So the Story Goes

It occured to me that I had only one possession that I considered truly valuable. It was an ancient knife that had been passed on to me from my grandfather. It had heroic stories attached to it and was used in an act to defend a family of my ancestors from enemies that had attacked them. I kept in in its original leather sheath that was also possessed with magical qualities; so the stories go.

I took the knife from its hiding place in my closet. I looked at it, admiring its quality and dreaming of the ancient dramas that it would have been witness to. I thought of how valuable it had been to males in my family for many generations; how they would pass the stories along in their ancient language with the knife. I thought of the stories themselves and how those stories must have forified the identity of those men. I couldn't help but feel connected to those men who were grandfathers and great grandfathers and their grandfathers. I felt the pride of my warrior family and resilience they must have had to endure what they did.

In some strange way, I knew that the knife held magical properties as the stories suggested.

I took the knife with me to a neighbourhood where the buildings were mostly abandoned and the people on the street were mostly young men and desperate men. As I approached a small flock of them, they walked directly toward me in an attempt to intimidate me; the stranger. I pulled the long knife and its sheath out from my jacket. They immediately stopped and looked at me and the knife, not knowing how to proceed from this unexpected turn of events. I looked at the young men. I could see them moving their minds betwen the real situation with the threat that was imposed on them and how best to act, or perform, in the eyes of their brothers. The smallest of the trio was focused only on me and the knife. I said to him, "this knife is yours" and passed it to him.

As they began to question me, I turned and walked back to my car. So the story goes.