By Peter Kadel

He stood before me, looking as he looked every day–rugged, a man of the forest, bearded and burly. He and his possessions were not gilded or lavish but utilitarian and plain. He and everything he owned had a purpose that they fulfilled adequately. None of his features or possessions were extraordinary in any way, with one exception–the pen. He always carried an ornately decorated fountain pen. I never found out where he got it or how he was ever able to afford such a gilded masterpiece. But, he had it with him always, a special pocket on his rucksack held the treasure so it was safe yet easy to reach. The body of the pen was made from a piece of obsidian as black as a moonless night with gold inlay and a golden nib. I was always surprised when I saw him holding the black treasure. It was a diamond in the rough of his demeanor. His worn and weathered hands worried the smooth glasslike surface. I never saw him use it, but the pen was always there.

He would never part with it: when the drought hit and we were starving and thirsty, he kept it. When the common folks were prohibited from reading and writing, he kept it. When a group of bandits took my sister and demanded our valuables, he kept it. When rumors spread of a wealthy collector offering a large sum for old writing implements, he kept it. When he was given a choice between the pen and his life….

It was just a pen, not a long lost relic, not a family treasure passed down for generations, not a holy artifact coveted by all. I’ll never understand why he cared about that thing so much. When I asked him why it was worth more than a human life, he said, “I carry these tools all over these here mountains, and I use them to create things so I can survive. But this pen won’t help me survive. If I were to use this pen to create something, that something lasts beyond me.”

So there it was, greed and vanity. Or maybe not. When he lay dying in a pool of his own failings, he handed the pen to me.

Editor: Claire Jenkins