The Knife

The knife was drawn from the wooden block in which it lived.  As it had many times before.  But this time was different.

The knife knew from the onset something was off.  The normally naked hand was gloved, a smooth cold leather of some sort, inhibiting the normal warmth of the handler the knife enjoyed.

“Enjoyed” was no understatement.  The knife truly cherished its position in life.  Used daily in a manner all objects should hope to be used: creating.  Each passing day brought a steady diet of familiar undertakings, like garlic and onion, comforting in their consistent delivery of an aroma of affection.  But the knife was also consistently delighted with tastes of new and adventurous things, like Armenian Cucumbers or Watermelon Radishes.  When you worked as much as this knife did, you became quite literate in many diverse foods and spices, while at the same time becoming intimately familiar with your partner's favorites.

That's how the knife thought of its handler.  They were a partnership.  Though the handler did the wielding, the knife served with humility and never betrayed the handler with a wayward slice or stunted motion.  The knife was so familiar with every cut and every chop that it could nearly perform them itself, if it had a hand of its own to command.  But even if that were possible, it’s not truly what the knife wanted. 

It enjoyed the relationship, the knowledge the handler had of it, and the knowledge it had of the handler.  A time or two, it had been loaned, only for a moment, to another, and while the experience wasn’t terrible, there was no doubt in the knife’s mind of to whom it belonged.  There was something enlightening when being held, in that familiar right hand tattooed with a star between the index finger and the thumb.

The partnership was further acknowledged by the deep care the handler had for the knife.  Each use was concluded by a ritual washing.  The handler was deliberate in this action.  Each time, the temperature of the water was the same.  Once, and only once, the water was too cold, sending a shiver down the forged blade.  As soon as the water hit the handler's hand the reaction was the same as the knife’s and it was drawn out in an instant.  Since that unfortunate event, the handler checked the water temperature each time and made adjustments to get it just right before washing the knife.

The handler didn’t rush either.  With the most delicate hands, the knife was washed, lathered up with a soft soap, rinsed, then checked to make sure it was thoroughly cleaned.  The handler would examine the knife with the eyes of a crime scene investigator.  This made sense: the knife considered being put away dirty a crime.  No such crime was ever committed.

Cleaned as completely as anything could ever be cleaned, the knife was then dried.  Before being replaced in the block, the edge was inspected and sharpened as needed.  The knife was quite proud of having an edge that was always ready for whatever it was called to do.  And the knife loved what it did.

Daily, the partners would create the most wonderful dishes; though some ingredients were repeated the creations were never the same.  It was much like music, where a finite number of notes can be used to create a seemingly endless list of songs.

Ah yes.  The music.  That was as much a part of the fun as the cutting.  Sometimes it was nothing more than a simple hum, or a soft whistle of the handler.  These sounds the knife cherished. Sometimes they were cheerful and hopeful.  Sometimes they were more subdued and could be somber.  Yet despite the mood they were always comforting.  

When the handler wasn’t whistling or humming, they listened to the radio, yielding again a world of variety.  The handler didn’t seem to have a favorite genre, which suited the knife just fine because it didn’t either.  Some of the best times were when the handler would sing along, belting out the tune, nearly covering the sound from the radio.  There was a loose and carefree feeling most of the time but it never resulted in carelessness with the blade.  It didn’t matter how wild the music got, the handling of the knife was always disciplined and purposeful.

And this is how they worked, creating art, inspired by art.

But tonight, there was no music.

Gripped in the oddly gloved hand, the knife pondered what sort of new thing they might be trying today.  Its hypothesizing was cut short by the realization that they weren’t remaining in the kitchen, which had become their stage.  They moved into quarters the knife had not yet traveled.  Further, the handler’s grip did not yield the same comfort to which the knife had been accustomed.  Though securely held, the hold felt more forced and desperate.  As they moved down a long corridor, hand on hilt, the normal confidant and composed handling felt more anxious and shaken.  It was the first time the knife felt that the handler had no idea of how to do what was about to be done. This made the knife uneasy.  The grip was firm, but then it wasn’t.  Then the handler would reform the grip. The rest of the body subtly shook, sowing doubt in the knife's mind that the handler was in complete control.  This was when “slips” happened, so the knife had heard, though he’d never experienced one. Despite the fact that all this was new, the knife had no concrete reason to doubt the handler. Though trust remained, it was with slight trepidation that they continued on their journey.

They were together; they had each other.  Just as they always had.

Now in another room, they paused.  They were joined by another person. It was dark, and the knife could not make out much, just a shadow that had to be somebody else. The knife wasn’t convinced that the other person was aware that they were there.  The stranger didn’t acknowledge them with conversation or look. 

The handler shifted the grip on the knife.  It was an odd hold; one he hadn’t experienced before. It felt backward and useless. 

Slowly, they began to move forward, each step bringing more definition to the unknown stranger.  The knife knew the handler was moving so as not to be detected, and so far so good.  As the stranger came more into focus, the knife could make out that his back was turned.  This would make the sneaking easier so long as they didn’t make a sound.  Well, the knife couldn’t make a sound.

The anxious grip of the handler became more stressed as they moved closer.  Each step slowed.  Each slight movement of the stranger caused brief hesitation, before moving forward again, now slower than before.  The knife perceived a break in the handler’s breathing as they approached what seemed like arm's length.  The handler drew the knife back and over the shoulder. There was a brief pause as the stranger raised a glass to his mouth for a drink.  From the knife's height, and with the aid of a stray beam of moonlight, the knife made a startling discovery. If it had a heart, it would have surely stopped at the sight of a moonlit star on the stranger's right hand, between the index finger and the thumb.

The knife began to move forward with velocity and the slow motion of ill intent was quickly drawing to its conclusion.   The knife, accustomed to creation, was still keenly aware of the damage that could be done. The knife had to think fast.  It had to do something it had never done before.  It had to act on its own.

As the knife flew forward, the firm grip of the stranger anxiously let up, for the slightest of moments.  The knife seized its only opportunity and willed itself to slip from the smooth leathered hand. The empty hand continued forward and landed a futile blow to the handler's back. The knife fell between the two with the fear of  falling being overshadowed with relief.  It had succeeded. 

As it crashed to the floor with a bounce, before coming to rest, it looked back up. The rising moon gave a spotlight to the stranger and a classically shocked face. The handler, now facing the stranger, looked surprised and confused.  For a moment, neither seemed capable of moving.  The stranger then broke the stand off, bolted out of the room and the litany of slamming doors seemed to indicate the stranger had left the house.

The handler stood there a few seconds longer, processing what had just happened, and maybe processing a bit of what didn’t happen.  The handler looked down to see the fallen hero.

The handler bent over and picked up the knife, not as one would pick up a tool, but more reverently. 

They returned down the corridor from where the stranger had come down and returned to the kitchen.  Once there, the handler flipped on a light and began the task of examining the knife.  Though unused, the knife was rinsed of any dust it had collected during its brief rest on the soiled ground. Rinsed, of course, in water brought to the perfect temperature.  As was the routine, the knife was inspected with particular attention paid to the edge. No imperfection was found but the handler gave the knife a light sharpen just to be sure.  The handler was happy to have the knife put away, ready for the next creative task.  The knife was happy to be back where it belonged.