The Light Of The Lantern

The Light of the Lantern

The sky is treacherous tonight. I’m beginning to lose myself in the deep blue that slowly but surely fades into the dark black of night. But the light will come on any moment now. I can see it through my window. The lantern. It’s always been there, and yet it seems as though it was placed there just for me. It’s a streetlamp. A black lantern made of cold metal. Lightly adorned like all the lamps in our neighborhood, but this one is special.

When I walk down the streets to school with Mother, she says “farewell,” and when I return, full of anticipation, it’s there. Loyal and patient, it’s been waiting, happy when I throw it a furtive glance while my mother drags me into the house. And when night falls and the light of life flares up in my friend, we can finally speak.

At night, long after my mother’s sent me to bed, I quietly slip out from under the soft feathers of my blanket and climb onto the windowsill, from where I can see it. Its light drifts in streaks and sparks through the evening air and tells me of distant places, ancient heroes, and long-forgotten kingdoms.

Once, it told me about the hero Radd Prohtus, a bold warrior who struck a mountain pass with a single blow, just to prove he was worthy of greatness. Or of the endless seas of Sorion, a world far, far above in the sky, where every memory eventually lands and dissolves into the depths of the liquid.

It spoke of golden, glowing bears that watch over the stars and wander through the cosmic expanse until they themselves become stars. Mother doesn’t want me to stay up and scolds me for being tired and unfocused at school, but my thoughts cling to the lantern’s light like a bug caught in a spider’s web.

I don’t tell her, but sometimes I have bad dreams. She doesn’t mean to scare me, but when she told me about the monster of flesh, I had a nightmare. She said it’s a creature that devours everything and everyone, with no real name. No one knows what it wants, what it is, or where it goes. I was afraid it would come for me, destroy my house, swallow me whole, but the lantern assured me it was unimaginably far away and could never reach us.

My friends don’t understand, and I don’t want them to. They’re not really my friends anyway. I don’t want to share it with anyone. Not the teachers, my parents, my grandparents, not even my brother. All of them are hollow shells, pretending to understand and perceive things that need to be answered, though they are nothing more than the sum of their instincts, their stupidity, small-mindedness, and ignorance.

She is there only for me, and she doesn’t want anyone else coming between us. Everything is just as it should be, and I won’t let anyone extinguish my friend’s light.

Mother wants me to go outside with friends after school, but I’d rather stay home, where I’m not too far from her. The days are getting warmer, and time passes more slowly. Time drags like thick slime through the infinity of my waiting. It takes so unbelievably long for night to fall, and I can hardly distract myself.

When I watch TV with Father, I’m bored and can’t focus. When I wander through the supermarket aisles with Mother, I drag my desire to be elsewhere behind me. The heat feels like an added punishment, as if my patience is being tested. School is just another medication that fails to soothe the symptom of impatience.

I’m forced to run, and as sweat slowly rolls down my forehead, I look at the streetlamps lining the edge of the sports field. They’re nowhere near as beautiful as my lantern—gray and tin-made. Purely functional shells, just like the creatures around me.

The howling and screaming of the others fade for a moment, and I think with anticipation of tonight, when the beautiful patterns drawn by the lantern’s light in the night air will once again appear before me. It’s as if the light spills out—no, glides, blends, merges. Yes, just like that.

When I finally get home, I feel a kind of relief. It’s as if it’s draining my soul, every moment I have to wait, but the fact that I can see it now eases my burden.

My brother wants to play knights outside. It helps distract me a little, makes the wait feel shorter, so I give in. I can’t help but reveal a bit, and I dare to include small things from the legends in our game.

I tell my brother he is the brave noble knight Nyx, who became one with the power of the Aether to slay the beast Randul, which had tyrannized his people and lands for millennia. I tell him I am one of the Sirlium—a being above angels—that stood by Nyx in his battle of liberation and shared wisdom with him that only the cosmos itself could know.

My brother is more focused on hitting my wooden sword with his own and only half-listens. But I don’t mind. I smile, happy to possess the knowledge that is reserved only for me.

We continue playing in the garden until Mother calls us in for dinner.

At last, the sun begins to disappear, and I stand happily next to my brother as Mother brushes his teeth. Just a little longer now. The last light of the day, shining weakly through the blinds, grows fainter as I lie in bed, waiting for my parents to finally fall asleep.

