A young boy uncovers his surprising destiny. This story can also be viewed in my FanStory.com portfolio at
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The Tinder Box
Never again would they dare to call me insane. Crouching in my cell, I stared at the window. The fire’s
reflection danced like a wild gypsy behind the bars on the darkened glass. I squeezed the charcoal pencil in
my hand and shuddered. The raging inferno outside rose higher into the night sky, devouring nearby
buildings. Trapped like a wild animal in a cage, all I could do was wait, and draw.
"Did you do that, laddie?"
Startled, I jumped and spun around, shielding my work with my body. My heart leaped and my hands
trembled like jelly in a bowl, but I couldn't drop the stick. No matter how often the drawings appeared, their
presence still made me nervous. "Did I do what?" I asked my cell mate.
"Start the fire."
"No." My gaze darted across the wall where the sketch I'd completed showed a fire raging through a prison
complex. "It’s like I told you before. I just know when it’s going to happen. This pencil draws the future." I
studied the craggy face staring back at me. He looked like one of those ancient dwarfs from an old picture
book at the turn of the century. His long, woolly hair grew in every direction and his snowy beard covered
most of his face. Deep blue, lagoon-like eyes peered out from under his furrowed brow.
"Ach, I see. So, lad, now what, eh? Now what?"
I swallowed hard and raised my right hand. The charcoal stick yanked me forward and continued its frantic
drawing on the stone canvas of the bare, damp wall. My mouth hung open as the scene unfolded before us.
The old man stepped up beside me. "Do we escape?"
"Yes," I said, pointing to the vivid picture forming as I drew - a young boy and an old man running across the
prison yard. "Look, we reached the woods."
The old man licked his lips and pulled his ragged brown shawl closer to his chest. "Aye, I’m parched. Feel the
heat approaching from the flames."
I nodded and shuddered. "It’s getting too close." My hand ached as the charcoal maintained its furious pace
on the wall. Smoke billowed in the corridor. Paint blistered on the wall. My cheeks grew hot as the
temperature rose.
Thud! Thud!
A muffled voice filtered through the door. "Hurry! The door is unlocked! Run for your li. . .!" A coughing fit
interrupted the speaker. I yanked on my wrist with my other hand and the pencil fell to the ground. It turned
bright green, then dulled to a weak grey. Scooping it up, I shoved it into my pocket. With a quick scan of the
wall to see which direction we were to escape, I grabbed my friend’s coat sleeve. "C’mon, old man. We’re
wasting time. This building just collapsed in the picture. We’ve got about fifteen minutes."
The heavy latch gave way as I yanked it, and we fled the room. The old man’s heavy boots clopped along
behind me making the empty hall echo like a tomb. When we reached the entry to the lock down area, the
door swung open before us like a silent slave.
"Your power grows stronger," the old man remarked, as though commenting on the weather.
"I never asked for it." I puffed as we ran from the building and picked our way over charred ground.
"You will understand one day, the power of the Tinder Box."
My mind raced as I navigated my way around the glowing embers littering the prison yard. Who was he? At
first he'd seemed old and feeble. Now I was not so sure. "I thought you didn’t understand my power, as you
call it."
"It was best for you to believe that, while you were being held prisoner by Xorgos."
"Then perhaps you can explain why the guard released us?"
"He will lose his life. Xorgos will demand his blood."
"He sacrificed his life to save mine? Why?"
The old man stumbled and grasped for a tree trunk. His chest rose and fell from his exertions, and he
wheezed with every breath. When he answered, his words came haltingly. "His own reasons. There now. We
have reached the timber. Just as the drawing predicted. We are safe for the moment."
I gave him an incredulous grin. "Safe? I fear not, old man." I turned. Just in time. Enveloped by the roaring
inferno, the prison buildings we had left minutes before, collapsed in a shower of sparks. "By the way, who
are you? What is your name? I fell asleep in my cell yesterday. When I awoke, you were there."
My companion lifted his head and stared at the burning ruins. "My name is Toryn."
My hand flew to my mouth. It couldn’t be. "But, you’re dead. At least that’s what I was told. You were alive
when my grandmother was a little girl. How can you be . . ." I stammered, my voice trailing off as I tried
comprehending the enormity of my companion’s identity. Sucking in my breath, I blew it out. "You are the
Messenger."
"Indeed. I am the Messenger."
"Then the legend of the Tinder Box is true?"
"You ask me? Have you not seen the power of its tool with which you draw?"
I blinked with surprise. My mind whirled like a spinning top about to topple and fall. Reaching above my head,
I plucked some pine needles. Crushing them, I inhaled their tangy aroma. I pictured Grandmother’s face as
she spoke of my inheritance. I loved her no less for believing she gave me a treasure in an old tinder box. It
meant the world to her. She’d told me many stories of our ancestors - of how the tinder box had protected
our family time and time again. With her last breath, she handed me the box, and wrapped my fingers around
it. "Never let this box leave your sight, Artemas. It will protect you from all harm. One day the Messenger will
come for you, and you will understand. You were born to be King, Artemas. God speed."
I shuddered as the memory of her hand slipping from mine crept across my heart like a dark thundercloud. "I
love you, Grandmother," my voice cried out, but she could not hear me. Not in this world, anyway.
Me, Artemas, the son of a blacksmith and a maid, born to be King? I passed it off as the fanciful wish of an
old woman. Until the night our home was raided and I was thrown in prison for treason against Xorgos, the
self-proclaimed king and ruler of our land. Tyrant and murderer suited him better. Treason? I had done
nothing! Like so many others before me. Our village streets ran with the blood of countless innocent victims,
slaughtered on his command. I recalled it all. The swords, the armed horsemen bursting right into our home.
My parents pleading for my life and being threatened with losing their own. Using my foot, I’d quickly erased
the drawing I’d been sketching on the cement hearth. It depicted a wicked Xorgos facing trial before a King’s
throne. Shuddering, I turned to my companion. "Toryn, if you are the Messenger, may I ask you something?"
"Of course, lad."
"This morning, before the fire, I told the prison guards of Grandmother’s prophecy and the Tinder Box. ‘Let
us see this box you speak of,’ they demanded. I held it out to show them and they roared with laughter.
‘There is nothing there. Your hands are empty. You are insane! You will die by order of Xorgos the Great
tomorrow at the sun's dawning.’ Why could they not see the box? Or my drawings?"
"How could it protect you if it could be seen by mortals? Yet, you must understand one thing. Its power is not
invincible. It can be conquered and crushed to powder. You must live, to be certain this does not happen."
"I thought the Tinder Box protected me? How am I supposed to protect it?"
Toryn sighed and placed his hand on my shoulder. "You have much to learn."
Inside my pocket, something generated heat. The warmth spread gradually, traveling along my right thigh. I
smiled. I didn't need to look. The box was glowing again. Time to draw our future. Reaching for the
enchanted pencil, I trembled. Whatever lay ahead of me now, I knew Xorgos would face justice. I would
succeed. I must - for the sake of my village and my country. People might call me many things in the days to
come. But of this much I was certain. Never again would they dare to call me insane.