The Pen

When she was much much younger, Ava used to hike. The bravado of youth sent her hiking alone more often than not, and wanderlust had her travelling to remote, barely explored points on the map. She knew that hiking solo on an unfamiliar trail was doubly unwise, but the lure of birdsong a crisp sunny morning was irresistible. With a pack on her back and shoes tied tightly, Ava set off on the most important hike of her life. 

The overgrown game trail led her down deep ravines and up steep rock faces. When she bent to catch her breath, she spotted a multicolored glimmer shining intermittently between the trees. Curiosity piqued, she stepped into the brush, keeping an eye on the trail behind her. She walked deeper and discovered it to be the gleam of an ornate crystal chandelier hanging from an ancient tree and turning lazily in the gentle breeze. Dumbstruck, her head whipped around in search of the reason for a light fixture deep in the woods. She felt a bit like a fairytale character being coaxed into a gingerbread house, but as if by force, she continued away from the trail and stumbled upon a new one, this time flanked by pairs of matching chandeliers. She felt the urge to rub at her eyes at all the treasures she spied along this long sparkling trail. Carved fountains with cupids spraying water, rare orchids in bloom, and aviaries full of raucous macaws led her towards a cathedral-like structure buried in the thick forest. Its stained glass windows cast vibrant reflections on the leaf litter, beckoning Ava to take another step and enter its great hall. 

As she approached the glittering structure, Ava was promptly met by its owner: a proud old woman with a thick book under her arm, a mink stole around her shoulders, jewelled bangles about her wrists, and a Pen clutched in her hand. A gracious hostess, she welcomed Ava into her home with a nod, jotted down a line or two in her tome, and indicated a cup of fragrant tea perched on a side table. Ava hadn't seen the table when she entered the cavernous room, nor had she had the breath to speak.

"It's so good to finally see you again, Kate. I lit the lamps for you. It's getting harder and harder to write..." the hostess trailed off as she focused on Ava's awestruck face. It was then that Ava noticed the woman's advanced age and gnarled, painful-looking knuckles wrapped protectively around her ballpoint pen.

"Oh… oh." Her eyes began to mist and her sophistication crumbled. "She promised she'd come. I've been waiting -" Her voice failed. 

A clock chimed somewhere. Ava took the woman's knotted hand. "Would you like me to wait with you for a little while?"

The woman herself was as average as anyone, but, as Ava soon discovered, the Pen clutched in her fist was an extraordinary item. Her magnificent home was written into existence in one of the many volumes lining the bookshelves and was entrusted to the missing Kate. Ava explored the house and the day of waiting lengthened to weeks, then months.

Over time, Ava learned how to wield the magic of the Pen and how to write as the old woman's health continued to deteriorate. Eventually, the task of writing fell entirely upon Ava's shoulders.

With their uncommon item and an unlimited cache of fine stationery, the pair passed the years by dining on the choicest meals, tending a garden of exotic flowers no matter the season, and writing page after page of requests and demands. Waiting for Kate in the palatial home in the woods, the two women lived in peace and solitude for many years.

Ava slept soundly on her feather bed when the forest fire made its way to her part of the woods. She was awakened first by the dense smoke filling the room. Scrambling out of bed as the curtains ignited, she cried out for the old woman, but was met with silence even louder than the roaring blaze. Ava called and called as the flames licked the ceiling. She crawled on her knees in search for the writing desk containing the Pen, but found only smoldering ruins and opaque smoke. Bent double with violent coughing, she stumbled from the room in escape and ran empty handed from a fantastical home that nobody knew existed. Ava's heart ached as she glanced back at the crashing wreckage, then turned and ran for her life through the flaming weeds.

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"Right then, let's see if this works," Ava muttered to herself as she leaned forward with a blue pen poised in her quaking hand. After all these years and all her failures, a chance at life-changing success had her nerves jangling. The pen hovered just above a page of the dirty notebook. 

The chair complained vociferously as she readjusted position yet again. It was already there when she moved in, and it was even older than she was. A pair of threadbare arms and uneven legs made it an uncomfortable seat. The folding table she was writing on was found discarded. A ceiling fan clicked as it ratcheted back and forth, sending down not cool air, but dust. There was little else in the room but stacks of cardboard boxes filled with what anyone else would consider miscellany at best, garbage at worst. The contents of these boxes were more precious than gold to her and she spent every cent she could spare to fill them.

Ava was finally ready to start over. She had finished the assembly of her very own Pen. It took years of scraping and stealing to earn enough materials while living in this squalid squat. Her shopping list was long and varied. Rare butterflies and gemstones. Herbs and oils of all sorts. An ash sapling grown in the dark. Most importantly, an ordinary blue ballpoint pen. She dug deep into her painful memories to retrieve the recipe and even further to recall brewing techniques. She had made several attempts, but all ended with a stinking cauldron encrusted with failure. Ava was beginning to think that the years spent in the cathedral in the woods were just a dream and that there was no Pen, no old woman, no fire. She had almost allowed the memory to die, but decided to make one final attempt. This time the brew clarified and the ballpoint pen on the bottom gave off the unmistakable vibrations of success. 

"Let's start small," she cautioned herself. She dreamed of recreating the grand life she lost to the fire, but she knew the years had sapped away her skill for wielding a Pen. Her hand shook with doubtful anticipation. She breathed deeply and began. 

With great care, Ava wrote, "I have 28 cents in my left pocket." The moment she added the period to the sentence, she jumped up from her chair and thrust her hand into her pocket. It was full of jingling coins. Heart thudding and eyes wide, she dumped the pile of scuffed pennies onto the folding table. She counted twenty eight. Her stomach tumbled. She rewrote the sentence, this time adding to it in both detail and monetary value. A small stack of mixed bills smiled up at her. She smiled back.

Ava began scratching feverishly at the page to repair the squeak in the chair and exchange its frayed fabric for supple leather. The rickety folding table became a rich mahogany desk. The wide-ruled spiral notebook under the Pen was now the finest parchment. Looking up from the rapidly filling page, she adjusted she shade of a glowing Tiffany lamp on her new desk. Exhausted, she admired her handiwork until a growling stomach stole her attention. She reached into the cupboard and plopped an empty paper plate in front of her. She exchanged it for bone china and piled it high with all the splendid foods she missed while barely surviving on instant noodles. Sighing with pleasure, she savored the gourmet meal  between sips of champagne. She wrote a demand for music and reclined into her newly luxurious chair. She needed nothing more. Not as long as she had paper and her own Pen.