Lamplighter

by Law, Lincoln

  “They’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

  When the logical part of his mind told him that luminescent beings could neither exist, nor dance with such grace, he decided he must have been dreaming. But he did not wake himself up. Here, he was able to take a moment away from the real world and smile and just enjoy what he saw for what it was worth.

  This was not the first time he had been here, either.

  These people had neither wings, nor mischievous faces, but Nataniel called them faeries nevertheless. They existed only in his dreams, mutually exclusive to his real life, and every night he would visit them, and sometimes even find himself dancing with them. He felt uncomfortable standing before such well-mannered, well-dressed beings in only his pyjamas, but they did not seem to notice or mind.

  Something particular he noticed about the room was the way it rose so high, held up by towering pillars made from marble, and the tall windows along either side, displaying the outside world so perfectly. He made his way over to them, wobbling about sleepily. He looked outside upon a city. The tower he resided in now was high up, and everything below him seemed miles away from this height. The city was lit up brightly, decorated—perhaps there was some kind of festival or celebration on. And in the distance was another tower, lit up like a beacon, the flaming cauldron burning at its peak.

  Nataniel was definitely in the world of the faeries now. It was joined on, and yet was also parallel to his own world—the City of Castore. And here, in his dreams, he would spend most nights dancing and celebrating whatever it was the faeries were celebrating. This was not the first time he had been here, and he hoped it would not be his last.

  But it certainly was the first time someone had taken notice of him.

  “Hello?” murmured a soft voice from behind him. He turned around and saw a pale girl, her hair almost white and her eyes a soft, snowy blue. She looked his age, maybe thirteen or fourteen, and wore a soft, green dress with a ribbon around her waist and flat, comfortable-looking shoes. She smiled at him.

  Nataniel was surprised. Normally people—in Castore, at least—looked at him with disgust. His face was marked with tattoo-like bruises, that when looked at from certain angles, looked like an old script of some kind. These were the markings of a Blessed and a Cursed. He had been one of the last people blessed in the waters of the Tyndibar Well, by the Architect no less. It had not been met with the usual pomp and circumstance. Rather, it had been done rather quietly, with only a handful of Blues watching as the water had been splashed across his forehead, creating swirling, tattoo-like marks across his face. That had been thirteen years ago, and he had been marked ever since. Twenty years before, the taint had been created by the death of one man in the Tyndibar Well.

  Twenty years ago, monsters had begun to roam the streets.

  Twenty years ago, the LampLighters had been formed, protecting the people of Castore while they slept.

  And thirteen years after his own blessing, Nataniel still remained strangely unaffected by the tainting of the Tyndibar Well.

  “Hello,” he replied, after a long pause. He was shocked at how she seemed untroubled by his unusually high voice, the lankyness of his form or the fact his eyes were pure white—though he was by no means blind. In fact, she warmed towards him, her smile growing wider, sweeter. She held out a delicate hand.

  “Forgive me,” she said softly. “I know it is tradition for the males to offer to dance, but I saw you over here and…well…” The girl began to blush.

  Unsure, Nataniel tried to smile, though he thought it may have turned into a grimace, and took her hand. She pulled him along onto the dance floor as the song changed, a round of applause ushering in the next song. He had never been taught how to dance, though in dreams, he was capable of anything. He placed one hand about the girl’s waist, and another into her raised hand. There was a murmur from the conductor, and then the music began, along with the dance.

  It had a quick tempo, and so his feet moved swiftly, swirling about the dance floor in unison with his partner’s.

  One, two, threee, one, two, three, he thought in time with the music, and his feet moved. As he turned about the floor, he noticed that some people wore strange, glittering masks, shaped into animal faces or grotesque human expressions. He felt rather odd now as he was not wearing one. This may have been a masquerade ball, and it seemed bad enough to intrude upon it in his pyjamas, let alone without a mask. Despite his worries, he continued to dance though, his movements liquid and sure. He looked away for a moment, wishing he was wearing more than his pyjamas, and when he looked back into the girl’s ghostly light eyes, he realised he was suddenly wearing a suit and a silver vest, and that both his and the girl’s faces were masked. Hers was humanoid, with swirling shapes extending from the corners of the mask, while his was made of feathers, giving an owl-like quality to his expression.

  What just happened? Nataniel thought as the song finally ended.

  “What is your name?” he asked, feeling rather foolish and blushing from his bashfulness.

  “Elenor,” she replied, leading him away from the other dancers as the next song began. “Thank you for dancing with me.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, pulling out a seat for her, reminding himself of the proper, gentlemanly ways he had been taught. He lifted up her hand, and bent over, leaning in to kiss the back of it. But as his lips touched the soft, warm skin, he slipped away from the world, like smoke blown away in a wind or a candle snuffed by a soft breath, emerging in his bed, still in his striped pyjamas.

  For a moment, he felt an odd rush within him, as though his body was catching up with reality. Finally, he felt this odd sensation stop and he smiled. Elenor’s face was still stuck in his mind, and he hoped he would visit her again tomorrow.

  There was a very high chance he would, too. The only times he did not visit the parallel world of the faeries was when he was terribly ill, or so tired that he did not have the strength to do anything, even in dreams.

