The Portal 00 - Legacy of the Witch

room one evening on my way to the library, feeling stylish in my
black leggings with a long sweater over them and my backpack slung over my
shoulder, I stopped in my tracks, fixated on the TV screen, where my gidaty’s prize possession was being handled by a TV
show host.
    “It’s a reproduction,” the man said, turning the box this way
and that, examining it as if he were a doctor and my grandmother’s treasure
chest his patient. “But a very good one.”
    “How can you be sure?” asked the gorgeous blonde who’d handed
it to him. She had big hair. I wondered how she got it so high. In the nineties
women in the U.S. had become like male lions, the bigger the mane, the more
status they had. And hers was massive. Or she was from Texas. One or the other.
My own hair was perpetually flat, sleek and black. There was nothing I could do
about that.
    “See these paintings on the bottom?” the man said as he turned
the box over. “Someone added these after the box was made, so it’s not in its
original condition. I believe they’re the images of various Tarot cards—except
this one, which looks Egyptian. And the locking mechanism is…something I’ve
never seen before. This padlock here—” he jiggled the black iron lock in his
hand “—it’s got no keyhole. I have no idea how this box would open, or if it
even does.”
    The blonde blinked like a cartoon kitten. I could almost hear
the plink-plunk of strings that went along with the
motion. “Why would anyone make a lock that doesn’t open?”
    “I have no idea. As a joke, perhaps?” The man set the box on
the table. “You say you’ve never opened it?”
    “No. But we haven’t had it that long.”
    “It’s a fascinating piece,” he said. “Where did you ever find
it?”
    “My fiancé brought it back from the Gulf War.”
    I shivered.
    The host nodded. “Please thank him for his service for us. I
think this box’s true value is something other than monetary.” He slid it across
the table toward her.
    “Are you saying it’s not worth anything?”
    Wide eyes now. And kind of empty. Like her head, I thought.
    “Two hundred dollars, perhaps. But I think your husband should
keep it.”
    “Fiancé,” she corrected.
    One of the roommates had been saying my name over and over, but
I was ignoring her because the lettering on the bottom of the screen had the
woman’s name: Glenda Montgomery from Akron, Ohio. I burned it into my mind as
the show went to a commercial.
    “Amarrah, are you okay? What’s up? You never watch TV.”
    I blinked. “I thought I knew her. But, um, I was wrong.”
    I have to go to Ohio, I
thought.
    But you can’t. You’ve got finals coming
up.
    Not for two weeks. That’s plenty of time
to get there and get back.
    Don’t be ridiculous. How will you even
find her?
    Not her. Him. She said it belonged to her
fiancé.
    Still…
    All the way to the library I was having this inner argument. I
didn’t have a lot of money, but Ohio wouldn’t be an impossible drive, and I did
have a decent car. I could take my books with me, try to get as many assignments
in advance as I could and cram for finals on the road.
    It could be done.
    The notion just wouldn’t leave me alone. And when I slept that
night, I swore my grandmother was standing over my bed, shouting at me. “You
must go, Amarrah! You must go and get the box! You promised me!”
    And from there I dissolved into an image from the story. I was
thirteen and very dirty, dressed in rags, with bruises on my arms and face. I’d
finished my chores and run to play along the edges of the riverbank, where the
grasses were tall and lush, and there I’d spotted a beautiful boy swinging a
sword as if in the heat of battle with some invisible enemy.
    Hiding behind the tall reeds, I watched, fascinated by him,
until he tripped over a stone and fell on his face. I couldn’t quite suppress my
giggle.
    He spotted me, frowned and pushed himself up, brushing the dust
off his clothes. “Come on out, girl. I see you hiding there.”
    Bashful, and wondering if I’d just earned myself another
whipping, I stepped out into his view, painfully aware of my disheveled state. I
tried to smooth my hair back, but it was of little use. “I didn’t mean to spy on
you,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve never seen a boy so young wield a sword with
so much skill.” Flattery, I thought, might save me from punishment. But even so,
it was no less than the truth.
    He smiled a little. “Even if