I hear the TV running, and Father is discussing something with Mother. As darkness fully takes over the sky, I quietly crawl out from under my blanket. By now I know which floorboards creak and which don’t. With soft steps, I approach the window and climb onto the sill, from where I can see my redeemer.

And she’s already been waiting for me. The light fades in drifting streaks from the lantern’s head, and a veil that resembles the image of cosmic infinity forms before me. It makes no sound, but it’s as if I can hear unknown songs, distant mysteries waiting to reveal themselves to me.

She tells me about the 2,000 angels of Dahlium, who protect the distant world of Pnytonia from disasters. She tells me it’s been this way for eons and will continue to be for all eternity.

Though the angels are protectors, they are cruel too. Once, they slaughtered 100,000 men in a single instant—men who turned away from Pnytonia’s king. Their unfulfilled desire for self-determination feeds an entity that is building a gate.

The lantern won’t tell me the entity’s name, and no matter how often I ask, she always evades the question. When I ask what the gate is for and where it leads, she tells me it’s not a gate of marble or gold, but one of pure light.

She says it’s a gate to damnation and the end of all life that ever was or ever will be. My hands twitch slightly. I ask why, and how, but the lantern says she cannot answer. She tells me our next meeting is of great importance, that I must return quickly, and she will tell me more about the entity and the gate.

As the first rays of sunlight begin to break through the darkness, I realize I may have spoken with her for too long.

Mother wakes me grumpily from my too-short sleep, and I feel the toll of the exhaustion. But I can’t let it show, so I try to keep my heavy eyes open. Mother and Father argue, but I am too tired from the mental night to pay attention.

Before I know it, I’m back in the classroom. Voices and noises pass me by, and I don’t really wake up until my math teacher yells at me to pay attention.

The hours drift past, and now I’m sitting in another room. It feels like I’m drowning in a flood of narrow-mindedness and stupidity that my peers pour over me.

Screeching and throwing paper, I’m trapped in a room with these apes. The picture I’m supposed to draw is nearly finished, and I’m not as tired anymore.

The burden of enduring the noise feels lighter when I look at my work and smile. The lantern, emitting its light—cleverly hidden in the cute drawing of a small child. A little hidden message that makes the corners of my lips curl and brings a spark of excitement into my soul-crushing daily life.

The clock strikes one, and I start hastily stuffing my things into my backpack, but I’m stopped.

The stupid woman asks if everything’s alright at home and if I want to talk. She asks if my father hits me. My false mask of a face tells her everything is fine, that I just haven’t been sleeping well because our neighbor plays his record player too loudly late into the night.

I can’t tell if she believes me, but I really can’t afford a second woman, apart from my mother, nagging me about my dark circles.

As I walk out, I feel her worried gaze still clinging to me, but it doesn’t matter—as long as my grades stay the same.

Mother talks to me on the drive home, but even if my life depended on it, I couldn’t repeat a single word she said. The fatigue tries to drag me into a realm of dreams, and with every second it becomes harder to resist.

The sounds of the street, the rattling of the wheels, and Mother’s chatter just slide through my head. The world just drifts by as I lean my head against the window, gazing outside, thinking only of seeing the lantern’s light again.

Once I’m home, I grow even more tired. School may be over, but I sit there just as meaninglessly and impatiently waiting in the house as I would have at school.

The shouts of my classmates have been replaced by the droning noise of the television. I sit in the hot living room with Father and my brother, watching TV while Mother makes lemonade in the kitchen.

Sweat slowly collects on my forehead while the HB mascot on screen rants about something idiotic. The television’s noise drones in my skull, melting into a writhing mass that expands and expands until my head feels like it will burst.

As I lean my head back and close my eyes, I imagine myself tonight—sitting at the open window, devouring the delicious insights my friend so joyfully shares with me.

But I can’t fight the fatigue any longer, and eventually, I give in.

So I decide to go to my room and sleep a little. My brother gets in my way, wanting to excitedly tell me something, but I push him aside and make my way to the sleep I so desperately need.

When I wake up, it’s already dark. I’m wearing pajamas, which Mother must have put on me while I slept. The moon lights up the night, and I can hear birds chirping.

Excitement shoots through my limbs, and I’m afraid I might be too late. But I’m relieved to find that my nap didn’t cost me too dearly—her light hasn’t turned on yet.

“It must be any moment now,” I tell myself, lost in thought.