  He would visit her , and he would dance with her again.

  *

  Nataniel had never had parents. He was bereft of a mother who shared his name, or a father who shared his features, but he did have Byron and Delilah, and they had brought him up well. They were not in any way related to him. Rather, they were strangers off the street that had offered to take him in after he had been Blessed—and hence, Cursed—after his parents had given him away in exchange for what was said to be a rather large sum of money. He had never met his parents, never known their names, or even cared to search for them. Anyone who was willing to trade their child for money deserved to never meet that child again.

  Byron had been a hopeless romantic, dreaming of one day meeting the most beautful, wonderful woman in the world. His one true love, and the one he was destined to be with. He had found that in Delilah, who shared the same hopelessly romantic dreams. And because of that like-mindedness, they had been together for well over twenty five years, and showed no signs of ending it soon.

  Byron had brought Nataniel up to be a gentleman. If ever Nataniel found a girl he could love forever, just as Byron and Delilah did, he would be opening doors, making dinners, working about the house and dancing the night through. That was if he ever found a girl who would love him forever. Unfortunately the tattoos on his face that marked him as a Blessed, and the milky colour of his eyes made him not exactly desirable. If he spoke to anyone, they would generally escape, screaming, for fear that he would turn into a monster and kill them. This was all folly, of course, but superstition ran too deep in the Castorean’s psyche for it to just disappear overnight.

  Not only was it bad luck to talk to someone marked by the waters of the Tyndibar Well, it was also unlucky to step on their shadow—or anyone’s shadow, for that matter. It was unlucky to touch the tattoos across their face, which could apparently lead to being cursed yourself, and it was also a common superstition that to even associate with a Blessed was to mean that you worshipped evil and wishe
d for the downfall of Castore.

  As far as Nataniel could tell, the only superstition of the many prevalent that held any truth was the one that said lighting a lantern outside one’s door would keep the monster’s away. As a matter of fact, it was not just superstition—it was proven. None of the Cursed could stand the light of the sun or that of a burning flame.

  Nataniel threw back his blankets and changed into his clothes for the day. He wore a plain white shirt and brown trousers. He quickly threw a cardigan over the top though. The air held some chill about it. He made his way downstairs, where he noticed that both Byron and Delilah had gone out—Byron to his job as a carpenter and Delilah working on her daily list of errands that needed doing.

  He had a breakfast of eggs and toast and returned to his bedroom, where he seated himself at his desk and pulled out a sheet of white paper. He wanted to draw what he had seen last night in his dreams, and the beautiful figure of Elenor. He paid particular attention to her soft and kind face, careful to pick the perfect shade for her eyes. Ice blue.

  He had always considered himself particularly skilled at drawing, and though to everyone else, his drawings were mostly fantasy, the faeries he drew and the landscapes he created were real enough for him.

  He used an apple green watercolour for the girl’s dress, and a very light grey to create the patterns made by the lace at the foot of her dress. Unsure what colour to use for the girl’s skin, he left it blank—perfect and untarnished. That was how she was in his dreams, and that’s how she would remain.

  What if she was real? he thought excitedly. What if I could go and meet her, and feel her smooth skin and… his mind trailed off into wild fantasies, almost as magical as the dreams themselves—but the dreams were always much clearer.

  “When will I meet you again?”

  He felt his heart beat faster in his chest, racing with excitement. She had been beautiful, and the more he thought about her, the more he began to obsess over her. He entered some kind of trance as he continued to paint, adding more and more detail to the picture. He painted the glass windows, and the world outside the ballroom. He painted the other dancers dressed in their rich, glamorous clothes, and, of course, him, in the background, standing next to Elenor, dressed in the coat and vest, his mask covering his eyes. The mask also covered the Curse markings. In way, just as she was perfect, in this image, so was he.

  I hope this is not the only way we can be together, Nataniel thought, in my dreams and in my drawings.

  He emerged from his trance-like state, awakened by the sounds of Delilah’s return. He rushed about, placing the still wet painting into his drawer, hoping it would not smudge, and drew out a fresh sheet of paper, beginning the sketches of a cat upon it, just as the door opened up behind him. He was in such a state of surprise, he found himself out of breath.

  “Nataniel?” came Delilah’s voice. “Ah! Nataniel. I thought you would be here.”

  “Hello, mother,” he replied. She was not really his mother, but she would be the closest to one he would ever have.

  “Drawing, are we?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, adding another line to the very rough sketch.

  “Good,” she smiled. “Are you all right? You look rather out of breath?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied. “I’ve…err…I spilt some water and wanted to clean you up before you got home. I’ve been rushing about like a nutter trying to clean it up.”

  “Ah well, I suppose we can expect that with a budding painter in our midst. Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve just bought some bread from the bakery up the road and I think it will make some excellent lunchtime sandwiches.”

  “All right,” he replied. “Just give me a moment.”

  She nodded and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Nataniel dropped his head onto his desk and drew out the picture of the ballroom once more. He sighed, relieved. No damage had been done to the picture on its way to being stuffed in the draw. This was, most definitely, the best drawing he had ever done, and he was proud to call it that.

