingers a few times behind a comforting
smile, and then pulled me with him...
... and that is why I wrote all that you now hold.
“I see...” The Tinker admitted a bit dubiously when we were already back his place,
“That is quite the tale.” His fingers constantly caressing the well-worn cover of that
notebook; so easily displaying all the eagerness that his eyes would not share.
“That is what happened.”
“Well, and what then?” He asked as he gestured me to take a seat. We were now in
what he called a ´living room´, and I could see all sorts of things scattered around that
makeshift table standing distinguishably in the middle. “Go on, sit down. Wherever
you like.” he insisted after placing my notebook in the centre of that table. Then he
turned around, towards some cupboards and a device leaking out all sorts of fire.
“Can I take this one?” I asked regarding one of the few chairs I found in a usable
condition.
“Go right ahead.” He promptly allowed, without even looking to see what I could be
referring to, as he was now clearly too busy preparing something. “Thank you.”
“And then,” he asked me again, “what happened after?” He turned around holding a
tray. On it rested a couple of exceptionally large and funny looking mugs, and between
them was a smoking metal pot.