A Gift for Quill: A Short Story

A Gift for Quill

As Drawing Day drew near, my general apathy for the end-of-year festivities faded, giving way to excitement. The Winter Festival was in eight days, and while the event itself held little promise to a thirteen-year-old boy like myself, the Hour of Unwrapping was the highlight of my young life. Most attending our party were of society’s upper echelon, and odds were one of Father’s associates would draw my name and give me some extravagant gift: a dirt bike, or a gaming console, or a gleaming new set of carving tools accompanied by some coveted thread-wood. I dreamed about the Hour all week.

But I had given little thought to the name I would draw on my own.

The evening of Drawing Day, I stood on my tiptoes in the grand ballroom, impatiently awaiting my turn so I could run back upstairs, away from all the boring conversation and the unending parade of head pats and trite greetings as people tried to ingratiate themselves with Father, who wasn’t watching anyway. By the time I reached into the drawing bag, only one name remained. I had a stray thought: Don’t be Quill. But it quickly passed. Invariably, every year, I drew the name of some blowhard in the government with Father, and I could half-ass a flattering drawing of the person or bribe Bast’s brother to bake them a fancy cake.

I unrolled the name almost unthinkingly. But when it registered, my heart nearly stopped. Of all the horrible luck! Quilliard glared up at me in Mom’s immaculate cursive. I scanned the ballroom, hoping to find someone to trade with, but everyone else had gone, and Mom was already putting the bag away. I returned upstairs in a foul mood. What could I buy that inattentive old man?

All right, that was harsh. Harsh and false. I wasn’t Quill’s favorite, but he loved me like family. As I did him. And that made this all so much harder; I couldn’t cobble together something half-hearted.

My first impulses relied on my creative prowess: drawing and carving. But at that age, I was a poor artist, and a worse carver. It would take years more of grueling experience for me to attain any impressive level of ability. Next came thoughts of food or drink; Quill was a notorious hedonist during the holidays. But my gift budget was low, and Father always forbade Mom from supplementing it.

What in the world could I get our centuries-old magical guardian who had everything?

I thought next of my own wants, but what would an owl spirit do with a dirt bike? And although Quill possessed telekinesis, he had no patience for video games. And again, those were out of my price range, anyway.

In my memory, Quill had seldom had a decent Hour of Unwrapping. He always seemed to be an afterthought and received incongruous gifts: hairbrushes, fancy coffee beans (he hated coffee), a ziplining gift certificate (keep in mind he could fly). I had to find something thoughtful. Something perfect.

So, I went to bed early, my mind swirling desperately. Again and again, I came to the conclusion: there was nothing adequate in my power.

The morning after Drawing Day, I skipped school. I hid up in my room, ensconced in my blankets, coughing (it was a genuine, phlegmy cough). I had the beginnings of a mild cold, and I exploited it to the max. Mom gave me a cursory examination and decided I was sufficiently ill. Father had long left for work, and Bolyern departed for school alone.

Mom made herself scarce, tending to holiday activities, and so I wandered our mansion, searching for ideas. My traitorous feet took me straight to the ballroom, and my heart sank. A mere twelve hours had passed, and already, there were a dozen gifts hanging from the ceiling. There were two hundred strings in total, most of them dangling alone, but twelve gift-givers were already on the ball and had hung their offerings.

