THE STICK

The Stick

By

Tom Baldwin

Millie scowled quizzically at the walking stick the old woman had given her. Why her? Why a stick, she wondered. Millie had a meandering mind. When presented with the stick, her mind began to wander into the realm of sticks. She began contemplating the role and diversity of sticks and what importance such a stick might possess. The only special attribute of the stick she was being offered that distinguished it from any other stick was as a possession of a gaunt and spent woman.  Was this a ritual, a scam unfolding?  Was the woman surrendering the stick as she was surrendering her life? Millie was unprepared to analyze the moment. The only sticks of consequence she recalled were anecdotal—Teddy Roosevelt carried a big one, and poles ranging from communications poles to those used by women while showing off their athletic skills and personal attributes. The only power in sticks was stick power—the archaic weapons of Neanderthals—of their predecessors and descendants—when sticks became clubs, bows, arrows, spears, swords, lances, rifles, cannons, and rockets. Martial arts favor flamboyant antics with sticks, especially in Hollywood portrayals. One who picks up a stick, as in defense, acquires stick power—and often, a bewildering capacity to defend and protect—like driving a stake into the heart of a vampire, swinging a wooden staff attached to an axe head, or, drumsticks for beating out ruffles and flourish; or, in concert with the conductor’s baton, adding a syncopated rhythm to music. 

Otherwise, sticks and poles in any form were as common and handy as stones. 

Millie handled the stick pensively. Was she being duped by some nefarious scheme or the chosen recipient of some unearthly artifact—like that of Excalibur, King Arthur’s fabled sword? Nonsense!

Within the bleak features of the woman’s face, Millie saw profound sadness—an end-of-days sadness. Yet there remained a resemblance to youth; gentle eyes, small, well-formed features, a softness, a long neck, the remnants of freckles, a thickness of hair, once dazzling, now gray and white. She had been a beauty once. Millie winced. Was she contemplating her own destiny? Would she, too, become wrinkled, bent, time-worn, left only with a rude crutch as her companion? Uh-uh.  That would not be her fate.  Not if she determined it to be otherwise.

She fingered the stick. It felt comfortable in her grasp, comforting, actually. If not a weapon or prop—a symbol—a magic stick, a wand perhaps? Folklore heralds the power of wands. In the hands of a hero or heroine, with a wave or a flourish, wands make miracles happen. Monarchs wield wands known as scepters symbolizing regal power. Within children’s literature, sticks and wands play dominant roles, especially for dragon-slaying, swordplay, magic sticks tipped with stars wielded by fairies, and broomsticks clutched in the wizened hands of witches. Mythology is filled with references to sticks. So too, in the art world, artists continually experiment with stick figures, posed, awaiting the magic of brushstrokes to add form and flesh. Sticks made into sculptures emerge as moose, a horse, as hobbit homes, and bridges and skyscrapers built from popsicle sticks.

Sticks are made for walking, hiking, and climbing—helpful, even imperative, as a crutch for invalids, in this case, for an elderly woman. Was she poor, indigent, demented? Had she sensed an ending and was offering up her stick as her only legacy? A day earlier, Millie had first encountered the woman while jogging. She had scowled at Millie as one would an intruder and uplifted her stick, shaking it in defiance. Today, the woman stood exactly where she had stood yesterday, now brandishing her stick feebly, like a vanquished gladiator awaiting his doom. The surrounding forest seemed to darken slightly. Millie noticed. A cloud passing overhead would cause that. She felt an October chill and curiosity at how falling leaves swirled around her as if trapped in a vortex, floating lively about but none touching her. Disconcerting, yes; unnerving, slightly. Millie sensed before noticing that the forest had gone silent. The light breeze had suspended its breath. The swirl of leaves ceased. Had its creatures grown fearful or, possibly, become naturally reverent as witnesses to the transfer? Of what? A stick? Were they awed by the imaginings of an old woman? Was the gnarled shaft a wisdom stick having mystical omniscience? Animals sense things that humans cannot. Millie thoughts became questions. What might be learned from receiving such a stick as a gift? “Hah!” she decided. Nothing that couldn’t be known otherwise!

