(excerpt from a half-remembered dream)
Said the Stranger: “Here we are making the Stew of the Ideal World.” And as he spoke a parade of men emerged from the mist of the woods. They came in twos and threes, they came by the dozen, they came by the hundreds.
I saw a Tsar in his finery, a beggar in his rags, and every class of man betwixt the two. They carried sacks and bags, wet with blood, others trucked wheelbarrows full of bones. And into the pot they poured their spoils. All was tipped into the pot.
The Stranger stood over his cauldron and stirred. “Almost done now,” he encouraged the crowd. “Just a little more. Just a little more, and the stew will be ready. Go and fetch us a little more meat. A little more bone with which to make our broth. Soon we shall have a good thick stew.”
With hardly a word or murmur, the gathered men melted back into the mist from which they came. Now the Stranger beckoned me, so I came close, and peered into the pot of bones.
The cauldron was vast and deep. The broth simmered, rich and golden brown. Meat glistened with fat, hung loose from bone. A most pleasing and intoxicating aroma tickled my nose and thickened the air. It was all I’d dreamt of and more.
“These bones,” I asked, “from what animal do they come? They look not like horse or cow nor pig.”
The Stranger only laughed. “Do you want a taste?” I felt the empty gnawing in my stomach, and I knew that if I ate from the pot of bones, I should never go hungry again.
I went to fill my bowl, but the Stranger slapped my hand away. “This is no charity!” he said. “If you wish to partake, first you must contribute. That is the first rule. Only then may you sup from the Stew of the Ideal World.”
“But I’ve nothing to offer,” said I, turning my threadbare pockets inside-out to show him my poverty. “My family is poor, my sisters and I go to bed hungry every night.”
“You’ve nothing for the pot?” asked the Stranger. A smile broke upon his old, crooked face. “Not even a crust of bread?”
“I would be happy, sir,” said I, “to have for myself a crust of bread.”
The smile grew wider still. The Stranger gestured to a nearby stump, in which an old axe lay buried. “You may borrow this axe, if you please, to gather meat for the stew.”
“It is far too large for a boy my size,” I complained, but when I seized the handle, I found I could lift the axe with ease. It felt light in my hands, like a child’s toy.
The Stranger held up a pair of gnarled fingers. “Listen close, now: there are two more rules by which you must abide. Do not lose my precious axe, and do not return without wetting the blade.”
Said I: “By those rules I will abide.”
Crosstown Gate 