You know about the girl who had a box that was locked? She was tantalized by that lid so that it drove her to distraction. Little did she know that the lid was a shield, and when she opened it up all the evil in the world was let out, and it stung her face, bit her lips, slapped her cheeks and pricked her eyes. Oh, what the earth would be if she had never lifted that lid.

And you remember the brothers who allowed the box to be opened because of their greed? That lid had kept their own hearts safe, for truly, although the gifts were good, the men were not, and they made the gifts become millstones around their necks.

I know of another box. A box with a lid that should not be lifted, not because the content will harm or hinder but because humankind cannot be trusted to care for what is within.

But what is a box if the lid is never lifted?

It is a coffin, of course.

What is this box you hold in your hands? Dare you open it? Are you brave enough, are you good enough and stout of heart? If you have any hesitation I beg of you to bury that box in the ground, for we cannot bear another day of evil.

The story comes to me when I draw, as though Mel herself is next to me. I look around in wonder and shake my head at my tired mind’s tricks. My picture is of a box – a precious box that is beginning to crack open.

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-five

When I dream again that night, I dream in screams.

I am running through the forest, vines and briars clutching at my ankles, the heavy sound of pursuit driving me on and on. Ahead, in the distance, are the screams and shrieks of people in agony. I’m too late; I will not get there. Hope is dashed, but still I run. I run until I reach a vast river, a river too fast and wild to cross. Those chasing me are hot on my heels and those who need me are crying out in vain. I stop and almost dive in – rather that than listen to my failure.

All of a sudden two women are with me, one at my left, one at my right. One has skin like mine, full of ink, and the other’s is empty. Both have ferocious determination in their eyes.

“You’re ready, aren’t you, little light?” they demand. And they take my hands, draw me back and then, with all the power of the wind and waves and fire and thunder, they swing me, they hurl me, and I fly.

I am putting on my boots before I have even fully woken up. I have to go – the where and why will have to wait. I must trust this calling that commands me to go.