For Basel…and Elyte, who bet that I couldn’t write a happy ending.
Listen.
Once upon a time there was a boy was playing in a park when he saw something shiny half-buried between the roots of an old, gnarled tree. It was dazzling and held his gaze as beautiful things often do to boys; he tried to pick it up, but it was stuck firmly in the ground. He almost turned away, but he couldn’t tear himself from the shiny thing, and so he began digging it out with his fingers, and soon held in his hands a gold ring, cool to the touch and brilliant to the eye. The boy sat there in awe, slowly picking away the last strands of dirt.. He knew he now owned something special, and he put it in his breast pocket, and ran home, without even telling his friends where he had gone.
The ring was very special to the boy, as it was a very special ring, and that is what the ring wanted—for the ring was a dead witches’ ring, who was buried under that tree seven centuries ago, and her dying wish, as is the dying wish of any witch, was to leave misery to the world. So she cursed the ring; it would cause suffering to any who would dare touch it, and eventually, tear apart their soul.
Running home, the boy felt the ring grow colder in his pocket as it itched to touch human skin. It began to rattle around, chomping at the boy’s clothes until the boy finally stopped running and stood there, feeling the ring grumble. He timidly reached into his pocket and plucked it up, and when his little fingers touched it, he could feel the icy burn of the witch’s curse, and the pain spoke to him in the dry, hacking laughter of buried bones. The boy grew scared, but did not let go of the ring; he held it in his palm and ran the rest of the way home, bracing the cold, feeling the pain slowly creep up his palm, to his wrist, to his elbow, hearing that laughter grow stronger and resonant, as if the witch was inside of him, cackling in his skull, the noise terrible and tinny, as if his body was the hollow inside of an aluminum can. But the boy, though scared, couldn’t let go, and he held onto the ring tightly until when he finally ran into his room and forced his hand to release it. Tears streamed down his face, and he was breathing in heavy gasps, as he felt the terrible noise slowly subside, and he felt the pain slide away, and he blinked and wiped the dripping sweat from his nose and chin. The ring, when he dropped it, clanked on his desk table, rolled about, and fell through the vent.
The boy was relieved. He spent the rest of the day in the dark of his room, quiet, holding his arm, his stomach upturned, and his parents worried about him, though they did not believe him—what parents would? This is why I’m telling my story to you, and not them.
The cursed ring was not satisfied being lost again, and it screamed to all those that could hear it, the rats and the dust bunnies and the old photo albums full of long-dead aunts and uncles, and it struggled through the vents and cracks of the house looking to reunite with its prey. The ring had tasted the boy’s flesh, and felt the delicious heat of the boy’s finger, and it would not be sated until it consumed the boy’s soul. But magical things, even the rings of witches, are smarter than any of us, and could reach far into the future, and feel around, and poke their noses in it, so the ring knew it would be some time before it saw the boy again, but it definitely would, and when it did, then it would be the right time. But the ring was impatient, as curses tend to be, and so it huffed and billowed as it waited to return to its meal.
And so years passed, and the boy grew older, first a rebellious teen, then a young man off to college, and of course he forgot the ring, even though he could hear its voice in the creaking and rattling of what all adults assume is just “the house being old”.
When the boy was old enough to move out on his own, diploma in hand, his parents decided it was time to sell the house, to open a new chapter of their lives somewhere smaller—maybe Bailey, Colorado, the father said, or maybe Bethany Beach, Delaware, chimed in the mother (they finally decided on somewhere in Nebraska, though I have no idea why). The boy and his parents began combing through the house, to pack and sell things, to tie up the loose ends, and it was then, and only then, that the ring was finally seen again, found amongst a box of the boy’s childhood things—stuffed animals and action figures and old report cards—and as the boy fingered through his old memories, he grazed his hand against the ring, and felt its icy cold surface. The ring rejoiced, finally returned to the boy. The boy picked it up, and held it in his hands, and smiled—he remembered being afraid of the thing that day, thinking of the frost that curled up his arm, but now that he was a man, and not just a little boy, he laughed at his innocent fears, and the now pleasant memory; the ring tried to whisper to the boy, but now that he was a man, and not just a little boy, and closed his eyes to all things magical, it could not speak to him—it could not destroy him so easily as years ago, when he was doe-eyed and believed in things such as magic and curses.
