My father threw a knife to me from the pier.
"It is a gift. The legend engraved into the blade reads, may you find some work to do during the winter. Look to the church, a prayer will bring children from its metal throat".
He waded chest-high beneath the boards and whispered to a woman who was his wife but not my mother, "I have done something that I never would have wanted to do. I have sold you. But you may choose to which man. There are three to choose from".
He called to the bank and the three men came forward. They were all good men who would survive the nineteenth century and not accomplish anything of historical importance.
And she would be poured into the basin of the one she chose, never to flow again in any particular direction.
***
And they came to pass, the things my father said. We rang the church bells and the children who had been imprisoned below came pouring out of the stainless steel funnel that we had driven into the sanctuary floor.
And the knife did find me work to do, the cutting down of those who were knifeless, and the taking of their winter goods.
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