Quietly and carefully, I climb onto the windowsill. Mosquitoes buzz softly around me and a pleasant breeze brushes against my face as I wait by the open window. I had badly needed sleep, and I must admit that things can’t go on like this. My thoughts are already racing uncontrollably, circling around the entity that hasn’t let me go all day. I let the wind run through my hair as I tilt my face toward it, eyes closed, and savor the fleeting moment of peace. But when I open my eyes again, the lantern is already glowing. Swirling tendrils of sparkling, shimmering light spread through the warm night air, and a subtle euphoria rises in me. Tonight, the lantern begins our conversation by singing. At first, songs of sailors, adventurers, and adored women—then slowly, they grow darker and more sorrowful.

The songs speak of a people, a tribe, who have lived in a valley for eons. In harmony and peace. Even the eldest among them had never known battle—never even seen one. One day, winged beings descended from the sky, who must have been angels. They brought the people gifts and food, more than they could ever eat, but asked for something in return. They said the people would now live under the rule of a sovereign. They would be safe and well cared for—but they had to leave their beloved valley. The people refused, and the angels’ hatred fell upon their cities. The song calls it “the devastation that befell us,” but the lantern tells me: the angels killed every last one, even the children, flayed their skins, and offered them as tribute to their ruler. A cold shiver crawls down my spine and I feel fear rising in me. I ask the lantern about this ruler—who he is and why he allowed such slaughter—and the lantern gives me no satisfying answer. It says the ruler has no name and serves the entity it told me about the night before. I grip the window frame tighter and ask again—about the entity. The lantern evades, stalls. I get angry. I tell it I won’t come back tomorrow unless it tells me. It promises to tell me everything tomorrow.

The words from last night still echo in my mind. The entity won’t leave me alone. And even though I’m no longer afraid, I remember well the feeling of the night before. The entity seems to pull my drifting thoughts toward itself, drawing nearer by the hour. I feel exhausted, drained. Though I slept enough, it’s like I never truly woke up. As my mother walks me to school, holding my hand, my thoughts still revolve around the entity and the answers I’ll get tonight. What will she tell me? What could be so terrible that she has to withhold it? All the answers. What does she look like? Why is she building the gate? What does she want, and what is her name?

The day crawls by in torturous slowness, like I’m stuck in an endless loop of my own making. I can’t hold onto any thought, the world around me sounds muffled, and it feels like needles are piercing my skull. The classroom clock ticks angrily, pounding against my fragile mind. My fingers wrap around the metal legs of the graffiti-covered wooden desk, where my papers and pens are scattered. I can’t take it anymore. I have to see the light. I have to leave. I throw up on my desk, and at last, the clock stops beating against my head. I lie face down in what was just in my stomach—but I can’t help but smile. The dumb woman panics and runs over, and before I know it, I’m in my mother’s car, her worried eyes flicking toward me as she drives me home. I lie on the back seat, knowing where I’ll be soon. Even if I still have to wait, I can rest now—and I’m close to her.

As night begins to push day away and I sit at the window, tense and full of anticipation, the light finally flares to life. Thin, flowing ribbons of light pour from the lantern’s crown, casting shimmering reflections across the leaves and bushes around it. I ask my questions eagerly—and the lantern answers. The entity, it says, truly has no name, but is known by the term Noklyus, meaning “the devourer.” She has always been—older than many worlds and stars. A force drifting through the endless void, consuming all that surrounds her. A being that knows no mercy, needs no reason, and listens to no voice of reason. I flinch slightly at her words. I’d imagined terrible things, but I’m still shaken. The lantern continues. This creature has an eye that sees everything and everyone. You can’t hide from it—and once you speak of it, it may become aware of you. My tension deepens, and I ask if it has already seen us. No, the lantern says. But just as she is about to go on, I hear footsteps rushing up the stairs. I have no choice—I have to break off the conversation.

I barely make it back to bed in time, pretending to sleep. My door creaks open slowly. I can feel their stare pierce me. I don’t know if it’s mother or father—but I feel a wave of bitterness at this interruption. I don’t sleep much that night. I dream of the eye—an enormous, terrifying iris staring at me and only me. The day rushes by strangely quickly, and soon enough I’m back in the car with mother. She doesn’t want father to know where we’re going after school. She probably fought with him about it, but I don’t have the energy to care. She promises me ice cream if I don’t tell him. A weak bribe. I consider spilling everything—these visits to the man with the ridiculous shirt are getting on my nerves. Still, what would I be doing at home? Just waiting. So I let it go.