Still, more people were in the same boat as me. I returned to my room and slept.

~~~~~

It became a habit: every morning, I stole down to the ballroom. Without fail, the number of gifts grew exponentially. Three days before the Winter Festival, nearly every string was outfitted with a beautifully wrapped present. I found one string in the back, naked among its fellows, and sat beneath it, my eyes squeezed shut. I summoned an image of Quill and murmured, “Come on!”

Never had I cared about my part in this tradition so far. But this time, it eclipsed even my own excitement for my gift. In fact, I couldn’t get amped at all. Worry consumed me. What if I didn’t come up with anything, and at the Hour of Unwrapping, Quill soared overhead, scanning each label, his heart falling each time? Something would be better than nothing, wouldn’t it?

And so, the day before the Winter Festival, I took out my drawing pad and charcoal and got to work. I ended up with a smudged mess and such a poor semblance of an owl that I felt shame and discarded the attempt. My hand wouldn’t hold still, and I had blisters from climbing rope at the gym the other day when I tried to burn off some anxiety. I couldn’t draw right now, much less carve.

I had a sudden, horrible idea that I tried to shove away. But my desperation overshadowed my guilt, and I decided it was worth a try. It was still early, about ten in the morning, and Quill was a late riser, especially during December. He also slept heavily and would have a good three or four alcoholic eggnogs in his system from the night before. So, I tiptoed to his room on the top floor and paused outside it, listening.

I had been blessed with excellent hearing. I often heard whole conversations uttered two floors away. But Quill’s was even keener, and unless he was in a dead sleep, this was hopeless. I pressed my ear to his closed door, straining to listen, but there was only silence. Tentatively, I twisted his doorknob and pushed. The door slid open soundlessly. Exhaling, I entered on my socked feet.

My bravado faltered. Quill was perched on the mountain of blankets arranged messily on his bed (his bedroom was otherwise immaculate). But his eyes were closed, his breathing steady, and I relaxed, nudging the door near to closing behind me. I spotted my quarry: Quill’s backpack. Holding my breath, I scooped it up by one strap and exited, then sprinted down the corridor to my own room.

I locked my door and spilled the backpack’s contents onto my bed. But before I looked, I shut my eyes and sent up a prayer for pardon. I felt like a thief—worse, a traitor—pawing through Quill’s most loved possessions. I had no other option, so surely this was all right?

My heart raced as I considered that he must have some impressive treasures here. I reached for the nearest item: a golden locket. Unthinkingly, I opened it. I must have expected it to be empty, but it contained a faded, yellowed portrait of a young blonde woman with a square face and big, dark eyes. She wore a dress that looked like it belonged to a fashion of three hundred years ago. I squinted at the engraving, but it was no longer readable. I rolled the locket between my palms. What if I drew her? No, even if my hands were up for it, I couldn’t explain to Quill how I had come upon her likeness. Reverently, I set aside the piece and picked up the next. It was . . . an old dessert fork. Like, ancient. It had an ornate handle and showed signs of being well-kept, like Quill polished it all the time. It wasn’t from our family’s collection; I knew that much.

Next, I found a porcelain angel with one broken wing. The figure had its eyes closed; its cheeks were rosy, its mouth smiling. I looked at it from every which way, but it had no markings. In all honesty, it looked like something from an old thrift shop.

My desperation increased with my inspection of each object. I didn’t know the meaning of any of this, and worse, none of it was sparking any ideas. If anything, I was more lost than before.

My neck prickled. Something nagged at the back of my mind. And I realized: it was the noise of a door opening—no, being slammed open. Damn it! Quill! Hurriedly, I shoved it all under my bed and ran out to the hallway, panicked.

He unleashed a whirlwind. It sent me sprawling against the far wall. In his fury, he didn’t notice me. He swept right past, cursing, and . . . made a beeline straight for my room. I had a horrible realization: he was tracing his belongings with his magic. I could not hide the backpack and his priceless artifacts. And I had absolutely no excuse.

“Acio!” he thundered.

My instincts told me to run like hell and let him burn off steam. But something held me in place. I stood helplessly in the hallway, rubbing at my bruised shoulder, and awaited his judgment.

He uttered one fierce syllable: “Why?”

The truth was ready to dive off the tip of my tongue. But I fumbled, and what came out was, “For the Winter Festival.”

His voice was like ice. “You were going to steal from me and give one of my priceless possessions to some friend of your father’s? That is low, Acio. Even for you.”

I stood rooted, shocked into silence, as he flew in a fury down the corridor. Belatedly, I chased after him, but his door slammed in my face. I had only a glimpse of his bookshelf, and then I was staring at solid wood.

“Damn it,” I repeated. I slid down the wall, drew my knees up to my chest, and sobbed. He didn’t really care about me, I thought; he never had. He thought I was some hopeless delinquent. Bolyern was his favorite; that had been one of our family’s many open secrets. Quill merely tolerated me, as did Father. No one here cared about me—

