Your Gift Shall be Your Death

Preface.

Writers are often asked where they start a story: at the beginning, the middle, or the end. Sometimes, there is no answer to this age-old question. Parts of this story may be fact-driven, or it may be just a fantasy or a bad dream driven by a concussion in a serious auto accident. We will let you, the reader, be the judge. One thing is for sure: By the end of this short story, the reader will know it was not created by A.I.

1978 London Punks, Rare Home Movie Footage. - Kinolibrary

The Curse.

Local fairs in the rural areas of the United Kingdom were not only a time for adventure and fun but also a place to learn hard truths. This would be the case for a group of lost teenagers that family and society had lost track of. It was the golden era of Punk, 1979 and U.K. Bands like Crass, The Clash, The Damned, Sex Pistols, and others ran the show.

Some comments on Punk from December 1979. Rare footage! tadpolesandwich

Our group of teens were Punk Musician wannabes; some were not even from the U.K. A few came from what was still known as West Germany, Austria, The Netherlands and yes, Canada. 

This group had just been through a rough week of cheap pub crawl performances, stale beer, too many pills, and nights sleeping in sheds. 

The idea of a country fair was very appealing, maybe having some fun and dodgy stuff simultaneously. The fair was in the countryside, with many local folk attending. There were crafts, musicians of every Celtic sort, tests of strength, and all kinds of muck to get involved with. 

One of the girls got all excited as they passed through the fair, “Oh come on, let’s get the old pikey to tell our fortune, “She said as she rushed ahead. 

Within a few moments, they passed a group of Roma entertainers. One tossed knives, a few of their women danced, and others tried selling beads and cheap goods. The Canadian teen walked up to an ancient old woman. 

The woman reached out and grabbed his right wrist very hard, digging her naturally long painted nails into his flesh. He swore at her and tried pulling away. In a hoarse, aging voice, the old woman said, “Seven times seven, you shall be punished, but you shall not die,” She pointed her other hand at him, “Your gift shall be your death!” 

The teenager struck her with his free hand as she spoke these last words. A horrible punch-up started that, before it was over, would involve not only the gypsies and the punks but many of the local residents. It seemed they could not decide who they disliked more, the punks or the gypsies. 

Seven hours after the fight ended, one of the would-be punk musicians died on his scooter as it struck a thick wire cable across the road. The teens started that night, numbering between eighteen and twenty-four. 

Over time, their numbers dropped steadily; auto accidents, the Troubles in Northern Ireland, the Falklands War and strange industrial accidents could claim so many of them. The odd part was the number seven was consistently involved. 

Death shall be your gift.

The young Canadian teenager often dreamed of the old witch who grabbed him. Try as he might, he never could find out anything about her. Some legends claimed she had died long ago and was a spirit that lived with the Gypsies. Others claimed she was a harmless old woman who died shortly after that county fair. Despite being part of the group, accidents, assaults, and other incidents never took his life, though they often seemed to be the seventh month, the seventh day, or the seventh hour of a day. 

As he reached his late fifties, his immediate family, his mother, father, and brother, all died around the seventh hour of different days in 2021. He once more refused to believe there was any connection; after all, it was 2021; scary things were Covid-19, Donald Trump and the possibility of a war in Eastern Europe. 

A year later, after having a severe auto accident, this man was beginning to have his sleep invaded by this old woman once more. She appeared near a large bonfire, whispering to him, "Death is your gift." 

As he prepared to go shopping a few days later, he came across an old knife he used to carry in his old punk days. He was so surprised to see it; he thought he had lost it over thirty years earlier. Without much thought, he put it into his pocket. 

He climbed into his vehicle and started driving on the local highway. In a section of the highway known for the "S" curves, a minivan went out of control in front of him. It swerved into the centre barricades with such force that it nearly broke through the thick cement. Vehicles swung all over the road before him, some colliding with others. The minivan slid onto one side and then toppled over onto its roof. Screams rang out in the early morning light as his vehicle approached the van. 

He exited his vehicle, shocked that he had not been in any of the collisions. He moved to the minivan; a tall, slender woman shrieked in the driver's seat. She was held up in the air due to her seat belt being on. Two others helped him force her door open.

The air became hot and heavy as black smoke filled the area. He realized he had his knife and pulled it out and had the blade extended. He climbed around the driver and cut her free. She collapsed down into the arms of others who pulled her clear. 

He saw movement in the back seat, reached through the smoke, and felt a small hand. "Hold On, I will get you out!" he tried to shout. He pulled himself into the back seat and shade of two small children, a boy and a girl. 

The boy coughed and said, "The scary lady told me you would save us." 

He worked his knife around as he felt the heavy, heated smoke in his lungs. The boy was released and climbed over the man to the front seat. Another adult pulled him from the wreckage. 

"Get out! The engine is on fire!" a voice from outside of the minivan screamed out to him. 

He could see flames now and could hear sirens in the distance. The girl was terrified and cried for her mother as he struggled to free her from her child seat. He pulled himself closer to her and began to kick a window till it shattered. He pulled the girl free. "Go climb out of the window; go to mummy," he chirped. 

His left leg was trapped between the seats as the fire worsened. Through the smoke and haze, he suddenly could see the old woman calling to him,

"Death is your gift!" the old woman exclaimed.

As a fire truck neared the accident scene, the vehicle erupted into a fiery mess. All at once, his legs sizzled as the skin began to burn; the air was burning hot, and he felt the sting of Death approaching. He glasped, his eyes shut as he muttered a short prayer.

He awoke and was instantly pulled to his feet by several of his old punk friends. He looked at his arms and legs, and they were fine and fit.

He could still see and hear the accident scene's noises, but they seemed far away.

He could see the firefighters battling the blaze and the tearful mother with her arms around her children. 

"Took your bloody time joining us; you did." 

He looked into the eyes of his friend, Jamaican Charlie, and Charlie hugged him. A moment later, his old pen pal Allison embraced him. "Always had to be last and leave with a big finish."

Heidi appeared with her brother Hans; he had missed them so much. He walked away from the accident scene into a bright, spiralling haze.

"Maybe we all finally found peace," said Heidi with a heavy German accent.

He looked back briefly as his pen pal Allison took his hand, "Your family will be all right. Come on."

Authors Notes

During my teen years, I participated in the world of Punk Rock music, embracing its lifestyle and occasionally finding myself in the midst of scuffles. Along the way, I lost touch with some remarkable friends; I learned some managed to avoid the harshest times and were lost to the grave. Whether every detail of this tale holds true is up for interpretation. Allow me to express gratitude to some formidable bands of that era: "The Protectors," "D.O.A.," the "Young Canadians," Circle Jerks," "The Clash," "The Dead Kennedys," and the list could extend endlessly. These were the sounds of the less-than-innocent days of my youth.

To those I hurt, I am sorry. To those I lost, I hope you found peace. To those left, always remember, "Flush when you are done."

A couple of quick final notes: Joe, you do toss a great right fist. Art, yes, I did mean to kick you. Keith always loved those glasses. Sorry. Sarah, did you need to toss a vanilla ice cream bucket on my friend Fitz?

Please feel free to subscribe, like or even take the risk of leaving a comment. Thank you for reading.

Cheers

Bruce