The air was uncommonly cool and dry for a day in early autumn...a proper day for a fire. But, what was left to burn? All of the trees have already fallen victim to either torrential rainfall or forest fires. Houses could not be burned because, by law, all houses now had to be built sturdy enough to withstand heavy rain and snow.
Thomas Barrow, at 102 the oldest man in the town and permanently confined to a wheelchair due to the fact that both of his legs were missing from just below the crotch, still operated the local store and told me a tale that I just couldn't believe.
"When I was your age, Paul", he said, "there was a season just like this. At that time, we, too, had no trees because of rain and fire. Yet, we had to find a way to keep warm".
"Didn't you have gasoline, Grandpa?" Paul asked.
"Oh, we had plenty of gasoline...tanks and tanks of gasoline. We just didn't have anything for the gasoline to be poured on. You see, we made the one mistake that we would live to regret for as long as we lived".
"What was that?"
"We took lots to see whose house we would gather around and set fire to, just to keep warm".
"Why was that a mistake?"
"Because, once you burn one house just to keep warm...for some strange reason you are never warm enough. So, you burn another house and another and another...until there are no more houses left to burn. Then, when the winter snow comes, you have no place to go to keep yourself warm".
"What did you do then?"
"The men who ran this hamlet when I was 25 decided that we would use an alternative to wood with which to pour the gasoline on to keep warm. Each time it got unseasonably cool in early autumn, a lottery was held to see who would offer up their legs to be burned".
"Their legs?"
Paul stood there in shocked disbelief at what his grandfather had just told him. How could anybody give up their legs just to keep others in the town warm?
"I don't believe you!" Paul scoffed.
"Tell me, Paul, how many others have you seen in town who have their pants rolled up the way mine are?" his grandfather asked.
"One or two".
"You know why? Because the others either left town...or took their own lives rather than stay here and have people ogling at them...because they have no legs!"
Paul stared at is grandfather, his mouth agape.
"Do you mean to say that, when all other fuel resources were depleted...except for the stockpile of gasoline...the town held a lottery to decide whose legs were going to be amputated and used as kindling?" he asked.
"I certainly do", Grandfather answered. "Now that the temperature is cool and all other fuel resources are gone...it's time once again for the 'lottery of the legs'". Grandfather pushed his wheelchair over to the window which faced the public square and looked outside. "And since you are now of age to participate in the lottery..."
"No! That's never going to happen!"
Grandfather turned to look at Paul.
"And just how do you intend to stop them?"
Paul pondered over his grandfather's question. Then, he faced the old man with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face.
"I'll just leave town. That's what I'll do", Paul replied. "If I'm gone, then I can't take part in the damn lottery".
"I'm afraid that is now impossible", the old man said. "Once the temperature goes down to where it is now and the lottery has been decided upon...all roads out of town are carefully guarded by armed men whose sole job is to prevent any eligible young men like you from leaving. If you so much as try to step foot over the border, you will be shot...and then your whole body will feed a roaring, gas-soaked fire, not just your legs".
Paul sat down in the nearest chair and put his hands to his head. If what the old man said was indeed true, then he had no other choice but to take his chances.
"Besides", the old man continued, with a sly smile on his wrinkled face, "I took part in my first lottery when I was your age...and kept my legs until I was 50. But, by then...I was already paralyzed from the waist down and confined to this wheelchair. So, it really didn't matter to me whether they took my legs or not...and I didn't much care. But, who knows? You might not even be chosen. Then, perhaps after the lottery and the temperature rises...you can leave town and find greener pastures elsewhere".
Paul looked up from where he sat at the wizened old man.
"So, what am I to do?" he asked.
"Take your chances like any grown man", the old man said. "There are over a hundred young men with good strong legs like yours. The chances that you'll be one of the ten whose legs are chosen to burn tonight are astronomical!"
"You're right, Grandpa", Paul said. "I'm going in to put on a pair of shorts for the lottery. And, even if I'm not chosen...I'll still give everybody a tempting view".
"That's my boy!" the old man said, turning his wheelchair back to the window and the public square beyond as Paul ran to dress himself for the lottery.
* * * * * * * * * *
Later that night, after the lottery had taken place, twenty well-built and bloodied legs were thrown together, drenched with gasoline and set on fire. All the townspeople gathered around the mound of burning flesh to take in their warmth. A smell akin to roasting meat and almonds lingered in the air above the conflagration. Among the populace, Paul's grandfather sat in his wheelchair, leaning forward, thrusting his open hands as close to the fire as he dared. There was a somber look on his face.
"Well, Paul...it looks as though Lady Luck was not on your side tonight", he said as he stared deep into the roaring fire.
There, at the very top of the pile, hams facing the sky, were his grandson's well-proportioned legs, now being blistered and blackened by the very flames that were consuming them.
This night's lottery was over.
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