The Lantern Keeper

For as long as anyone could remember, the people of Elderglen had depended on the watchtower's lantern. It wasn't just a guiding light for lost travelers—it was their shield against the darkness that crept beyond the woods. Old folktales spoke of shadow-creatures that prowled in moonless nights, held at bay only by the golden glow from above.

The one responsible for keeping the flame alive was Elias, the Lantern Keeper. He was a tall, wiry man with silver in his beard and sunken eyes that held stories no one else could tell. Forty years he had tended that flame, climbing the spiraling stairs of the tower each evening, rain or frost, sickness or storm. His hands were cracked like dry earth, and his back bent from a lifetime of lifting oil barrels and trimming wicks. Yet never once had the flame gone out.

Children in the village made up ghost stories about Elias. They imagined he lived with spirits, or that he was a spirit himself—something immortal, made of smoke and light. But Arlen, a boy of fifteen with bright eyes and a head full of curiosity, knew better.

He had watched Elias from a distance for years, studying his movements. From his attic window, Arlen could see the top of the tower, the tiny figure lighting the lantern each dusk. Arlen had even built his own little lantern at home, mimicking Elias’s rituals with scraps of copper and oil his father discarded from the forge.

He dreamed, silently, of one day climbing those stairs himself.

That winter was the harshest in decades. Snow fell for days, burying doorsteps and bending trees to the ground. Wolves came closer to the village edge, their howls louder, bolder. Still, every evening, the lantern burned on—until it didn’t.

One night, the tower remained dark.

No flame pierced the snowstorm. No golden glow bathed the rooftops.

At first, the villagers waited. Maybe Elias was late. Maybe a draft had snuffed it out and he was relighting it. But hours passed, and fear settled in like frost.

Children whimpered. Elders gathered in hushed circles, whispering about old fears. The woods, usually silent, seemed to hum with something darker.

Arlen couldn’t sleep.

Clutching his homemade lantern, he bundled himself in layers and stepped out into the cold. He walked through the sleeping village, past the square, and began to climb the hill toward the tower.

Each step sank deep into snow, but his resolve held firm.

Inside the tower, it was quiet—eerily so. Arlen found Elias sprawled halfway up the stairs, unconscious, a trail of spilled oil behind him. His face was pale, and his hands trembled even in sleep.

Without thinking, Arlen knelt, checked Elias’s breathing (still there, thank the stars), and continued upward.

The lantern chamber was freezing. The great bronze bowl that usually held the flame sat cold and empty. Arlen felt a surge of fear—what if he couldn’t do it? What if the legends were true, and only Elias could light the sacred flame?

But then he remembered every movement he had studied. Every flick of Elias’s wrist, the tilt of the oil, the chant-like rhythm as he trimmed the wick.

He took a deep breath.

Arlen filled the bowl. He struck the flint once. Twice. Sparks. A hiss. Then, a flame.

The lantern roared to life.

Golden light spilled out in every direction, cutting through the storm, illuminating the forest edge, the rooftops below, the worried faces at windows.

In the tower below, Elias stirred.

When he awoke the next morning, warm beneath a heavy wool blanket someone had brought up, he blinked up at the lantern above.

It was lit.

And Arlen was there, curled in a chair, asleep but smiling.

Elias didn’t speak for a long moment. He simply looked, then reached out and gently squeezed the boy’s hand.

"You did it," he said hoarsely. "You kept it alive."

From that night on, the two became an unspoken team. Arlen helped carry oil, polish lenses, and clear soot. Elias taught him everything—not just how to tend the flame, but why it mattered. It wasn’t about superstition or old tales. It was about hope. About presence. The light reminded people they weren’t alone in the dark.

Years passed. Elias grew frailer. He stopped climbing the stairs. Then one day, quietly, he passed away, his hand still clutching a small lantern Arlen had made him years before.

And so, the torch passed fully.

Now, if you visit Elderglen, you'll still see that same golden flame burning each night. And if you ask the villagers who keeps it lit, they’ll tell you about Arlen—the boy who once climbed a snowy tower with nothing but a flickering flame and a heart full of courage.

🌱 The Lesson / Learnable:

True guardianship is not about holding power, but passing it on with love and purpose.

A single light can dispel great darkness, and even the smallest hands—if guided by care and belief—can hold that light high for the world to see.