How the Streetlamps Burn

My quarters for the duration of the next few days were barely adequate. A layer of neglect blanketed almost every piece of furniture, causing my nose to protest it in an uproar of sneezing as I brushed off an end table for the sake of relieving myself of burdensome luggage. The walls hosted wallpaper and paintings most likely hung together. They resembled an age uniform with the blanket of dust around them. Their colors had faded long ago and their once vibrant hues now bled together, permitting a hideous display: A portrait of a man, presumably young, now appeared old and decayed. And a ship resting upon pleasant waters, now appeared battered by seething seas and terrifying storms.

As I sat upon the bed to free my feet of my tight shoes, I felt the linen of the bed and was not disappointed. Clean. Fresh. Something was indeed kept up in this room. With this relief I stretched my toes and walked into the bathroom where I was expecting to find ruin to my elation. However, the impending disappointment was unfulfilled. The bathroom, too, appeared clean and in worthy operation. I tested the faucets and the water’s temperature. Their standards were befitting one of first-class expectations. And with that I shed my clothes and prepared a long awaited bath.

The time was half-past 19:00 when I came to from a sound and dreamless slumber. It was about time to meet my friend. The eager light of day had become twilight; a palette of warm, soft hues painted an expansive sky. My reflection in the bathroom mirror beckoned for a minute of attention for a presentation befitting a formal meeting with a casual friend. Thus, with that attention paid, I headed out of my room and down the stairs.

As soon as I emerged from the hotel, my sights fixated once more on the lanterns lining the streets. They were the same ones and burned just as bright and as strangely as before. Surrounding darkness seemed to magnify the light’s illumination. And just as before, no one paid them any attention, save for myself. By now, those occupying the streets had diminished only slightly. And though their varying activities had drawn to a close, alongside the noise that came with their strides and chatter, there arrived a sound unlike celebration. Notes and harmonies and cheering and applause drew my attention to the Archer. Its light in the distance soon closed in on me and, as it neared, the light seemed to brighten with every melody played. It was as if the music and light composed a harmony all their own that reached beyond light and sound, but existed within each all the same. It was divine. Outside I heard a whistle and saw a friendly face accompany a familiar wave.

“Helllooo Mr. Styles!”

Eager for my arrival, my friend impatiently awaited me.

“Siril, my good friend. So good to see you once again. You are looking particularly formal this evening.”

Siril Clynes was a man I had known for quite a while and never had he dressed in such a manner as he is now. At least not in my presence.

“Well, this is a business meeting isn’t it?” He chuckled as he shook my hand.

“It most certainly is.”

“Then let’s get down to it, shall we?” He opened the door and ushered me inside.

The Archer was as rustic a pub as anyone could imagine. Built from old timbers more ancient, I presume, than time, it stood spaciously to accommodate both drink and dance generously. The room we were in hosted the bar and walls bearing axes, swords, and the like assortment of weaponry. There were also trophies of most native woodland wildlife found within the surrounding hills and acreage hung upon the wall. Sconces made of iron and wood contained lit candles that illuminated their faces, twisted in surprise, and gleamed in their glassy eyes: resurrecting them for but a moment. The booth we chose was guarded by a stag with twisted, broken horns that reached down towards the booth’s unlikely inhabitants.

My friend sat across from me, his face almost beamed with excitement. It was not a second after I settled that he let it show.

“So, what do you think?”

“Think about what?” I looked at him perplexed.

“This, this.” He pointed to his blazer and unbuttoned it.

“Your blazer? What about it?” I was curious.

“Well, I had this made. From scratch.” He took it off, folded it partially, and handed it over to me. I grabbed it and looked it over. It was extravagant.

“This is quite the garment,” I replied.

“I’m impressed. But, what does this mean?”

“Well,” he said, “I have come into a bit of money recently. You see, a great Aunt of mine has recently passed and, as she favored me, I inherited a rather decent sum of money. After taking your example, I decided that it was best for me to do something wise with it. You know, invest it in something, or make something of note with it. Anyway, I decided that the clothing business was a great start. I found myself a decent tailor and someone who could help me design these. I’ve just been looking for a manufacturer and a guiding mind. That’s where you come in, Donovan.”

“As the manufacturer, or…?”

“As the guiding mind. You have such a great sense for business. I need you. I want you to be my partner.” He sounded not only sincere, but serious. It seemed as though he had given this a lot of thought.

“So, what do you think?” He leaned forward, eager for my approval.

“Well, I would have to look at your business plan. I would need to know what the costs are and how you would get this going.”

“Of course, Donovan, of course. It’s all right here.” He took some papers out of his briefcase and slid them across the table. I looked them over vigorously and left no stone unturned. Apparently, neither did he. Everything I needed to know in order to enter into this was right here. I was about finished with my analysis when I was interrupted by glasses tapping together at our table. I looked up and saw that my friend had brought two wine glasses and a seemingly fine bottle of port.

