I could sense my friend’s dismay as he related what happened next: when he went to the can to check the progress of the draining, it was the next day. As he walked toward it, he could see quite plainly that it seemed even more bloated than previous, and he found the holes that he drilled gaping open in darkness, no water coming from them. Upon inspection, he saw that someone had, out of inconsiderate convenience no doubt, jammed several stumps and sticks from nearby trees they had been trimming into the refuse, neatly tearing open the bag in which his scraps of vine had been discarded. He told me that it seemed that the plant had dissolved into a kind of green and white muck which had formed a membrane through which the water would not pass. He attempted to tip the can, but to no avail. Guessing that at least some water had drained, he drilled a few more holes and resolved to bring the entire thing out for the collectors later in the week. He hoped they would realize that this circumstance had occurred likely due to their negligence and would perhaps dispose of at least some of the contents.

This is not what happened. Over the course of the next week, Mr. Lakatosh told me, the region saw a massive, humid heat wave followed by more extreme storms, undoing the work he had done thus far. One night, well after dark and on his way home from his restaurant, he noticed a strange phosphorescent glow from the outside of the can, something like a solid mist coating the outside top of the can, slightly green in color, glowing steadily and strangely in the night. He reasonably assumed the contents of the can had spoiled somewhat and implored my help.

I told him that, certainly, the situation was not going to become any better on its own and asked his plan, but he had none. After some thought, I said: “I would not recommend using a drill on it any more than you have. It’s dangerous, with the water.” He agreed, stating that a large sharp object would be worth the task, but what was there to use? The only knives he owned were in his restaurant, and being incredibly valuable using them was simply out of the question. It was then that I thought of the knife I had purchased - valuable, for certain, but no doubt more rugged than Luke’s kitchen utensils. The thing was, after all, hundreds of years old and had seen much worse than a rancid trash can full of water. I told him about this and he gratefully nodded, and we agreed to meet again at his home at 1:00 am the following morning. As I left his house, I couldn’t help but glance at the now enormous can and imagine that I heard something from its direction, like a whisper or the mad scraping and creaking of something old, blind, and dangerous.

To be continued …