There’s a tired wooden hut next to the train tracks, at the end of a gravel road, in a town that nobody’s heard of. And in that hut, behind the sagging counter, surrounded by little brass boxes, there used to stand a tired grey man with a faded blue shirt, and the brightest blue eyes. He lived in that hut, I was sure of it. I didn’t know how he came across our mail, or where he slept, or what he ate. He actually scared me a bit, as kindly as he seemed.
How could he survive in this building? It was so small. Was he a witch? The question plagued me every day. Really, I only went there for one reason. It’s not because I had to – the house was close, I could have hid from him there. It’s not because I wanted to… I would only go inside clutching my father’s hand tightly. But I couldn’t stop going, you see. There were the beans.
They grew on strings that ran all the way from the sloping front porch, soft and breaking with age, to the mossy roof. Every summer, without fail, they grew. Bigger and bigger, taller and taller. Nobody seemed to tend them. Nobody seemed to pick them. They must have been magic, sprouting in response to the creaky old witch (it didn’t matter that he was male, any smart person knew witches were of both sexes). Or maybe they were his food? I didn’t know. Didn’t care. They were enough to keep me going, once, twice a week. I’d pluck as many as I could, savoring the snap and crunch, the burst of sweet green flavor. I’d fill my pockets, feign innocent politeness to the creature inside, and scurry back home to share the bounty with my sister; escaping his clutches once again.
How could he survive in this building? It was so small. Was he a witch? The question plagued me every day. Really, I only went there for one reason. It’s not because I had to – the house was close, I could have hid from him there. It’s not because I wanted to… I would only go inside clutching my father’s hand tightly. But I couldn’t stop going, you see. There were the beans.
They grew on strings that ran all the way from the sloping front porch, soft and breaking with age, to the mossy roof. Every summer, without fail, they grew. Bigger and bigger, taller and taller. Nobody seemed to tend them. Nobody seemed to pick them. They must have been magic, sprouting in response to the creaky old witch (it didn’t matter that he was male, any smart person knew witches were of both sexes). Or maybe they were his food? I didn’t know. Didn’t care. They were enough to keep me going, once, twice a week. I’d pluck as many as I could, savoring the snap and crunch, the burst of sweet green flavor. I’d fill my pockets, feign innocent politeness to the creature inside, and scurry back home to share the bounty with my sister; escaping his clutches once again.
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