But the ring was not beaten, and all the more resolute, for the ring knew the one thing we always seem to forget, and through this ancient magic we all take for granted, it would rip and tear and swallow the boy’s soul whole.
I’m speaking, of course, of love.
It was only a matter of time, for no matter what boys say when their hearts are first broken, hearts heal and boys will always forget their childhood promises; like stubborn waves, they will smash again and again against the rocky shores of love, fools as children and fools as men. The ring laughed and laughed as it sat in a small box at the bottom of the man’s sock drawer, biding its time.
Of course, the man fell in love (and believe me, one day you will too), and when the time came, he dug through his sock drawer for that little box, and held it close to his heart, so close the ring could hear its fevered beating, could hear the man’s soul rattling against the prison of its ribcage. And when the man bent on knee and gave the girl the ring, the ring screamed with all its rage and glory, and the leaves above them shook, and the ground seemed to shiver. Now, now was the time, it seemed to scream, two souls instead of one!
The ring began to work immediately, feeding on the insecurities of the engaged couple, making them bitter and resentful and afraid of one another, making them yell so loud they spit from their mouths and making them destroy plates and records and vacations. As long as the couple didn’t hold hands, tightly, and feel the magic of love, the ring would be their master. If it could keep them separated, it could devour them whole, and it almost did. The boy went to a therapist for help; the woman to a priest. Each gave them advice, but neither doctor nor priest believed in the power of the curses of the rings of witches, and never even thought to tell them of its cruel power, and so they left all the more confused and dissatisfied.
The ring would win, it seemed, and it would swallow them whole. The woman walked around her apartment, staring at the gold thing, which once had all the promises of a beautiful life, but now left her sick and twisted, and as the ring was nearly finished with her, and it whispered, yes, send me back, send me back to that wretch, and she considered it; she slumped over her couch and she sobbed, and she sat there for a weekend and listened to all of her old albums—songs that seemed so happy once before, but now seeped of their life and now wallowing in misery.
The man slowly walked over to his fiancé’s apartment, quietly muttering the words of the breakup in his head. He had lost all of his happiness in his pursuit of this marriage, and now he wanted to end it, to perhaps reclaim something of his life. He felt bitter and alone, as if his soul had been ripped out from within him, he told his mother through gulps of air. He went over the tragically poetic words he was going to say to his fiancé one last time in his head, and then he knocked on the door.
She slowly opened it, and stared at him through red, puffy eyes.
He walked inside, and they both sat down on the couch, and because they had seen it so many times on television shows and movies, they moved to touch palms, and to hold hands, and to look into each other’s eyes and say “it’s over.” The ring giggled with glee, and the lights in the house flickered on and off, but then the ring stopped laughing, as it began to realize—the man and the woman were staring into each other’s eyes, and holding hands, but they were not crying, simply staring, and—could it be?! The ring swore loudly, as an ambulance roared by outside the window. The man and the woman had gone without touching each other for so long, and looking at each other so long, they had forgot what they had loved in each other in the first place. But here they were, completely broken, and alone, and on the brink of self-destruction, and in their vulnerability all they had left were their bodies and their souls, which they had not given to the ring—which the ring only now realized—but had given their souls to each other. And because they no longer owned their own soul, of course, if they didn’t hold hands and look into each other’s eyes, of course they would lose themselves and become bitter and angry. They no longer owned themselves, but had offered it to another, and willingly—a power much stronger than leeching it from pain and agony, a power much stronger than a curse muttered from the dying breath of a witch.
Realizing its mistake, the ring shuddered and screamed and banged against their hands, but the young couple did not care. The ring, which had become such a symbol of imprisonment, was drained of its power, removed of the witch’s curse, and returned to a symbol of unity. The young couple resolved that their passion for each other would not suffice, but it would take commitment, and true love, to combine their souls and be truly happy once again.
And so, the boy married, and by his wedding day the curse of the witch was broken, and the engagement ring was simply just a ring…though it is important to remember that there truly are magical forces at work in this world, many good but many evil, and they come in things like rings and old photographs and baby teeth and songs that remind you of that girl that got away, but there is one magic mightier than each of those, and if you believe in it strongly enough, it can conquer all.
Cheers!