Except Bolyern. Bolyern always cared. Yes, I would go seek his advice. I picked myself up and started the trek downstairs; Bolyern slept on the second floor. As I walked, wiping away my tears, I had sudden inspiration. Quill’s bookcase! He loved stories. I would simply write him a story. Well, I would compose it; with my poor, blistered hands, someone else would have to pen it: Bolyern. His grammar and spelling exceeded mine, anyway—although, truth be told, with both modesty and surety, mine were pretty good, too.

“Bolyern?” I yelled outside his door. I had a private rule not to enter anyone’s room unannounced (unless I happened to be stealing their private mementos for inspiration for a gift for the Winter Festival because there was a stubborn, stuffy old man who hated me and I wanted to show him, desperately, that I did care about him).

No answer.

“It’s no school today,” I hollered. “I know you’re in there, you jackass. I need help.”

“Help” had scarcely left my tongue when the door swung inward. Bolyern stood there, red-eyed and disheveled. I blurted, “You look like hell. Aren’t finals over?”

He rolled his eyes and motioned me inside. I stepped into his room, which was just slightly messy but looked like a pristine palace compared to my own. “What is it?” he said shortly, dropping into the chair at his desk.

I could never keep secrets from my big brother. I said, “I stole Quill’s backpack for the Winter Festival, and he’s pissed at me.”

“Acio!”

“For him,” I stammered. “I drew his name.”

“Oh.” Bolyern’s shoulders relaxed. “I had Quill one year, believe it or not.”

“What did you get him?” I asked, half-expecting to hear “a fork” or “an old locket.”

“A box of chocolates and some wine.”

“I could go the edible route. Something cheaper, though. That would outshine—” I pursed my lips shut.

“What?”

“I was going to write him a story,” I said, rubbing my right hand along my left arm. “Except, look.” I raised my hands, showcasing my blisters. “Your writing is nicer than mine, anyway.”

Bolyern sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m up to my ears here.”

“It won’t take long! This can be my birthday gift for next year!”

Leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, he sighed. “Fine.”

“It—it’s silly,” I warned. “I just have some ideas swirling.”

Bolyern waved one hand, indicating for me to go on, as he pulled paper toward himself.

The words spilled from my lips, raw and honest and rough. I wove a simple tale about a village elder who lived alone. Everyone came to him with their problems, but never thought of him. One Winter Festival morning, a man showed up at his door with a diamond-studded gold ring. The elder was touched—until the man revealed his true motives: he wanted the elder to restore the eyesight of the man’s beloved by giving her his own. The elder gave back the ring, but pitied the man and his beloved, and so the elder gave up his own sight. But the man did not even give him a word of thanks.

In the afternoon, the elder had another visitor. This time, it was a middle-aged man who sought a love potion. But this request angered the elder, as love potions were at the height of wickedness and deception, and the elder ordered the seeker to leave, never to return.

Disgruntled and bitterly lonely, the elder locked his cottage and shuttered all his windows. He sat in the dark, thinking of his meager Winter Festival feast that awaited. He had been looking forward to those roasted potatoes, glazed carrots, and caramelized onions all month. By feel, he navigated his humble kitchen, and sat at the table with his food, peeler, and knife. He had only peeled two carrots when there was a knock at his door.

“Elder!” called out a young girl. “Elder, please, I need to see you!”

But the elder was weary, and he was done being taken advantage of. He resumed peeling.

“Please, elder! This is urgent!”

The elder paused, setting down the peeler. But he shook his head; no good would come of opening his door ever again. Gently, he began cutting an onion. But in his anger, his grip slipped, and he sliced open one finger. He cursed.

“I hear you in there, elder!” cried the girl. “Please! Have mercy!”

In that moment, the elder’s heart thawed. Perhaps there was yet something he could give. Perhaps, this time, it would be appreciated. He slid back his chair and felt his way to the door. He steeled himself, and decided: he was willing to give everything, his own life force. After all, here was a girl with her whole life ahead of her. But he hoped her request would not be too foolish.

“Elder! May I come in?”

He hesitated. No one ever asked to enter. But he bowed his head and stepped aside, gesturing her in.

“Thank you, elder,” she said in a rush. “I’m so sorry to bother you. But as it’s about the Hour of Unwrapping—”

Ah! Yes, the little fool wanted a gift like everyone else.

“It’s so very important to me,” said the girl. “And to you, too, I hope.”

“I will give you whatever you ask of me,” said the elder. “Up to and including my life.”

“Oh!” The girl gasped.

“Make your request,” said the elder, with exasperation.

“My request? Elder, I came here to give you . . . this.” There was a thump on the table. “A bottle of my mother’s wine. It’s good for the heart, and since it’s been so cold this winter, well . . .”

The elder laid one hand over his heart. “For me?” he asked in disbelief.

