Flicker and Frolic

“Da, what’s the deal with the will-o’-the-wisps? Ain’t they the souls of the dead or summat?”

Daniel Murphy chewed on his tobacco, lips smacking noisily. He stared out into the marsh, his small boy awaiting an answer.

“Da?”

Daniel waited a moment longer, making sure that the slight tension in his fishing line was not a true bite.

“Aye, that’s what some people say.”

The silence returned, sweeping in between them. Daniel chewed some more, spitting the brown cud into the water. What was the point of bringing the lad out to bond with him if he couldn’t string more than six words together when he asked a question?

“My da had a rhyme for ‘em,” he continued. It felt strange to talk; Daniel Murphy wasn’t big on sharing. “‘I am the will-o’-the-wisp; I light the marsh by night. I flicker and frolic, giving trav’lers a fright.’ That’s how it went. He’d always hum it to himself when we went fishin’.”

“Hmm,” little Gordie Murphy considered the rhyme, repeating it back himself in a sing-song voice. “I like it.” He pulled his rod, a smaller version of his father’s, back over his shoulder and cast it out again, hoping to bait a bite.

“What makes you ask?” Daniel could feel himself relaxing into the conversation, allowing its ebbs and flows to steer him.

“Cannae you see them?” Gordie pointed out into the distance, past the silhouettes of moss-swaddled trees, where the green lights danced above the swamp, flickering like witching-hour candles.

“Aye, I can see ‘em. Just hadn’t noticed ‘em before now.”

“Do you know why they’re called will-o’-the-wisp?”

“Not a clue.” Daniel reached down into his canvas sack and picked out a pair of foil-wrapped sandwiches. His was cheese and ham, Gordie’s just ham. He passed them out, taking a massive bite out of his.

“I asked one of the teachers at school,” Gordie said through a thick mouthful. “He told me tha’ there was a wicked blacksmith called Will, who was such a wrong-un that the afterlife was shut to him, and so he was given a single coal to light the way for his spirit.”

“Sounds daft.”

“Oh aye, it is. But it’s a fun story, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” Daniel looked out at the twinkling lights, which shifted in the mist, giving nothing away about their origins. “I never really wondered.”

“There’s this Welsh lad at school,” Gordie continued, enthused by his da’s responsiveness. “He said that his ma’ calls them puca and says that they’re this little goblin things carrying lanterns. They’re right tricksy, she says, and are always trying to lure people into the water.”

“Ha,” Daniel said, finishing his sandwich and dropping the foil back into the bag. “You’d better be on the lookout then. I bet you’re way tastier than me.”

“Da!”

“That’s if the trolls don’t get you first.”

Gordie cackled with boyish delight, his laughter echoing off the water. The green jack-o’-lantern wisps danced in the distance.

“Looks like they’re tryin’ to get yer attention, laddie,” Daniel said. “I think they’re sayin’ ‘Gordie, Gordie! Come ‘ere, Gordie! There’s fish a plenty o’er here!’”

“Yeah right. Ma’ would ne’er let you live it down if you let some flickering light lead me away into the swamp.”

“Aye, she’s scarier than any spooky light.”

Again, silence wrapped its arms around them. This time it was different though: more comfortable, like an old sweater. Finally, Gordie spoke.

“I don’t think we’re gonna catch anything tonight, da.”

“I think you’re right, son. We’re more likely to catch a will-o’-the-wisp than any fish, the way things are goin’.”

“Time for home?”

“Time for home.”

They packed up their things and headed back, sticking to the path just in case. Gordie hummed the rhyme that Daniel had told him, watching the green lights dance above the dark waters.