the smuggler’s bible

Turkey Tom

The porch lights dim on Halloween night and suddenly there is a great weight pressing firmly upon Turkey Tom’s chest. The wheel is turning, and attached to the wheel is a gear ratcheting tighter and tighter, drawing the calendar into itself, shortening it. The mistletoe is hanging already. It may never have come down at all.

“Tom,” he says, deep voice gusting with laughter, “go and prepare the way for me.”

So he does. Tom stands at the November gate. Pass here, it is implied, and you pass forever. There’s no way back, only through. And the wheel turns again.