The man asks all sorts of things. Trivial stuff—what games I like, what music I listen to, what I watch on TV—and more pointed questions. How I sleep. If I’m happy at home. If kids at school bother me. If dad hurts me, or if my grandparents touch me in ways I don’t like. He acts like he knows something—but he couldn’t possibly know about the lantern. My dark circles are unmissable, so I tell him the mosquitoes keep me up at night. I feed him something—anything—just to shut him up. He doesn’t buy it, and no matter how much he scribbles into his notebook, he’ll never see through me. He can try all he wants. He’ll never touch the knowledge I hold. My insight. My truth.

Mother doesn’t look pleased, but she keeps her promise. I eat my ice cream in the back seat, getting it all over myself, as we drive home. When she parks the Beetle in our driveway, the clouds are tinged bluish-gray and the wind is strong. I sit with my brother in the living room, playing while I wait. My thoughts are clearer now. I think of the revelation tonight might bring. I am a mix of curiosity and hunger for understanding—but also fear and pressure. Outside, it drizzles, and though the air is warm, the wind blows harder than usual. Mother and father are arguing in the kitchen again, but it doesn’t reach me. Time is swallowed by the void of the aether, and finally, I stand ready in my room, closing the door behind me as I stare at the window. A feeling overcomes me—one that can only be lived, not described. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the world to fall silent.

Once I’m certain no one is awake, I slip out of bed and creep—like I’ve done so many times—to the window. The light bursts forth suddenly, in thick waves. The wind hits me, and I feel the drizzle on my skin. The moisture in the air catches the light, forming what looks like a giant, golden bubble floating before me. I can’t hold it in any longer. Before I can even apologize for last night, I blurt it out. I ask hastily about the gate, if I’m in danger, what she was about to tell me before we were interrupted. The lantern says nothing—then speaks in a tone I’ve never heard before. There are no words you could still understand for the truths you seek. I don’t know what to say. I lean out of the window, trying to be closer to the light.

The lantern says she cannot tell me—but she can show me. I tiptoe to my bedroom door, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards. I peer through the crack and step slowly down the dark hallway. Quietly, I descend the stairs, slipping past my parents’ room across the tiled floor. I step out through the terrace door—it slides open, much quieter than the front.

“If I get caught now… I can’t get caught now,” I think, as I walk barefoot.

I make it—running through the wet grass of our yard toward the sidewalk. Though the air is warm, my clothes are soaked. I tread the cold stones of the path and there she stands, in her full, solemn splendor. The black metal rising in symmetrical hexagons up to her head. Water trickling down the ornate, delicate carvings that adorn her surface. And of course—the radiant light, glittering, sparkling, fighting back the dark. I stand beneath the lantern, looking straight into the origin of her glow. I remain there for a time I can’t measure—until the light begins to spill downward. The world around me warps and bends, the head of the lantern and its shining core creeping closer to my face. I see darkness. I feel lightness. I feel nothing at all. No pain, no sensation. But it doesn’t feel bad. And then—I see it.

Infinite space. Stars and lights with no end. Colors so magnificent, twisting through the void in indescribable patterns.

But the vision doesn’t last. It’s not why I came. I see the gate. A massive arch of golden light, larger than our planet. Around it, a swarm of beings whose names I do not know. Humanoid shapes, animal-like creatures, winged monsters I cannot begin to describe. I cannot believe what I see. And then—suddenly—I feel again. Cold. Terror. Despair. I feel something looking at me. A threshold. A wall. An iris—planet-sized—unfolding. I can’t think. I can’t move. I am nothing. The wall swells, focusing its gaze on me—and I fall away. I crash a few meters to the ground and I’m grateful for the pain. The warmth of my own blood trickling down my leg brings a strange comfort. Though it can never drown out the fear and horror ripping through every fiber of my small body. Thoughts hammer the inside of my skull like gunfire, ready to break out. I gasp for air. The rain falls harder now, soaking me as I lie on the cold stone path. Sparks shoot from the lantern’s base—and with a violent crash, it topples beside me. Barely missing me. Earth rips from its anchor, flinging dirt into my face. The bulb explodes into shards. Wires tear from the ground. The black metal shatters in a thunderous crash against the pavement.