30 Days - Knowledge

[felicitygs]

 Bless, they say. He’ll grow out of it.

 

It’s harmless anyway, just a saucer of milk and heel of bread.

 

He hears them, but it doesn’t matter.

 

Steve, don’t you think you’re getting a little old for that?

 

You spoil him, Martha. 

 

He sets his jaw a little. It’s not a matter of age–he’s eight, and maybe eight isn’t so old, but it doesn’t mean he’s wrong. He knows he’s not.

 

Don’t mind. He’s a sweet lad, just a bit of an odd duck. Likes his fancy.

 

It’s not right, it’s not. What’s the Church gonna think?

 

Steve’s near fifteen and he doesn’t ignore it now. He twists the bit of green-blue cloth around his fingers, habit he’s done since six that has left the fabric no more worn. It looks as new as when he first received it; even the frayed edges the same. There’s a gilt and gold embroidered snowflake at one end, and he rubs his thumb over it.

 

I’m leaving, he tells his mother, late in the night. There’s not much a fifteen year old can save, but he’s saved what he’s got, earned it as much as any.

 

She frowns at him, but she’s seen it coming for as long as him.

 

Take care. Don’t eat or drink from their tables, don’t lie, and remember–a promise is a promise only when thrice spoke, she says, and she kisses his forehead.

 

Steve the sidhe near purrs in the dark of the wood, eyes glimmering the blue-green of a frozen lake, and even in the night Steve can see where the ribbon belongs, the torn edge of cloak that matches the cloth he has tucked in his pocket.

 

It’s not false worship, Steve thinks, if you know it to be truth. There’s a difference between faith and knowledge.