Porchwood Hollow

Gratch doesn’t say much, just enough to show you how something works, and not one word more. He lives in the back of the hollow, in a workshop that is carved out of an old cedar stump. One would guess that he carved it himself.

Gratch moves about the woodshop with purpose. The smell of sawdust follows him like a scarf, and his pockets are always full of string, splinters, and half- whittled toys. He takes his place by the lathe. His hands are calloused, steady, carving circles from scraps like he is winding the world back together.

His hands are older than they look, but his eyes are younger than they ought to be. Children love him, though they don’t know why. Perhaps it is the hush that follows him, maybe it is the way he kneels to hand then a spinning top. Gratch believes that everything spins for a reason.

“When the top is spinning, it is asleep. When the top starts to wobble, it is awake!” he will excitedly say with a nod. As if waking is its own kind of magic, and its own kind of warning. The residents of Porchwood say it like a blessing:

“ Now let it find its spin”

“Give it time to reach sleep”

“It’s not wobbly, it is waking up!”

No one knows how long Gratch has been there, but the youngest residents swear he can make the wind move if he flicks his wrists just right. There are some that say that Gratch is just a toymaker, and there are those that believe that he is the Keeper of Motion itself.

There aren’t many in Porchwood who speak openly about what Gratch does, but for those that have sat and watched him turn wood into spinning delight, watched his hands wind string, and watched the top blur into a mesmerizing hum?? They understand.

Gratch never really explains it, either. He just carves the top, spins it, and when it settles into a perfect sleep, he says the same thing every time, in a voice like whittled oak:

“There! She’s found her rhythm.”

Sometimes he is talking about the top, and sometimes he is talking about you.