The Spice Box Letters by Eve Makis

Author:Eve Makis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sandstone Press Ltd
Published: 2015-01-18T05:00:00+00:00

Levon smashed the ball against the fence, venting his frustration on the wooden posts. He often raged against the injustice we had suffered, stomping through the quiet house like a wounded bear. Everyday Levon raked up the past, shared the stories of his childhood, refusing to let go of our old lives, embrace the new. He preferred to remember while I just wanted to forget, pretend the past had never happened.

‘Mariam!’ Levon called me over, staring at something on the ground. I walked across a lawn of stubby grass to find him standing over a dead sparrow, a mash of pink innards spewing from its chest. ‘It must have been killed by a cat. Shall we bury it?’

I had grown used to Levon’s fascination with death and burials. The back yard was littered with makeshift crosses marking the graves of the lifeless creatures we had come across.

He dug a hole with his hands in the flowerbed and buried the bird. Then we stood over the grave, crossing ourselves and mumbling sombre prayers.

Rose knocked on the kitchen window and called us inside for our lessons and Levon whined all the way to the back door. We were home-schooled and began each day with a short reading from the Bible. Rose’s parents were missionaries but she didn’t share their religious zeal. In our house, more emphasis was placed on the teaching of history, geography, arithmetic and penmanship. There were plenty of Ernest’s old books scattered around and in our free time we were encouraged to read: Dickens, Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, Aesop’s Fables, the poetry of Emily Dickinson and Robert Louis Stevenson. Levon had no interest in books, preferring to help Rose in the kitchen or Ernest in his workshop, finding solace in physical labour.

We took our seats, Levon sprawling forward on the table, his head resting on his arm.

‘Sit up, Levon,’ Rose said.

He promptly sat back, slouched in his chair.

‘Mariam, would you read your favourite verse from Jeremiah?’ she said.

I flicked through the pages, found the passage I was looking for, one that gave me hope for the future. ‘For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and future. Then you will call upon me and I will listen . . . ’

I enjoyed reading aloud from the Bible, believing in the power of prayer, and found the stories gripping and invigorating.

When I had finished, Rose asked Levon to read. He sucked air through his teeth before reaching for the Bible, thumbing through the pages, stopping arbitrarily. He began, mispronouncing words, ignoring punctuation, hurrying along carelessly. Nothing in the Bible stirred Levon or captured his imagination; not the Creation or the Fall, not the Book of Matthew or the stories of struggle and sacrifice that mirrored our own experience.

‘I don’t want to do this.’ He scraped back his chair, biting his lip.

‘One more try, Levon,’ Rose said, a slight shrill in her voice, patience wearing thin.

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