The first one was a cheap white metal thing. Many of the beads were broken or chipped, the cross itself warped. Yet, in the dying light of late afternoon, the rosary took on a magic glow. The boy couldn’t resist. He picked it up, twirled it around his finger, but after a few seconds he was bored. It didn’t make noise and it didn’t fit in any of his collections. So, he tossed it, flinging it into a nearby oak tree. The bauble wound itself around a few twigs, dangling out of reach.
The streetlights would be coming on soon. He ran home, spinning the striker of the old lighter he’d found earlier. It wouldn’t light but still spat sparks. This was something worth keeping.
#
The second one was stolen from a girl at the Catholic school a few blocks away. Charles pushed her down for no reason, but when her backpack fell open, he dug inside, taking her rosary, a bruised apple, and all the loose change from the bottom. She sat up, crying, and told him that Baby Jesus would punish him. Before anyone could help the girl, Charles threw the bag at her, strung the rosary around his neck, jammed the money in his pocket for later, and took an exaggerated bite from the apple.
“I’ll take my chances,” he laughed, strolling away.
When he passed the oak tree, the glint from the white cross grabbed his attention. It wasn’t that high, and he knew he could do a hell of a lot better. The necklace wasn’t worth a damn, just wood and what looked like tin foil. He didn’t even know why he’d taken it. Mind made up, he slung it over his shoulder and flung it hard. It caught a small branch and hung a good six feet higher than the other one. A bird, disturbed, screeched at him and flew away.
“And that’s how you do it,” he told the loser he’d bested.
#
Throwing crosses into the oak tree became a trend that week. Stolen, lifted from grandparents’ drawers, rosaries sagged from the oak. One was rumoured to have come directly from the French Church across the river. There were over a dozen of them when it all came to an end on Sunday.
Charles no longer held the record. Someone must’ve cheated, he grumbled to himself. And that didn’t sit well. He vowed to beat them all.
Church let out at eleven. He watched the parishioners leave, looking for the perfect projectile. He hadn’t realized that people didn’t walk around with their rosaries. About to quit and find another way, he spied an old man, trudging along, leaning on his cane. And there, peeking from his coat pocket, a string of heavy-looking glass boulders. It would fly! Charles snuck close, looped his finger in, touching the cold, hard beads. He felt its heft as he pulled. The cross snagged on a seam.
The cane cut the air, whip-like, striking Charles in the side, knocking him down onto the gravel parking lot. He broke his fall with both hands, blood trickling down his lacerated palms.
“You dirty thief!”
The old man stood in front of him. The Priest, along with another man, ran over. They chastised. They waited for his parents to come.
“It was just a stupid game,” Charles sat up, crying.
There was no sympathy from anyone when his father picked him up, muttered an apology, and shoved him into the car next to his sullen mother.
No one threw anything into the oak anymore.
Children were scolded, grounded, beaten.
A city worker from the congregation offered to remove the rosaries from the tree. He brought them back to Church, hoping owners would claim them there. He posted notices around town. He had, however, missed one – the original.
High near the top of the oak, invisible, the cheap white metal thing was wrapped tightly, along with grasses and twigs and string, forming a nest.
(Image and Text © R L Raymond, 2024)
R L Raymond 