Lamplighter

by Law, Lincoln

  Ophelia shifted her weight on the windowsill and could not help but laugh. Earlier superstition in the few years following the beginning of the curses had been so fervent that to even look at a shadow was considered calamitous, or so she had read.

  “Now see here,” her father had said, holding up the hooked cane, opening the lamp case. “What we do is pull it open, and hold up the gas stick like this.” He shifted about the rope-like piping connected the stick to the bag so that Ophelia was not playing with it, and ignited the lamp.

  “How does that work?” she had asked.

  Her father had smiled at her with a wide grin, enjoying the chance to tell her some of the things a LampLighter did, perhaps hopeful his daughter would go into the same profession. He had had the same jet black hair as Ophelia, but considerably shorter, but had not the blue eyes she had. Instead, his eyes were a very light brown, almost golden, as if they were lit from behind by the very flames he ignited within the street lamps.

  “Well,” he explained, as he closed the casing and snuffed out the flame, “every so often I have to fill these lamps with oil, to keep the fires burning. Of course, some of the lamps closer to the Architect’s tower don’t need oil, like the statues in the city square.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, Castoro says he discovered a massive well of natural gas beneath the ground when he discovered the Tyndibar well. He connected a pump to it and a whole collection of pipes, which regulate the flow of gas. We would not want too much, else we might get a rather disastrous explosion.”

  Ophelia remember how she had gasped.

  She laughed again. Those days had been easier. Much less troublesome than her life now.

  If only I had known what would happen, she thought, remember the day her father had simply gotten up and left. She could not remember the precise day, but it was a little while after her mother had been put in a wheel chair.

  A number of years later, when Ophelia had been sixteen, hermother had come into her room to tell her of her brother’s death while guarding in the Architect’s gardens, around his and the vindicators’ towers. “Bludgeoned to death,” she had said. Apparently the body had been so badly mangled that a proper cremation could not be done without defiling the body more. It had been done, and his ashes kept in an urn on the mantlepiece, next to a photograph. It seemed morbid to keep the body of someone in one’s house, but it was tradition and it was what Ophelia’s mother had desired. The ashes of her brother would sit there for years to come, and Ophelia would have to become a LampLighter.

  “Thom,” she murmured, as she threw aside the now-empty gasbag, the last wisp of smoke rising towards the heavens, caught on the cold winds of Castore, towards the Tyndibar Well. She looked up, pausing in thought, and then down to a figure in the street. It was a familiar figure. A tall, tragic, wasted figure of the man named Faulkner. He looked up into her window, his mouth ever so slightly twitching, shivering in the cold of the rain.

  Wait, she murmured, noticing a red stain on his jacket. Against the blue fabric it was maroon. Is that blood?

  “Let me in,” Faulkner called out. “I need to explain something.”

  Ophelia glanced about the street. It was empty, as usual on a rainy day, and it seemed that everyone kept their curtains shut and their candles lit. No one was leaving their home today.

  She rushed down the stairs, checking on her mother. She was in her room, having a nap after taking her medicine. Sure she would not wake up for some time. She went to the front door and opened it.

  “You can come in,” she whispered, “but be quiet. My mother’s asleep and who knows when she’ll wake up.”

  He was dripping wet, his eyes troubled by something more than his missing wife. Were those…tears? He stood on the doorstep, silent and sad. “I’m sorry to bother you again,” he said, “but I need to talk to you.”

  She stood aside, grabbing a towel from the cupboard beneath the stairs so that he did not walk any water in. She guided him up the stairs, feeling his body shiver beneath the towel and his breathing come is rasps and gasps, as though he had to remind himself to take a breath in. His body was cold, but she sensed that it went deeper than his skin. It went to his very heart.

  “You’re freezing. Would you like a warm bath?”

  “Yes please,” he stuttered from the cold. She led him through her house into the bathroom, filling the copper tub with hot water. She poured some aromatic oils into the water—perhaps that would help clear away the dirt beneath his fingernails and covering his skin—and left him alone.

  “I’ll come back and check on you,” she said, closing the door softly behind her.