  Closing his drawer once more, he rose up from his desk and made his way down the stairwell to the kitchen to have lunch with his mother.

  Requests

  What I remain uncertain of though is the possibilities of my city had it gone down another path. What if the Well had remained pure? It may hurt to face the question, but it has to be faced.

  Would my world I’ve created be perfect? Like a dream, even?

  Faulkner was shaken into wakefulness by a hard grip and a scared voice. He opened his eyes, confused and exhausted, but aware nevertheless. It was Harriet. She was crying and speaking so quickly that Faulkner could not find any of the words she said.

  “Calm down,” he said softly. He wrapped his arms about her, cradling the back of her head with his hand, and pulled her into him, stroking her hair. “Shhh…it’s all right. Calm down.”

  She sobbed, shaking quite violently in his arms. The wind outside blustered and the rain pelted upon the roof tiles. Hearthflies seemed to have gathered outside their window, drawn to the candlelight like moths to a flame. They stared in curiously, the fires of their cauldrons casting silhouettes upon the white curtains.

  Once Harriet had calmed, Faulkner whispered, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I had a nightmare,” she sobbed. “It was our child. It wasn’t born. It died. And for a moment, I thought I had lost another one.”

  Faulkner sighed sadly, fighting his own tears as the gravity of her vision washed over him.

  “It’s just a dream,” he said. He spoke slowly, evenly, hoping that she would settle. “Just a nightmare.”

  “But it was so real!” she cried. She took one hand away from Faulkner and placed it over her belly. “We’ve lost too many not to be scared.”

  “But this will be the one,” he said, creating a brave façade. He couldn’t completely hide his own worry, but he knew that while she was in this state, she would not notice it. “In less than four months’ time, we’ll have a child. And we will love it and care for it and sing it lullabies, won’t we.”

  She nodded, her sobbing softening.

  “And there will be bubbles in the tub when we bathe it, and there will be toys in the nursery and laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.”

  She nodded, and with his help, lay down once more on her back. She kept both hands on her belly, as if removing them would make them lose the baby. Faulkner ran his hand slowly over the belly, rubbing softly, letting his own fingers brush over hers. It was a smooth, methodical movement, but one that continued for a while until both drifted back to sleep, quiet and contented.

  *

  When Faulkner awoke, he found his Blues jacket laying not over the chair where he had left it, but hanging over the metal grill that ran about the fireplace. A small, but warm-looking fire burnt a soft orange inside the hearth, the red coals shining like stars across a burning plain. Outside, it was raining, as it had the night before. The water pelted down from the heavens, clattering against rooftops brilliantly, like spoons beating upon glass. The streetlamps remained burning, due to the rain and the darkness it spread over the city. The beasts that stalked the streets would not have retreated into the undercity, given that the sun had not shone so far today. So long as the street lamps burned, however, people were safe to wander the streets, no matter what superstitious fear said otherwise. The beasts would not roam as freely as they would at night, but they would roam nonetheless.

  It was still early, though—four in the morning, in fact. The time for early risers. Everyone else in the city would be awake by five to be at work at seven. In the street outside, he could see a LampLighter was at work. He seemed to be extinguishing the lamps, refilling the oil and then igniting it once more with his gas stick. For a moment, Faulkner was concerned, for the second the LampLighter had snuffed the flame, a group of fiends had begun to rush in, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in the light. The Lighter had been p
repared, though, and with a deft movement of his fingers, twisted the threads of the gas bag, forcing more gas though the tube, empowering the fire. The fiends squawked and squealed, turning about quickly, slipping across the wet cobbles as they retreated into the shadows once more. The LampLighter, meanwhile, seemed untroubled and went about his business as usual.

  He looked lonely outside in the peace of the rain. While that might have been welcome for the LampLighter, it would not be for Faulkner. Very few people would leave their houses today, so Faulkner’s work day would be peaceful—almost boring. He was not looking forward to this quiet day.

  Damn people and their superstitions!

  Harriet sat in a comfortable arm chair in the lounge room, a book in her hand and a small pair of glasses resting atop the bridge of her nose. She looked up to him serenely.

  “You’re awake just in time,” she said, her finger hovering over the passage she was up to. “I was minutes away from waking you myself.”

  “It’s so dark outside,” he replied. “I was lucky to have woken at all.”

  She laughed. “I would have woken you. You needn’t worry about that.”

  “Oh, I didn’t.”

  He kissed her on the forehead, and headed to the kitchen, where he quickly ate breakfast—a bowl of muesli and some toast. He washed himself, shaved and dressed in his uniform, all but the jacket. That, he would don before leaving the house. It was cold outside and having a jacket that had sat before the fire so long was something he would relish, even if the heat did disperse after only seconds of being in the rain.

  As he went to leave, he reached for the blue jacket but stopped as his wife said, “What was it you went out for?” She sat the book on her lap as she spoke, her finger wedged into the page she was at.

  “What?” he replied. In truth, he was stalling, and even if she had the intuition to work that out, she did not think he would ever lie.

  Not that he intended to.