The Tumbler's Track

The slotted brass cylinder felt heavy and cool against my mittened palms as I stepped off the bottom porch riser onto the gravel path. Pausing behind a squat stone planter, I listened to the breeze rustle the dry stems overhead before kneeling in the grit. Along the planter's rough mortar line sat a circular bronze fitting, weathered green with age. I lifted the brass cylinder and aligned its grooved ridges with the recessed tracks inside the bronze fitting. With a steady push of both mittens, it slid inside and rotated ninety degrees with a muffled, mechanical clunk, unlatching a low stone hatch that tilted forward into the soil.