Scabbards
Imperious. That was the word to describe him. Or maybe, arrogant. No, both, at the same time. I had seen him before, on the street. He held his head high, never looking anyone in the eye, as if he was too good to look at them. He was tall, mustachioed, and his name was Mr. Stale. At present, he was standing outside of a small house, from which a steady stream of people were coming and going every few minutes.
I was about a block away, walking towards him, and it appeared that Mr. Stale was doling out… scabbards! Yes, he had a multitude of them stacked on a small cart behind him, and every time someone went into the house, he would hand them a scabbard. I frowned in puzzlement, and quickened my pace toward them. As I drew near, I noticed two things: The first was that there was a small sign, mounted on two poles, between Mr. Stale and I. It read: Merciful Sister’s House for the Poor and Homeless. The second thing I noticed was that, on the other side of the sign, Mr. Stale’s scabbards had something sticking out of them!
I took a few quickened steps, almost running. It looked as if inside the scabbards was bread! Long, flat bread. Now I was really baffled. Why would someone put bread inside a scabbard? And for goodness sake, how? Then another question came to my attention. Why were there so many people going to and from a homeless and poor house?
I had stopped walking, but now started to walk over to Mr. Stale. I could see that every time someone came over to him, he would gnash his teeth in anger, then almost throw a scabbard at the person who had asked. I had had dealings with Mr. Stale before, and I knew that, while he was imperious and arrogant normally, he was worse when he was mad.
“Excuse me,” I asked tentatively as I approached. I thought he might recognize me, but as he turned, he showed no glimmer of recognition. Mr. Stale just looked at me with disdain and said nothing. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I assumed he didn’t mind- he appeared to be completely ignoring me. “Um, why are you handing out scabbards with bread in them?”
He rounded on me, his fury obvious. “You stupid boy, is this not what people do after such a travesty?” His outburst had startled me. I knew I was sealing my fate, but I asked one more question.
“Um, sir,” I said, mustering my courage “what travesty?” The man almost feinted right then and there, I thought I might have to fetch the doctor for fear he could not breath his face was such a shade of purple.
“The holocaust.” he spat. I could tell Mr. Stale was trying to control his voice in this public place. “All of Tenth Street burned to the ground. Twelve families without homes. What do you think I’m doing here?” He was loosing whatever small amount of control he had left- these last words had been shouted.
All of Tenth Street burned? I had been out of town until very recent, and had not heard of this. That was a great tragedy. I was shocked into silence, looking down at the ground for a moment. Then a well of questions sprang up inside my head. But when I looked up, seeing Mr. Stales face, I decided to get the answers from someone else. I moved along, thinking about the fire, and the sadness of it. “Also,” I thought to myself “heaven help the next person to ask for one of his scabbards!”
At home, I read an article about the fire in the newspaper. Only then did I realize that Mr. Stale had never really answered my first question. It was nagging at me, but I would probably never get an answer- why the scabbards?
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