            Millie tried balancing the stick on her hand, recollecting the twirls she’d mastered while a cheerleader in high-school. Oddly, it balanced on her finger, not on center, but nearer its tapered end. The old woman was watching her. Executing a frivolous twirl in her presence would be effrontery. Instead, Millie smiled appreciatively while running her hand along the length of the shaft, feeling a skin-like smoothness despite its knotty and twisted shape. When her hand reached the tapered end, however, she flinched suddenly, then screamed aloud in surprise and severe pain. The tip of the stick was hot, scorching hot. She felt her finger flesh burning, yet when she pulled away, no pain or wound remained. 

            Okay, Millie thought, things are not quite as they ought to be. As a teaching mathematician, deductive reasoning was a skill she’d mastered. She touched the tip of the stick to the ground. Smoke arose as fallen leaves burst into flames. The old woman was regarding her sternly. It must be an illusion, another stunt. The pointed end weighed like a power forcing it to point earthward. Millie became perplexed. The woman became a specter, resembling a sorcerer. She looked more familiar now, her countenance reminiscent of a memory Millie was struggling to recall.  

            “You must explain, please.”

            “You must learn for yourself. It will take time,” the old woman rasped. “I am merely transferring to you the power of choice. Real power is patience. You must first understand who you are before exercising the power of the stick. The stick has two ends, opposing each other. Neither end is good or evil. When one end points down, it can be made to point upwards. The strength of doing so will mirror the power of your mind.”

            “I’m a teacher, nothing more or less,” Millie replied anxiously. “I know the power of patience. I use it every day.”

“Yes, that is why I have given you my stick, Millie. Because you share what you’ve learned with others. How you will use the stick depends on what you seek to accomplish. Good or evil, the stick is neutral. It will point you toward whichever way you choose.”

“Then I don’t want it, ma’am. Although I believe it is only a stick, it now frightens me. I’m not into trickery. It is not something I wish own. The hot tip singed me badly but left no pain or mark. That neither confuses nor amuses me; neither does igniting the leaves. Deceptive mischief doesn’t captivate me until I’ve deciphered the trick and discovered its cleverness. Cleverness, I do respect.”

“When you were born,” the old woman cackled. “Someone proud dreamt of your future. Later, you began dreaming of it on your own, shaping your future as you would have it. Today, you are confronting it. The stick is merely symbolic of the power to choose. Use it wisely, and it will hold you up. Use it poorly, and it will open the doors of damnation and force you to descend into the abyss.”

“Here, please, old woman,” Millie demanded. “Have it back. I won't take it. Find someone else. My life is peaceful and calm, and I intend on keeping it that way.”

“I cannot take it back, Millie, because I am no longer here. I exist only in your mind and, yes, in your soul. You are on your own again, but now you have the stick, and that will make a difference. Everyone needs a crutch in life. The stick is yours. Use it wisely.”

Millie returned home again, alone, a cold mist swirling beyond her windows. She lit a fire. She glared at the stick. She handled it roughly, tossing it into the air, spinning it like a baton, catching it skillfully, twirling it angrily.  Then, with disgust, she tossed it into the flames. 

Millie’s house burned down around her, to rubble and ashes. Her boyfriend, Todd, knelt beside her, aghast at his loss, in disbelief that life would leave him with such a memory of his lovely young Millie. “Freckles, my love, I have loved you beyond love itself.”  The coroner was perplexed. No burn marks marred her body. A charred stick lay beside her, clutched in her hand; her face was sad, sunken, wizened and wrinkled, the time-beaten face of an elderly woman.

—O—

1498 Words (Excluding title) 

Tom Baldwin

313 10^th Ave E

Palmetto, FL 34221

THBaldwin3@aol.com

617-688-6435