Tools

A small cottage stands in an isolated woodland. Within it, a young girl and her mother sit together in silence. Patrice figits on an upright chair, while her mother tries to read a book by the light of a candle that burns on a small table between them. They don't talk. They try not to move. If they could stop breathing, they would. Father likes silence.

To their left is a door. At the top right of the door frame is a small bell. A string runs from the bell through the crack in the door into Father's room. Patrice watches the bell, waiting for it to chime. Her mother tries to ignore it.

A ferocious wind rocks the tiny cottage. It has stripped the trees of their leaves, leaving them of little use other than to cast ominous shadows through the windows.

Mother begins to re-read the same page for the fifth time. It is useless to try to concentrate. She tries to avoid thinking about the night's task.

"Do you think he will require a feeding tonight?"”

The sound of Patrice's voice stabbing through the silence startles Mother enough that she nearly drops her book.

"Good Heavens!"” She tries to compose herself. "What kind of question is that?"” She lowers her voice. "Of course he will. He always does."

"He didn'’t use it all last night. It just made me wonder."”

"Well, that's no reason to hold anything back. You know what he might do."”

Patrice knows what Father would do. Her scars tingle.

They flinch when they hear the bell. To anyone else, it is a pleasant sound. To Patrice and her mother, it is the summons of evil. They look at the bell, then each other.

"We best not wait," her mother says as she stands and wraps her shawl around her head and shoulders.

Patrice sighs. "What will be my job tonight?"”

"I worked the tools last night. Tonight that will be your job."”

Patrice hates working the tools, but she's glad she will not have to venture out into the dark and the wind like her mother.

Patrice enters the converted kitchen and tugs at a heavy trunk under the large oak dining table. She opens the trunk and retrieves a bundle wrapped in dark blue velvet. She places the bundle on the table and spreads it out. There are saws of different sizes, knives of different lengths and piercing sharpness. She notices a spot of something dark and wet on one of the saws. Her mother failed to clean up properly last night. Father would not be pleased. She wets a washcloth and cleans the saw. Yes, Patrice hates to work the tools.
After the tools are ready, Patrice checks the restraints at either end of the table. The restraints are necessary——some people hate the tools more than Patrice.

Satisfied that the equipment is ready, Patrice takes her seat again. She picks up her mother'’s book, thinking it might be something interesting. Mother is not even past the first page.

Patrice hears footsteps outside the front door through the howling wind. She opens the front door. Her mother is dragging a large sack. Her face looks almost happy.

"It's a large one. Father will be pleased."”

Patrice smiles. Father might let them sleep tonight if things are done right.

"One of the saws was unclean," Patrice says.

Her mother'’s face goes pale. "Did you tell Father?"”

"No. I cleaned it."”

Her mother sighs in relief. "Well then, I'’ll help you work the tools tonight."”

They put it on the table and fasten the restraints. This one struggles mightily. It makes a lot of noise and causes a lot of mess. Patrice has never seen one who so hates the tools. They will be cleaning for most of the night. Patrice asks again why they don'’t just use the club on it. Her mother explains that Father likes it fresh. Eventually, it stops moving.

The clean up is even worse than anticipated. Father is fed, and soon they sit in their usual places again. Her mother hopes Father is satisfied. They are tired, but their beds have not been used in months. They never know when Father will ring for another feeding. Her mother bears horrible scars to show what happens when the bell goes unanswered.

They sit through the rest of the night and on into the next night, saying little. Her mother looks worried. The bell should have rung two or three times by now. Something must be wrong in Father'’s room.

"Patrice, you haven'’t heard the bell since last night, have you?"”

"“No, Mother."” Patrice didn'’t like that question. What is she? A fool who would ignore the bell?

"Something must be wrong."” Her mother stands up, unsure what to do.

She walks to the door. She places her hand on the door handle, takes it away. There are also scars from entering the room when she wasn'’t summoned, but what will be the price for ignoring Father?

Patrice sees the conflict on her mother'’s face. "I'll go," she says.

Her mother, feeling ashamed, stands to one side and lets Patrice enter the bedroom.

Her mother ignores her book and sits in a chair. There are no sounds coming from the bedroom. Her mother can'’t decide if that is good or bad. Soon, the knob turns and the door opens. Patrice stands in the doorway.

"“Well?"” Her mother is about beside herself with anxiety. "“Did you receive instructions?"’

Patrice shakes her head yes.

It is easier to subdue her mother than expected. Her mother is on the table, fastened to the restraints. Her mother thrashes against the leather straps. Patrice giggles to herself. Surely her mother knows the restraints never let anyone go. Her mother makes an awful noise when Patrice lays out the tools. After hearing the sounds of her mother's voice and the look in her eye, Patrice considers the club. She looks over to where the thick baton rests, but decides against it. After all, Father likes it fresh.