Darkness

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

The candle had been lit by a beautiful young woman after a long, hard-fought battle to reach it. She snuffs out her feeling of triumph because she knows there is still a long night ahead. She has taken this journey countless times before, each time learning a little more than the last, getting a little closer to the candle. She has managed to reach it and even light it, but it has always been extinguished. Each time, she prays this journey will be the last. The candle will be lit and will burn down completely before sunrise, freeing her from her curse.

Now she sits, waiting. She is so tired and so afraid. She fights back tears. She knows what those tears will do. She cannot risk dousing the light.

As she sits, she remembers the last time she saw her father. She can still smell the sweetness of the stewed apples, simmering over the campfire she’d built outside. Her day, like so many days, had been long and lonely, but she’d discovered that some of the fruit on an apple tree at the edge of the woods had ripened early and she’d picked a few. As much as she’d looked forward to the warmth of her father’s embrace, she’d really been excited for that special treat. Apples were her favorite. They were especially good over the campfire.

She’d been so excited about the apples and maintaining the campfire that she’d forgotten to light the special candle. It served as a beacon for her father as he trekked through the woods, returning home after long days away. When she was a small child, her father had taught her to light it with a flint he left on the kitchen table. On “town days”, she would dutifully light the candle to guide him safely home. On “town days”, he would take game and fish and his beautiful wood carvings into town to trade for other beautiful things. He would secret them away into a sturdy wooden chest he’d carved so intricately it seemed it should be fragile. When he was away, she would peek at the beautiful things, always sure to put them back exactly as she’d found them. She wasn’t certain what all of this was meant for, but she hoped it was to be a gift to her when she was old enough. As she neared her eighteenth birthday, she grew excited for that, too.

The happy, excited thoughts fell instantly away as she ran back into the cabin. She fumbled through the unlit kitchen to find the flint. She stubbed her toe on the table and said out loud, “not sure why I need to use this flint when we have perfectly good matches. Not sure why I need the candle at all when the campfire should be beacon enough”. She grew quiet when she heard whispered voices outside the window. She sensed a gravity in the voices and drew closer.

She recognized the first voice; her father’s. As she leaned toward the window to listen, she grabbed the candle from the window ledge, more out of habit than necessity. As she struck the flint, she realized that his voice was not the comforting, mellow tone she loved. His voice was raspy, desperate, pleading. “Please, give me more time.”, he whispered, “If you don’t like these things, I can get you something else. Name it.”

“The girl”, said the second voice, whistling like the wind through the trees. The voice was so shrill it was difficult to understand, but she was able to make out “… broken promise”, “…old enough, “… join”. At that, the girl peered nervously through the curtain.

She saw her father, normally so strong and imposing, cowering at the edge of what appeared to be the utter absence of light. A void. She did not know what this darkness was nor what promise her father had made to it, but she knew they were discussing her. A wave of terror washed over her. She didn’t know whether to hide or to run to her father’s side. Her indecision left her frozen; the unlit candle in one hand and the flint in the other.

She stood, unable to move, as the cabin door blew open with a great force. She could barely make out her father’s face as the darkness began to envelop her where she stood. Her mind raced to make sense of his expression. She’d expected to have seen terror. Or rage. Or determination, as he set his mind about saving her. What she saw was grief. Her father was already mourning the loss of her. It was as if he didn’t know she was still right there. She tried to scream, to call to him, but her voice was no longer hers. It screeched and howled like the wind. She screamed as the darkness bound her more tightly. As the last flickers of light were doused, she caught a glimpse of her father covering his ears against the sound she made. His tears poured onto the campfire. The smoke began to rise as the ocean of tears smothered the flames.

With the campfire out, she could not see. She could not truly speak, but she discovered she was able to move, though the cloak of darkness seemed to be woven of threads of terror. Every twitch of every muscle made her more fearful. Steeling herself, she swung her arms wildly, searching for anything with which she could strike the flint. She knew the kitchen table was right behind her. She reached.

There was no table. There was nothing at all. She had not felt herself move, but somehow the table, the cabin and her father now seemed infinitely far away. Helpless, she began to cry. Her tears poured from her as her body shook uncontrollably. She looked very like the image of her father, weeping over the campfire ashes. As she wept, she heard a voice that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. She recognized the same whistling, wind-like shriek she’d heard earlier. The sound the darkness had made. The sound that she herself had made. This time, she was able to understand it clearly.

“Your father owes me a debt”, it said. “A payment for a bargain made long ago. He had agreed to give up what was most precious. He spent years collecting ‘precious’ things; jewels, fine carvings and fabrics, all with the intent of offering them to me. He did not know I’d been watching him. He did not know that I understood that none of these things, though precious to others, were precious to him. As I watched him through the years, I learned what was indeed precious to him. What made him smile, what lightened his heart. As I watched, I too, began to see you as precious. I coveted you. I longed to make you part of me. I watched you at your campfire, as you wistfully gazed into my shadows. As you peered into the depths of the caves in the hills. As you tilted back your beautiful head to take in the velvet of my sky. I knew in my soul that you wanted me, too. We were meant to be one.”

The girl tried to run. There was no direction she could turn. ‘Direction’ no longer existed.

“Precious girl, there’s no reason to run.”, in the most soothing whisper the darkness could manage. “You are part of me. We are together.”

“I do not want you. I do not want to be here. I do not want to be part of you.” She was nearly out of breath as she sobbed, exhausted by her fruitless efforts. As her eyelids drooped, she realized that in her mind, there was still light. There was still a cabin. Still a father. She began to dream. She dreamt of all of the things she’d known. She was comforted by the visions of her father. Her kitchen. The delicious scent of the apples. The candle in the window.

The candle!

She is snapped back to the present, although “present” is almost meaningless. In this hopeless darkness, time is only marked by opportunity. Opportunities, like this one, to claw through the fear. She has reached the window and lit the flame. Now she need only allow it to burn until morning.

Once, she had doused the candle herself. Her tears of joy and relief were answered with a fizzling sound and a tendril of smoke. She’d retrieved the candle and flint just in time to be plunged back into darkness.

Since then, she’d learned to fight back any tears. Having learned, she began to feel hopeful, maybe even a little victorious. But the darkness had learned, too. The darkness discovered it could douse the candle with others’ tears. The darkness lurked just outside the campfire, blowing to make the smoke dance and swirl into campers’ eyes. The darkness could carry their tears to the candle, douse the flame, and begin the cycle again.

As the cycle repeats, the frustration grows. As the darkness lingers near the campfires, it notices that others are precious, too. The darkness considers this. Maybe there’s someone more precious than the girl. Maybe it’s better to have a new soul to admire than to simply swipe their tears. So, be wary as you linger near the firelight. If smoke causes your eyes to get teary, it could be the darkness choosing you.