The shaman was a very old man. He had been heartbroken, starved, tortured, and even hanged. But he knew he could not die. Not until he had done his final duty.

He held up the small wooden box. Such an unsuspecting thing. He held up the ribbon, shining and new. Picking up his stick and jar of ink, he began to write. He wrote incredibly carefully, each line forming a strong letter. Letters that, when put together, would form the most powerful spell the shaman had ever created.

He held up the ribbon and sat, waiting for it to dry. He was used to waiting. He was done moving quickly. He knew that once he finished this spell, he would have no reason to live. His purpose on this planet would be complete. He had served his people, long gone. He had resisted his enemies, long defeated. He had buried his son, many years ago.

He had nothing better to do but wait.

Finally, the ribbon was dry. He blew on it carefully and then picked up the small jar of sap. He smeared it thickly on the back of the ribbon and then wrapped it around the width of the box. He made sure each centimeter of the ribbon was tightly fastened in place. He didn't need to read the words off of the ribbon. He had memorized them weeks ago.

Then, he opened the lid of the box. Such a small thing. There was no way the faery would know that the walls of it were lined with iron, that a powerful spell would keep it inside. That demon would be trapped forever if the world was lucky.

He cooed to it in its language. He had spent decades learning its tongue. Decades in which he thought that it was his wife's spirit until he learned what its true purpose was. To bring death and destruction to the world, to ruin the lives of the innocent.

Now, he would have his revenge.

The faery moved forward. It still looked like her. Not looked, exactly - the shaman was unsure what it actually looked like. He knew it glowed, but other than that, he could only see the faintest humanoid shape, as if he was unfocusing his eyes when he looked at it. But he sensed his wife, when it was around. Her soft skin...her warm laugh.... He used to revel in the feeling of having her with him again. Then he had to bury his son after an accident that should not have happened, and he had reexamined the facts. Now, he burned with anger at this creature's attempt to imitate her.

I have pretty present. You want present?

Yes, the creature replied, not quite speaking the word. It never did. He had to force his mouth into uncomfortable shapes and do strange things with his throat when he spoke to it, things that left it raw and aching. But the creature did not speak with a mouth, but more inside one's head.

Is bed. You try bed?

The creature hesitated and the shaman tried to look friendly. He pushed the box toward it slightly and smiled reassuringly.

Made myself. Special. Special pretty present.

This seemed to convince the faery. It trusted him, did not know how he hated it. It inched toward the box and the shaman felt a feeling he hadn't felt for a long time: impatience. He took a deep breath and tried not to look too eager.

Finally, the faery climbed completely into the box. The shaman shouted with triumph and slammed the lid.

As the faery began to scream, sensing the iron caging it in, he began to chant. Saying the words of the spell he had woven so many weeks ago, perfected in the little hours of the morning as the faery rested on its straw mat in the corner.

Finally, he finished the incantation. The faery's screams fell silent as the box worked its magic. The shaman could hardly believe his luck. Not only had the creature fallen for his lie, but his spell had also worked exactly as he intended.

His work now was truly done.

The shaman stood slowly, grabbing his cane and making weakly for the door. He paused just outside of it, unable to find the energy to go any further. Then he knelt and began digging with his bare hands, throwing away pebbles.

He dug, deep into the earth, until his fingernails and skin tore and his hands were slicked with blood. And still, he dug, until he would have had to bend into the hole to continue. Only then did he place the box inside the hole and patch it up with dirt. Only then did he return to his hut and lie down on his mat.

The man took in a deep breath and there, exiled to the mountains, miles from his childhood home, miles from the resting place of his wife, yet mere meters from the grave of his son, he exhaled that breath.

And the shaman died.

*

Centuries later, a man drove his shovel into the dirt, digging a well for his new property. He glanced over his shoulder, smiling fondly at his playing children. His wife was preparing for another dinner around the fire.

His shovel struck something and the man was thrown off balance. He bent down to examine what he had hit, brushing away the dirt. He picked up the object and squinted at it.

"Strange," he murmured, slipping the salt shaker into his pocket and thinking nothing of it.

Later that night, he let his children examine the object. His daughter giggled and grabbed it from him, unscrewing the cap without hesitation.