A Slotted Lever

The shaded cistern beneath the fence plank was calm. Morning light cut low across the dry silt, catching on something narrow and metallic wedged between two cedar fibers. An old brass key blank, rough with toothless edges. I approached in a low crouch, dagger held ready. The key was jammed flat into a knot hole right at soil level. Bracing both boots against the bottom rail, I worked my dagger tip under the brass head. A sharp, muffled creak. It pivoted free, falling into the loam with a dull clatter. Slender. Solid. Now a sturdy lever leans right beside my cistern post.