The tale of the cursed
When the timber snapped and the beams shattered, the blast of a mortar blew the Isbey family to dust, and little Tom was standing in the very centre of the explosion. The elders say they could hardly gather the charred remains, yet Tom emerged unscathed, his skin only blackened by soot and a tiny cross etched on his bare chest. When they peeled the cross away, the mark vanished. He was about five years old then.
A distant relative, his greataunt Agnes, took him in. Ten years later, long after the war, a terrible fire ripped through the village of Littleford. A lightning strike hit the transformer at the local power station, and the houses on the right side of High Street went up in flames. People fled, but the livestock and outbuildings were almost entirely lost.
Firefighters arrived and managed to halt the blaze, though half the street was still ash. As the last sparks faded, the men coiled up their hoses and stowed them in their trucks, puzzled. All the houses burned straight through, yet one stayed untouched. Its a low, squat buildingmaybe the fire went around it? they wondered.
The locals were not satisfied with that explanation. It was Aunt Agness cottage, the very home where young Tom had lived. Rumour spread through the village that Tom was cursed.
Aunt Agnes was a devout woman who taught the boy to pray. Hidden behind heavy curtains, icons stood in a corner of the cottage, and the prayers whispered there were secret and rarely heard. She baked scones for the church in the neighbouring hamlet and often went there with Tom. The modest stipend the church gave her was enough to keep them fed; they also kept a hen for extra eggs.
Tom was enrolled at the village school, but he did not stay long. He sat meekly at the back bench, eyes wide, smiling as if delighted by the world, yet he never completed a task, never heard the lessons, and absorbed nothing.
He had golden hair crowned by a lively tuft. Aunt Agnes joked that God kept an eye on him through that tuft.
One summer, the whole village celebrated a river festival. A halffinished raft, overloaded with five boys, broke away. Mothers screamed from the bank while the men scrambled to rescue the children. Agnes rushed in, for Tom was on the raft.
Your fool has unmoored the raft! shrieked one mother at Agnes.
Silence, Margaret, silence, Agnes warned, Pray, and be glad Tom is there. God will save him and take you with Him.
The raft capsized. As Tom began to sink, he saw his mothers face, smiling and reaching out. He clutched her hand and was pulled to safety along with the other boys.
Agnes died young. Tom remained in the village, first as a shepherd and then as a night watchman. He spent his wages quickly, buying sweets and rolls to give away, visiting the sick and elderly, buying them anything they asked for and often buying for himself as well. When asked what he would eat, he replied, God will provide; I will never go hungry. And indeed God seemed to supply. Neighbours constantly fed him, and he repaid them with any help he could offer.
Eventually his wages were paid partly in kind; the village clerk bought food for him and handed it over gradually. Tom, true to his nature, shared most of it.
He worked with dedication. When he lay on his back in the fields, eyes closed to the sun, he again saw his mothers visage, whispering, You will not be killed nor maimed, Tom. You will be a joy to the people.
Word of his gentle, tireless spirit reached a local farmer, Mr. Johnson, who hired him for a construction project, paying in meals. Johnson piled the hardest labour on Tom. The poor man grew thin, his skin darkened, his back hunched. The other workers raised alarms, but Johnson simply said, Ill pay him later. He wants the work. Soon Tom vanished. Aunt Nora, a village elder, dragged the local constable to Johnsons farm, where they found Tom, gaunt and ill. An ambulance rushed him away.
Johnson shouted that he bore no blame, claiming he had almost healed Tom himself. Tom suffered peritonitis; surgeons saved his life by a hairs breadth.
A few weeks later, while repairing a tractor, Johnson was caught in its rotating harvester and was left crippled for life, despite the doctors best efforts.
Another episode unfolded when the village drunk, Charlie, tried to fix Tom with a bottle of cheap whisky, insisting it would cure him. The villagers protested, but Charlie persisted until, drunk and reckless, he fell into the river and drowned.
Tom returned to his nightwatch duties. One spring, as winter wheat turned a rolling sea of green, a delegation from the county arrived to inspect the fields. Tom, nervous, brandished his stick at the passing cars, causing a scene. The collective farm manager, furious, declared, Enough! Hes a fool, a cursed fool. Hes been on guard here for four years and the harvest has never failed. The deputy, Valentina, pleaded, Maybe we shouldnt fire him? Hes been with us through every bumper crop. The manager retorted, Fire him! and Tom was dismissed.
That night an unexpected frost killed the wheat. Unemployed, Toms neighbours told the village vicar, Reverend Vernon, about his plight. The vicar, busy restoring a halfruined chapel in the neighbouring parish, invited Tom for confession and penance. Afterwards, he made Tom his assistant in the church, calling him pure as a newborn.
Initially Tom was assigned as a handyman for the building crew. When the chapel was almost finished, he took charge of cleaning. He scrubbed walls, polished stairrails, and shined the floor until it gleamed like a mirror. Reverend Vernon could not hide his delight; the chapel had never looked so immaculate since its consecration.
Toms prayers were so sincere that worshippers lingered over him, eyes wide, whispering their own prayers. His hands moved deftly, as light as a sparrows wing, during baptisms, and his bright tuft seemed to flicker in rhythm with the hymns.
Soon tales of Toms blessed life spread across the shires. People said he was forever under Gods protection, that anyone who harmed him met a misfortune, and that he was almost a saint. Pilgrims came to the chapel to see Saint Evan they wanted to touch his hand, some even wished to be baptized by him. Wealthy patrons arrived, and donors funded a grand renovation: heating and electric lights were installed, a leafy avenue was laid before the entrance, a parking lot was added. The chapel was unrecognisable.
A television crew came to film a piece. Reverend Vernon thanked the camera, then the reporter asked Tom to say a few words.
What saint? Vernon laughed. Hes just a man of God, not a preacher.
The reporter persisted, and the crew followed Tom as he was digging a flowerbed.
Evan, say something to the viewers, the reporter urged.
Tom stared at the camera, a shy smile on his sunbleached hair, his golden tuft now dusted with age. When the microphone was placed before him, he pointed to the earth and announced, Ill plant lilies here; theyll grow and bring joy to everyone.
He resumed his work, planting as the crew turned off their cameras, bewildered.
His mothers voice echoed in his mind, You will be a joy to the people, Evan.
He lived that promise to the end.
The lesson is simple: true wealth lies not in what we keep, but in what we give, for generosity plants seeds of joy that bloom long after we are gone.
