THE BOX

THE BOX

I knew I shouldn’t have done it the moment I did it. I’m ahead of myself, however, so I shall begin at the beginning.

Months ago I stood backstage crying. Apparently crying is obligatory for me at the end of each performance and this, the last performance of the season, required copious tears. Of course, a tale of death lends itself quite well to grief, especially the death of such a young martyr accused of witchcraft. They had nothing to accuse her of except for possession of the box.

Now our entire troupe was returning by train from St. Petersburg to Moscow to prepare for the holiday season when our new performances will delight and entertain children and adults alike. No death or martyrs for the holidays!

The night train was splendid, showcasing warm polished wood, oriental carpet, and sheer window coverings which fluttered as the windows were partially open. We were a cheerful group, basking in the success of “The Box” and celebrating with wine and lively conversation. Although my role in the play was small, I instinctively felt it was quite important to the eventual outcome of the plot. I was the maid who delivered the box to the priests. Thus I was ultimately responsible for the death of the young girl. I felt quite certain that she was truly a witch.

Thinking back, it was as strange as a dream. I had just fallen asleep when the Russian gentleman, in charge of costumes and property, woke me and thrust the box from the play into my hands. “I cannot keep this, ”he said quietly. “ Take it and maintain it in your care. It is best not to open it” he told me. “Why are you giving this to me?” I whispered, but he had disappeared as quickly and silently as he had come.

The box is small but incredibly beautiful. It is of highly polished ebony wood, inlaid with luminous mother of pearl, exotic jewels, and delicate engravings, the meanings of which are well beyond my comprehension. The clasp and hinges are of ivory. Certainly, upon reflection, how could a young girl come into possession of such a box if she was not a witch?

An offering of coffee, bread, and cheese helps us wake up before arriving in Moscow. We are exhausted but still elated by our success. Time now for some rest before beginning rehearsals for the holiday program. I look forward to the holiday spirit, colorful, light, lyrical, and optimistic. Nothing like the darkness of “The Box” which, oddly, I find I am missing with all of my being.

I am anxious to be home. Safe and secure in my flat. Home is only 2 stops from the main station and my flat is an easy 3 block walk from there. I am extremely fortunate to have my own flat. Most of my colleagues share a flat with one or more friends. My good fortune is that I have an uncle who works for the government. I don’t really understand what he does but it has afforded him the ability to provide me with this most wonderful private flat. I am extremely grateful and show it the only way I can, by offering him and his wife tickets to the Moscow performances. The tickets are quite valuable actually.

Thankfully, at last, I am home in my own bed. I am too tired to even unpack my belongings. It can wait until tomorrow. When I wake up I take on the task of sorting through my two cases. One is mostly filled with clothing needing to be washed. The other has my hairpins, cosmetics, and other toiletries. Oh yes, and the small, elegant box from the play tucked into a satin pocket of the case. I remind myself of his cautionary words, “It is best not to open it.” Heeding this admonition, in spite of my curiosity, I relegated the box to the recesses of my closet, not giving it much thought for weeks to come.

However, as time passed, it began to creep into my thoughts rather obsessively and at inconvenient times. For example, when I was rehearsing the holiday program I found myself losing focus. Other performers began to notice and asked if I was feeling alright. Eventually, the box began to dominate my thoughts, much like any

other addiction. The urge to open the box became extremely tempting but I left it hidden in the back of my closet. I didn’t want to think about it, much less see it.

One evening with a glass of wine, maybe two, I found myself wandering around the flat, eventually stopping in front of the closet door. I’ll just take a quick look I told myself as I opened the door. I made my way toward the back of the closet. There it was, almost glowing! I retrieved it from its hiding place and carried it carefully to the table in front of my sofa. I settled in comfortably to observe the box.

I simply watched it for a while. Then it began to beckon me somehow. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching for the clasp. Gently, slowly I lifted the lid. It was as if a movie of my life escaped from the box and expanded before me. The entirety of my future was laid bare for me to see. Some might think it would be wonderful, to see the future, to know what will happen, but not I. It was frightening, horrifying really to see my future, even to the hour of my death.

I knew I shouldn’t have done it the moment I did it. Would that I could force the future back into the box and return it to its hiding place in my closet. But I cannot un-see what I have seen. The box has stolen from me the wonder and surprises that awaited me in this life. 

So, this is my burden, the price I must pay for delivering the box to the priests and causing the death, not of a witch but of an innocent.

The End