“I thought you might be in the mood for celebration. I certainly am.” He poured it into my glass and handed it over to my side of the table.

“Awfully confident aren’t we?” I smiled and obliged.

“So, is this cause for celebration? Yay or nay?”

I looked at the blazer and let my fingers investigate the soft, warm fabric and its silky interior. They did not want to let go. And neither did I. This was of a quality that was rare. I came to my answer just then and held my wine glass high.

“Yay.”

As he held his glass up and brought it to mine, we both knew at that moment that our friendship had taken a professional turn. Though I was wary of making friends with business partners and vise-versa, I felt that this was almost too great to ignore. He had really come up with something.

We passed the night on with port in hand and memories in mind. It was in my inebriation that I asked my friend the strangest of questions in efforts to ease my curiosity.

“What is it, I slurred, “what is it with those lanterns along this street? They glow brightly during day and night.”

He waited a moment and, in his inebriation, responded.

“You’ve never heard the story before?” His eyes were wide as saucers. I shook my head.

“Well,” he said as he cleared his throat, “I’ll tell you.”

“You see, no one knows when those lanterns started burning or when they were even built. Some say that it was a sorcerer, a wizard that lived high up in those mountains that wished to trap the souls of his enemies. Some say that they were made by the men that carved these mountains long before the times of civilization. Truth be told, no one knows for sure. However, most, if not all, are convinced that those lanterns burn by some force beyond our understanding. People say that there are grave dangers reserved for those that dare tear down a lantern or extinguish its flame. No one dares touch one. If they do and a light goes out, they fear they are cursed and that that lantern will become their prison and they will be trapped there for all of eternity.”

“And you,” I asked my friend. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I’ve seen some strange things that have thought to have been caused by those lanterns.”

I looked at him with an intrigued and curious mind. I was entertained, more than entertained. I was hooked.

“There was an accident.”

“A man was painting the trim of the roof of his shop and fell headfirst onto the street below.” He poured both of us another glass. I looked at him with skepticism.

“I know it sounds like one does not explain the other, but you haven’t heard the strangest part.” I waited.

“About a week ago, the man had been watering the flowers outside of his shop when, as some say, he was startled by a loud, abrupt noise. He swung around to see what it was and, in the process, dowsed a nearby lantern, extinguishing its light.” He stopped momentarily to savor a gulp of port.

“That lantern. That lantern that once glowed blue and then held no light, now glowed red. It came back on the day he fell from that ladder that supposedly broke under his weight.”

“Coincidence or fate, no one really knows. But that fear is enough for those who believe it to respect those lanterns and their light. That’s for damn sure.”

Such a strange superstition my friend had told me. So strange in fact that I felt myself having new respect for the lanterns and the light they harbored. I did not believe in it any more than I would believe in ghosts or goblins or anything of that sort. I did, however, enjoy stories about them. But they were just stories. Folklore, myth, legends with morals that inspired some and beset fear in others. But at the moment, the port was the only spirit worth my attention.

During this duration of meet and merry, my friend and I discussed all matter of sorts that resembled a reunion between those from distant shores. Having succeeded in dealings of personal and professional sorts as well as polishing off a most formidable and intimidating spirit, we paid our respects to the bar keeper, our booth and its guardian and entered the street that would soon separate us. So still and silent was the air when we entered into the midnight world that the slightest tapping of our feet on the cobblestone below spoke volumes. My friend accepted the courteousy of my assisting him in his walk home and, as we walked under black, empty skies, the lanterns’ eerie glow of blues penetrated our surroundings and lit them up like that of day. In our state they just beamed and seemed to light up every cell within our swimming heads. It made them buzz and burn and threaten to break.

By the time we reached my friend’s residence, the lights were such that our heads would not stop pounding. My friend, however, seemed more so annoyed than I and, in his fit of frustration, kicked the lantern’s post and hoisted himself up upon the base. It was in that moment of impulse that he blew and spat at that eerie blue burden, causing its light to extinguish.

We both stopped for the moment, remembering the story.

“Poppycock!” He cursed at it again and ambled up the steps of his home.

“Such things only children be afraid of.” He fumbled for the key and eventually found it.

He opened the door and looked back at me.

“Feel free to make yourself at home.”

“Thanks just the same, but I feel that it’s best I return to the hotel. I need to get my money’s worth after all.” I smiled.

“Okay,” he said. “Be sure to come by in the morning before you head off. It’s been too long my friend. It’s been too long.”

I acknowledged him and walked back down the road to the hotel. On the way I looked at the one lantern that wasn’t lit.

“Poppycock, he said.” I smiled. What a character.