[ WP ] Write about a boy who gambled his life with a demon

It happened at a crossroads, as it usually does now. It used to need chalk and bone and words. Strength was required- intent and purpose. But nowadays curiosity would suffice. 
 
 The boy liked to think he was closer to a man then he really was. He was young and round faced. He was soft-spoken and a tag-a-long. There were two other ones, an older boy and not-quite-a-man. They would bike in a line, the boy last in it. He was never angry or disappointed. During the hot days of summer the older boy liked to fish, so they would bike to the river and cast their lines and wait for nothing important and watch bugs skitter on the water. On sticky days they went to the swimming hole with the still water because the not-quite-a-man liked to splash the girls until their suits were damp and thin. On a day that was not too hot or sticky the not-quite-a-man decreed they would go to town. 
 
 After the others went into the stores the boy chained his bike to a lamp-post and walked along the road until he came under the shade. It was not any cooler, but it was darker and the boy felt better out of the sun. As he walked the dust coated his shoes and turned his pants blue-brown. He walked until he can to a crossroad, the crossroad, and saw a man sitting on a stump. He was a tall man with narrow wrists and fingers and thin arms and legs. He was using a stick to scratch the dirt- patterns and symbols and lines- and the boy watched. After a while he looked at the boy. He had thin skin that showed the bones of his face. The boy was not afraid of the man. Without standing from his wooden throne the man rubbed away the scratches with his foot. The man gestured for the boy to come closer. He then drew a perfect circle in the dirt and drew a bag from his pocket. From it he tipped a cat ’ s eye into the boy ’ s hand. It was perfect orange with a hint of black and so smooth the boy could almost not hold it. The man stood finally. He was tall as a tree and narrow as a reed and his face was as sharp as a break. He crouched on his side of the circle and gestured for the boy to do the same. The man poured out a game and they began to play. As they played the man talked. He talked of places the boy had never heard of: Troy and Babylon and Timbuktu and Reric. The boy is as good a listener and he does not focus as much on the game. He enjoys the sun warming the back of his shirt and the Spanish moss swaying side-to-side-to-side and the whirr of cicadas. He does not know how many games they play, but he knows he is losing to the man. He doesn ’ t mind too much. The cat ’ s eye is wicked; it rolls smooth and hits just hard enough and is not too heavy or too light. The game is a comfort. It is something the boy likes to do, much more than fishing or swimming. The man starts to ask the boy about what he wants from life. The boy tells him about the not-quite-a-man ’ s girls and the older boy ’ s fishing. The man laughs. It sounds like he is out of practice, but the boy enjoyed the man ’ s company too much to mind, and tell the man as much. The man looks surprised; would the boy rather have a girl? No, and the boy laughs, because he is just a boy. No guitar, or a fiddle either- not even a gold one- because he can ’ t play, so what would the use be? The man nods and agrees. The boy talks now, about school and his mother and who he supposed his father might be. He hedges that the man might be tall enough, the man laughs again, and it is a less rusty sound. Finally the boy admits he ’ d like to play marbles forever, in this moment, because it is perfect and the man is good company. The man is shocked- the boy can see in his the narrow face and bright eyes- then tells the boy about things beyond the crossroad. There are cities and countries and places still not discovered, which is a funny enough joke to the boy, and he shouldn ’ t want to spend all his time with the man at the crossroads, play marbles forever. Forever is a long time, the man says, you wouldn ’ t like it. The boy finally agrees. He asks the man what he wants. The man sighs. He wants to leave the crossroad too he admits. The boy offers the man the use of his bike, chained up in town. The man considers for a moment. Then he shakes his head. I may go to a city, he tells the boy. The boy had heard there is work there and thinks is it a good plan. The man looks underfed. With that decided the man gathers his marbles. The boy is loathe to surrender the cat ’ s eye, but the man is very insistent. It ’ s nothing a boy like you can afford he says not unkindly. He tucks the bag away and shakes the boy ’ s hand. His hand is warm and firm and he gives a boy a closed mouth smile. The boy watches the man stroll away, hand tucked in pocket and whistling. 
 
 The boy walks back toward town. When he arrives he is not sure what happened but he is quickly distracted by the older boy and not-quite-an-man, who are both waiting for him. 

