The light from the setting sun streams in through the trees, almost blinding the boy as he walks. In both hands, carefully, he carries a wooden box carved with intricate etchings of demons and angels. He must not let go of this box for any reason, or many people will die. He must carry it all the way to the farmhouse before the sun sets; that is what Mrs. Roberts told him in her voice that sounds like the leaves he loves to crunch under his feet. He tries to keep her voice in his head, to keep him steady, because a fly has landed on his nose and will not budge. He has tried to wiggle his nose, to shake his head, even to wipe at it with his shoulder, all to no avail. He can feel the tiny, scratchy legs as the fly walks up and down his freckled nose.
Mrs. Roberts told him he’d be followed, and he’d be tested; that demons would be waiting to trick him and steal the box. Demons are very tricky, this was the first thing he remembers learning, his mother telling him stories as he fell asleep. He narrows his eyes, attempting to catch sight of the fly and perhaps scare it off. He does catch sight, but the fly only stares back, it’s multifaceted eyes seeming to watch him. “Are you a demon?” he whispers.
The fly does not answer, merely continues walking up and down, up and down, it’s legs scritch-scratching across his skin. He sighs and walks faster, faster, needing to beat the sun before all is lost. He turns past the line of trees, relief flooding his body as he sees the farmhouse, it’s wrap-around porch lit by candlelight. He picks up his pace, racing against the sun. He steps onto the porch right before the last ray disappears past the horizon, and instantly Mrs. Roberts is there, shushing him, handing him a cup of cocoa, her dry voice soothing him. “You did well, Jeremiah.”
