When Gord returned one day from his scavenging and found Leena’s stiffened corpse in the shack, his first and only thoughts were ones of relief: Now he could have the little scraps of food he found all for himself. After checking it carefully for any possible valuables, he had rolled Leena’s body out of the shack and left it for the mongrel dogs to take care of. Then he gathered up what little of value he could find and carry, and left the shack-but not the memories of it-behind him for good. As he recalled that day, Gord thought of what he possessed. Moving a board low on the good wall of his shelter, he drew out a bundle wrapped in a ragged square of cloth-his winter cloak.

He thought more about his past as he held the small parcel. “You are too small!” Leena would shriek at him when Gord failed to bring back anything worth selling or eating. Then the old hag would cuff and kick him into a huddled, blubbering ball of misery and… and hatred! Gord certainly did grow to hate his foster mother. Even at best, she was a despicable and wicked old crone.

“Clever Gord, sly Gord,” she would croon as she ate most of some scrap he would bring back. Leena would even pat him on the head and tell him to be quick and nimble, for a good head was better than a strong body, she would say-until he failed. Then he was a useless runt!

Inside the parcel were all his worldly possessions aside from the clothing he wore. The first thing Gord took out was a tiny, dried apple, which he ate in a single bite. As he munched on the withered fruit, he surveyed the remainder of the treasure. There were two drabs-nearly worthless iron coins of least value, but all the money he had ever owned. He remembered finding them hidden in the hem of Leena’s threadbare shawl.