He had trouble keeping his eye on the olive as it bounced away from his face and rolled off a ways, as if to taunt him. On hands and knees he searched the ground for the wayward olive. He was beginning to get desperate but at last found it lodged under a twisting sinuous root. He placed the olive in his pocket and began to hurry towards home. Every few minutes or so he patted his pocket to make sure it was still there.
When he got home he sat at the old wooden table where Daria had been laid out. He did what the old woman had said he must. He ate the olive, nibble by nibble, holding it in both hands like some sort of rodent. The hard drupe was bitter. All olives were bitter before they were soaked and cured in a special brine.
At last, all that was left was the hard seed at the olive’s center. Demetrius sharpened his best knife to a keen edge. He carefully began to cut into the small seed. It was surprisingly hard, harder than the olive wood he sometimes carved into fanciful figures or animals for Daria. He had been told to carve the seed into the shape of a heart. The seed was so small and hard to hold that Demetrius more than once sliced into his fingertips.
“Leave the blood,” the old woman had said.
She knew this would happen. Soon the seed was coated red. It didn’t take long to get the seed to a heart shape, for it’s not far from that to begin with.
4.