Fairy Lights

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Rich saw the glow and rushed home, too excited and surprised to remember what it meant.

Ama looked up the minute he ran in, cocking her head to the side in bemusement.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s a light. In the cabin window, just like you said.”

“I told you not to go into the forest alone. There are dangers in there, dangers too small for you to see.”

“But the cabin isn’t far inside! And the candle! The candle is real. It’s really there!” He was all but babbling in his excitement, so he didn’t notice that her smile changed, became somewhat sad.

“I knew it wasn’t over. I just never thought it would happen in my lifetime.” She said quietly, and he finally noticed her lack of excitement. Rich stared at her, his face paling.

“Oh… oh, right,” he said, and covered his mouth to keep anything else from spilling out. Ama waved a hand, waving away his upset in the pragmatic way she had.

“You should go tell your father,” Ama said, moving swiftly now. Finishing the dinner preparations and then going into her bedroom to get ready while it was cooking.

By the time her son came back with her man and their daughter in tow, she’d finished making dinner and had a pile of belongings on the small table in front of the sofa. Her husband deliberately ignored the pile as he slid silently into his seat. They ate dinner, trying not to speak of the lit candle at the cabin.

The cabin had been her family’s responsibility for the past 400 years. Before that, another family had the care of the land and had lived in it. Well, its predecessor. They’d razed and rebuilt the cabin many times over the centuries. It was only in the last 50 years that the cabin and the surrounding land had sat empty, left to nature and the gods since her family had hoped, prayed even that they never need set foot in it again. Her grandfather had said that after his wife, they wouldn’t need it anymore. He’d been wrong, obviously.

Ama served the meal as she usually did before going to the small pile and gesturing for her children to come stand close.

“Lise, do you remember what I told you about the candle?” Lise was barely ten. She’d told the tale so many times over the years the child should have it memorized. Lise’s eyes widened, and she shrugged, as if unwilling to admit that she remembered, or didn’t. Ama couldn’t blame her. Even she wished she could forget about it, about them.

“I remember mama, it’s the tiny lights,” Rich said, and Ama suppressed the urge to shudder.

The enemy. They’d come and laid waste to the land and the people until their leaders and holy men had made the bargain. The Call. The first came 800 years ago during the time humans called the dark ages.

Light for life, blood for light.

One for many, all for one.

Ama rubbed her hand softly over her daughter’s hair and then reached into the pile and pulled out a soft leather pouch wrapped in an embroidered cloth.

“This is yours for when the time comes. You will make one for your daughter just like it.”

“I don’t know how.” Lise said, and Ama sighed. It had taken her mother years to teach her to do the embroidery. More years to teach her to tan and work the leather that held the garments within. She’d only just begun to teach Lise all she needed to know.

“Your aunt will teach you. Just keep this safe.”

“I want you to teach me.” Ama looked up and caught her husband’s gaze, holding back tears. He pinched his lips tightly together. She knew it was so he could allow her this moment without interruption or recrimination. After all, he’d known it was possible when he’d married her. Even without living in the cabin, he knew. A knock at the door startled them and Rich ran to pull it open without asking who it was. He could hear as well as they the sound of their family and friends. Their clan.

Before long, the sounds of laughter and celebration filled their home. Instruments came out and shoes removed as they clapped, sang, and danced. When darkness fell, they went outside, building an enormous bonfire in the open area in front of the woods that held their ancestral home. As the moon rose higher in the late summer sky, the songs slid from quick and lighthearted to melancholy reminders of those long gone. Ama drifted from group to group, speaking with everyone. Then went inside and pulled out the leather pouch made by her mother and changed into the thin embroidered gown and soft leather shoes inside. She wore no undergarments and left her hair free. Looking in the mirror, she inspected her warm brown skin and long black hair to ensure she looked as she should and would bring no shame to her people. She put her jewelry on the nightstand by her bed and scrubbed her face removing the small amount of makeup she wore most days. Her husband came in just as she finished, and he took her mouth with a poignancy of longing and love. She wished she could lie beneath him one last time, but it was too late for that.

When she came back outside, a cheer went up and she pasted a smile on her face to hold off the tears. The music began once more and this time she danced. Her soft handmade leather shoes made no sound as she twirled around the bonfire, holding her children’s hands and laughing with her sisters. She danced until she couldn’t, then sat quietly, watching the others as the hours passed. No one spoke of the candle. No one spoke of The Call.

20 minutes before midnight, the drums began. Echoing through the woods and startling the gathering making merry by the fire. Their instruments fell silent at the first sonorous notes and a hush spread over the crowd. A blooming wave of fear that deepened with every reverberating thud ringing through the trees. Ama went to her children and kissed them, then kissed her husband once more and lifted a hand to her clan. The men and women and children who’d shared her life. Then she walked to the edge of the clearing and slipped into the trees.

As she walked, a dense fog appeared, hovering just above the ground. It writhed like a living thing, rolling around her feet with every step. When she reached the cabin, she saw a glowing mist shrouded the building, with tendrils of fog spread out from the main mass. Ama stumbled to a halt, fear seizing her so that she could barely breathe, let alone move. She could hear the drums, but as she looked around, she saw nothing but the mist. At her ear, a voice said ‘come’ and she whirled in place to see who had spoken. There was nothing, only more mist. She swallowed and forced herself to take a step forward, then another, trying not to focus on the fog at her feet or the glowing mist enshrouding the cabin. She focused her attention on the candle. It glowed ominously in the dirty windows, clearly visible despite the haze of dust.

Don’t be afraid, Ama, you can do this.

The voice was familiar, one she hadn’t heard since she was a child. The voice of her grandmother.

“Nana.” She tried to say, but the sound of the word didn’t pass her lips, lost in the growing mist. She stumbled and realized she was at the bottom step of the porch. She hadn’t realized she’d reached the cabin. She’d focused on the candle, but somehow she’d lost track of its location and its feeble light. She heard more voices now. The dead. Was she hearing the dead? They’d never said what would happen. Only that she must prepare. She must go if called. The mist choked her, and she felt something like a child’s hand slide over her bare arms. She started turning in circles. The voices grew louder and she could see now a fire in the grate. She made her way toward the dim light of the flickering flames, ignoring the feel of the hands on her flesh. They were moving over her body with more frequency, pulling at her hair and the thin cotton gown she wore, tearing it away. She let out something between a sob and a scream as she felt the first cut and watched in horror as blood flowed from her arms. Then legs, then elsewhere as a dozen, no dozens of tiny blades sliced into her body. Her shredded gown turned red as the streams of her life’s blood bubbling up and out of her steadily weakening body, only to be lapped away by dozens of tiny tongues. A chorus of hissing voices joined the beating drums.

For we believed, and then they came

With tiny wings, they lit the flames

We feed the hunger, pay the price.

Light for life, blood for light,

Gift the blood, the blood is life

One for many, all for one.

Pay the price to close the door.

Close the door to end the war.

Ama hardly noticed when she fell, the lapping tongues turning to teeth as they tore bits of her flesh away. She looked up at the ceiling of the cabin and saw the faces of the watchers. The devout. The ones who’d called.

“Let it be enough.” She murmured as her eyesight dimmed and the chanting began to banish them and close the door, drowning out the steady pulse of the drums. She saw the swirling mist turn red with her blood and then saw nothing at all.