Tales from the Universe
Moral Dilemma: If someone causes harm while claiming they cannot control what moves them, when does understanding the cause stop excusing the consequence?
The glove belonged to a dead duelist.
Everyone in the tavern knew this except Tovan.
That was why nobody stopped him from taking it.
It had been hanging from a nail beside the fireplace for years: black leather, silver stitching, three buckles at the wrist.
“Whose is this?”
Nobody answered.
Tovan pulled it on.
The glove fit perfectly.
A few people quietly moved their drinks farther from him.
Tovan noticed.
“What?”
The innkeeper polished a cup.
“Nothing.”
Tovan flexed his fingers.
The glove was extraordinarily comfortable.
He kept it.
The first incident happened the following morning.
Tovan was buying bread when a man pushed ahead of him.
His gloved hand grabbed the man’s shoulder.
Tovan hadn’t told it to.
The man turned.
“What?”
Tovan’s hand struck him across the mouth.
Hard.
The bakery became silent.
Tovan stared at his own hand.
The man stared at Tovan.
Then punched him.
A fight followed.
Tovan lost.
“You expect me to believe the glove hit him?”
His sister, Ena, pressed a cloth against the swelling beneath his eye.
“Yes.”
“By itself.”
“Yes.”
“Tovan.”
“I swear.”
“Then take it off.”
Tovan reached for the buckles.
His gloved hand closed into a fist.
He frowned.
“Interesting.”
“Tovan.”
He grabbed the first buckle with his other hand.
The gloved hand seized his wrist.
For several seconds, Tovan struggled against himself.
Then it released him.
Ena stood.
“Take it off.”
“I am trying.”
“Try harder.”
Over the next week, the glove became worse.
It slapped a child who stole an apple from Tovan’s basket.
It threw a stone at a barking dog.
It grabbed a serving woman around the waist.
It overturned a merchant’s cart after the merchant refused Tovan a discount.
Every time, Tovan apologized.
Every time, people believed him a little less.
“I didn’t do that.”
“It was the glove.”
“You know me.”
“I would never.”
At first, Ena defended him.
“My brother isn’t like this.”
Then the glove shoved their mother.
She fell down three steps.
Nothing broke.
That seemed important to Tovan.
Ena did not agree.
“You have to leave.”
Tovan stared at his sister.
“This is my house.”
“It is Mother’s house.”
“I didn’t push her.”
“She was pushed.”
“By the glove.”
“I don’t care.”
Tovan recoiled.
“How can you say that?”
“Because Mother still hit the floor.”
He looked down at the black leather.
“You think I wanted that?”
“No.”
“Then why are you treating me like I did?”
Ena sat across from him.
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Try.”
She thought for a long time.
“I believe you.”
Tovan blinked.
“I believe the glove moves by itself.”
“Then—”
“And Mother still hit the floor.”
He said nothing.
Ena pointed at the glove.
“If a wolf followed you everywhere and bit people, would it matter that you weren’t biting them?”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I could leave the wolf outside.”
Ena looked at his hand.
“Exactly.”
Tovan went looking for someone who could remove it.
A priest blessed it.
Nothing happened.
A blacksmith tried cutting it.
The scissors snapped.
A hedge magician burned three herbs and charged Tovan twelve silver.
Nothing happened.
Finally, an old woman at the edge of town examined the glove.
“Ah.”
“You know it?”
“No.”
Tovan’s hope disappeared.
“But I’ve known things like it.”
“Can you remove it?”
“Probably.”
Tovan leaned forward.
“How?”
The old woman held out her hand.
“Give me your knife.”
He hesitated.
“Why?”
“Give me your knife.”
Tovan placed it on the table.
She took it.
Then she insulted him.
It was an extraordinarily personal insult.
Tovan’s gloved hand immediately reached for the knife.
The knife wasn’t there.
The hand grabbed empty air.
The old woman nodded.
“There.”
“What?”
“You knew what it would do.”
Tovan became angry.
“Of course I knew. That’s why I’m here.”
“No.”
She placed the knife behind her.
“You knew what it would do, and you still carried a knife.”
He stared at her.
“That isn’t fair.”
“No.”
She agreed immediately.
Tovan hadn’t expected that.
“This thing is attached to me.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
“You chose to put it on.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Then that part wasn’t your fault.”
Tovan waited.
The old woman continued.
“But now you know.”
She could not remove the glove.
Not completely.
She could weaken it.
That required Tovan’s cooperation.
He stopped carrying weapons.
He stopped drinking because the glove became stronger when he was drunk.
He stopped standing close to people during arguments.
He learned to keep his gloved hand inside his belt when children were nearby.
Before entering crowded places, he wrapped the hand in cloth.
People laughed at him.
That hurt.
Some called him dangerous.
That hurt more.
Tovan complained to Ena.
“I’m doing everything they asked.”
“I know.”
“They still don’t trust me.”
“I know.”
“How long am I supposed to pay for something I didn’t choose?”
Ena looked at the wrapped hand.
“I don’t know.”
It was not the answer he wanted.
But it was the first answer that didn’t pretend there was an easy one.
Months passed.
The glove still moved.
But less often.
Or perhaps Tovan simply became better at noticing the moment before it moved.
There was usually a feeling.
A tightening.
A small pull in the wrist.
He learned that sensation.
Sometimes he could stop the hand.
Sometimes he couldn’t.
When he couldn’t, he learned to move the rest of himself.
Once, during an argument, the glove swung at a man.
Tovan turned his entire body.
The fist struck a wall.
Two fingers broke.
Tovan laughed while the healer set them.
“What is funny?”
“Nothing.”
The healer tightened the splint.
Tovan winced.
“I just finally won one.”
Years later, Tovan returned to the tavern where he’d found the glove.
The old nail beside the fireplace was still there.
He sat beneath it.
A young traveler noticed the black leather.
“Beautiful glove.”
Tovan looked down.
The silver stitching had faded.
The leather was cracked.
“Thank you.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Here.”
The traveler laughed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Can I try it?”
Tovan looked at him.
Then at the empty nail.
For a moment, he imagined unbuckling the glove.
Perhaps it would come off now.
Perhaps it had only needed another hand.
The thought was wonderfully tempting.
He could be free.
The traveler was already reaching.
Tovan pulled his hand away.
“No.”
“Why?”
Tovan considered telling him the whole story.
Instead he said:
“Because I know what it does.”
The traveler shrugged and returned to his drink.
Tovan sat alone for a while.
Then the gloved hand reached toward someone else’s cup.
Tovan caught it with his other hand.
Held it.
Waited.
The fingers relaxed.
He released them.
The glove was still his problem.
That was not the same thing as saying it was his fault.
But it was still his problem.
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