“That’s not all,” the girl said quickly. “I heard that you gave Mrs. Mason your sight. And so, I am here to give you the sight in my right eye.”

The elder shook his head. “I cannot—”

“Please! This is my most urgent request. Elder, don’t scorn my gift.”

Tears of gratitude coursed down the elder’s face. When he opened his wet eyes, he glimpsed with his right: there was sun spilling through the cracks of his shutters, and there before him was the brown-haired girl and that fancy bottle of wine.

“Thank you, child,” said the elder.

I stopped there. Bolyern was silent, and his pen stopped scratching along the paper. I looked away in embarrassment, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Sorry,” I said. “That’s all really stupid. Crumple it up, will you? Better; burn it. I’ll go buy Quill a book from the thrift store. I think there’s still time.”

Bolyern exhaled. “No. Acio, I like this. I think Quill will, too.” His eyes met mine. “How does it end?”

“Uh, at that last bit?”

“That’s a little abrupt.” He tapped the pen against his lips. “How about, like, ‘The village all heard of the girl’s gift. And from then on, every Winter Festival, the elder’s name was included for Drawing Day, and he was gifted every year with some kind words, a present, and a warm visit.’”

I nodded. “Good. Write it.”

Minutes later, I returned to my bedroom. I folded the pages; tied them with a bow; grabbed a new, unused shoebox from my closet; and tucked the papers of my story into it. I reached under my bed for the sheet of gift wrap, and then dressed the box with the glittering blue paper and a shiny silver bow. In the best writing I could muster with my blisters, I wrote, “To Quill.”

It was late into the evening when I sneaked downstairs. Caterers and decorators were flitting here and there with preparations for the Winter Festival. I sidestepped a man carrying a stack of heavy boxes and slipped into the ballroom. I emerged into a sea of gifts. Silver and blue sparkled at me from every angle. At the back of the room, I found the last unoccupied string, and tied my offering to it. As I made my exit, one lone, empty string brushed my face—mine was the penultimate, then—and in the next instant, I collided with my brother. He held a box of his own, but quickly hid it behind his back.

“Watch it,” I growled, without any real anger, and I sprinted back to my room, dreading an accidental meeting with Quill (or, worse, a planned lecture on his part).

That night, I slept like the dead.

The Winter Festival passed in a haze. I wore a too-large suit and took up vigil at the eggnog bowls, sneaking servings from the one laced with bourbon. All the strings in the grand ballroom had been tugged, so that the gifts dangled far overhead, but the room was bright with countless candelabras. People in suits and capes and ball gowns twirled along the marble flooring. By the time the Hour of Unwrapping tolled, I was toasted, and I had half a mind to sprint. But someone grabbed my shoulder—Bolyern—and he whispered in my ear, “Stay.”

Cheers erupted throughout the ballroom as the gifts lowered, brushing heads. The mad dash and rush began as people scoured the boxes, searching for their names. I went through the motions, glancing here and there, but I scanned the crowd for Quill. I hadn’t seen him all night. And then . . .

“Ah!” came Quill’s voice. He sounded tipsy; someone else had been hitting the eggnog. My eyes landed on the exit, but the crowd pushed in around me, pinning me to the wall. I listened in terror as Quill tore into the wrapping . . .

“Ah!” came his voice. “My dear Bolyern!”

My heart fell. Damn it all! I hadn’t signed the gift, and it was in my brother’s writing! I wouldn’t get any of the credit . . . My spirits crushed, eyes watering, I slid along the wall. I would go to my room and sleep.

“Acio!”

“Not now, Bolyern,” I snapped.

“Here.” He shoved a box in my face. “Happy Winter Festival.”

I stepped back, gobsmacked. “You got me? Seriously?”

“Open it,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Halfheartedly, I untied the bow and sliced open one edge with my fingernail. I lifted the top of the box and shuffled around the pale blue tissue paper. “No way,” I gasped. I was staring at a handsome, hefty block of cherry wood . . . and a brand-new knife. “How . . .?” I meant to ask, “How can you afford this?”

“From tutoring. Do you like it?”

“Like it?” I took his small frame into my arms and squeezed him tight. “It’s perfect. Thanks, man.”

“Acio,” came another voice. Quill.

I pretended not to hear. I nodded at my brother and fled. I had just emerged into the corridor when my feet became glued to the floor. Like, literally. Quill was using his magic to root me there.

“Acio, I got your gift,” he said, out of breath. “Why did you not sign it yourself? I didn’t know until I got to Bolyern’s postscript.”

I shrugged. “Unconscious embarrassment, maybe. It might sound . . . I don’t know.”

“I simply love it. I shall have it bound—and signed, if you will do me the favor. It shall live on my bookshelf with its fellows. Perhaps even in my pack,” he said, and if owls could grin, I knew his would be ear-to-ear.

“Heh,” I said. “Sure, when I can sign my name decently. When I took your backpack, I meant to tell you . . . The words wouldn’t come. I wasn’t being nosey or stealing. I was just stumped.”

“Well, you hit a goldmine and made this old man’s year.”

“Maybe we can make it a tradition,” I said. “Exchange kind words, a present, and a warm visit.”

“Brilliant. Happy Winter Festival, Acio.”

“Happy Winter Festival, village elder.”