It stands in the corner and does not sleep. A tall coffer of glass and iron, and behind the glass, food. Bread wrapped in bright skins that do not rot. Little cakes. Water the color of nothing, sealed away where no thirsty man can reach it. All winter's want, hoarded upright in one box, guarded by no dog, watched by no lord.
I have seen my mother weep for less than sits idle in this thing.
A man came. He fed it a coin, one coin, the sort I'd sweat a full day for. He did not kneel, did not thank it, did not so much as bow his head. He struck the glass with his fist. And the box, groaning, let a cake fall down into its own belly for him to take.
No sowing. No reaping. No begging at the abbey gate. He gave metal and took bread, and thought nothing of it, and walked away chewing.
I stood a long while. I confess I waited to see if it would take his soul in the night, for surely a thing that feeds you without toil is buying something you cannot yet feel it spending.
But no. It only hums, and glows, and waits for the next fool to come and be fed.
We fear famine as we fear the Devil. These people have shut their famine in a glass box, lit a candle inside it, and left it standing in a hallway where children pass. God keep them. They do not know what they are guarding.