  *

  Faulkner bent down, turned off the tap and felt the water with his hand. It was warm and inviting, the steam rising from it; a nice change to the rain pouring down past the window outside. With the curtains drawn and the door closed, he removed his clothes and stepped into the tub. He took his time, lowering himself. The water was hot—a little too hot for some of the colder parts of his body, like his feet and toes. He took his breaths in slowly as he sank deeper, the water rising about the rim of the tub. He smelled lavender from the oils, and some other kind of flower.

  He leant back against the back of the tub, using the washer like a pillow between him and the cold copper. Steam rose about him, like small wisps of spirit, as the steam that came from his breath subsided. There was something comforting about being in a warm bath tub. Perhaps it was that he was away, for a time, from the cruel world outside. For this short period he could forget about the world, and worry only of the water splashing over the rim, or hitting his foot on the tap. Besides that, there was very little to concern him. His thoughts of Harriet were still there, almost at the fore of his mind, but he needn’t worry about her, even if only for five minutes.

  The mirror on the wall began to fog as the room filled with steam, the intoxicating scent of the bath oils soaking into his pores, clearing the coldness in his heart, melting the pain that had once held such a tight grasp.

  For this time, he was free…

  He woke up suddenly, his face sinking beneath the water, and snapped up like a mouse trap. Some water spilled over the tub’s edge, but it did not worry him. He could clean that up later. He got out and dried himself, letting the water drain.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Yes?” he called.

  “I have some clothes here if you don’t want to wear your uniform.”

  He looked down to his Guard uniform, with its rips and tears, and the bloodstain across its front. It was only small, but very noticeable against the blue fabric.

  “Yes please,” he replied, coming to the door. He wrapped the towel around himself and opened it. Ophelia stood there, clothes in hand, eyes shut and face averted. He took the clothes and closed the door, saying, “Thank you,” as he went.

  “They were my brothers,” she explained, her voice muffled only slightly from the other side of the door. “He was younger than you are, but he was also a bit bigger. They should fit.”

  It was a pair of deep navy—almost black—trousers and a plain shirt. He pulled them on.

  “They’re perfect,” he said. “Tell you brother I said thank you.”

  There was silence, and then Faulkner realised what he had said. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  As he came out, Ophelia had in her hands a coat for him to wear as well—a olive one, the colour of the canals on a rare sunny day. “To keep you warm,” she said. “Come downstairs. I have some coffee on the stove, and the fire is quite warm.

  The strong scent of the coffee seemed to permeate the house. Faulkner breathed it in deeply.

  “I wish I had more to give you for this hospitality,” he said.

  “Do not worry yourself about it,” Ophelia replied, almost sounding annoyed. “It’s quite all right.

  Ophelia poured the coffee into two mugs and took them over to Faulkner, passing one to him as he sat in the squishy armchair near th
e fire.

  “All right,” Ophelia said abruptly as she took her first sip of coffee. “Tell me.”

  Sparks flicked from the flames in the fireplace, whistling out of existence as they flew higher and higher, until they were gone from sight up the flue. Smoke curled about the fireplace, swirling amongst the golden light and heat. It would twist and swirl, before disappearing, emerging from the smokestack, grey and wispy, suddenly blown away one the next strong breeze. It was like everything within the fireplace. It had life to it, but once it was out in the cold, it was lost…dead…

  Much like how Faulkner felt now, as the coffee he sipped dribbled down his throat, warming his insides. The cold returned quickly, though.

  “I know you have already said no to me,” he began, staring into the fires, “but I need you to hear me out. I know what my own group did to your brother, and I apologise, but I need your help. I cannot go to anyone else. There are no LampLighters who would even risk their identity, let alone their lives, for a man like me.” He paused, thinking of all the LampLighters in the city, their anonymity their only safeguard between them and being hassled by thousands of superstitious citizens. “I swear, Ophelia, that I would never tell anyone of who you are and what you have done for me; I would only be thankful for the service you have done for me.”

  He could see Ophelia arguing with herself internally, her expression serious and focused. It would not be an easy decision to make—that, he reminded himself. There would surely be some kind of trouble in her thoughts as she reasoned. A life hung in the balance, and yet so did her integrity. The question had to be asked: Was she betraying her brother by helping this stranger?

  “It is kind of you to swear to not tell anyone who I am, but I am still worried. This is the Architect we’re talking about. The omniscient and omnipotent—the creator and founder of Castore itself. There will be repercussions.”

  “Then me and Harriet shall escape,” he explained. “We shall leave this city with our child and find ourselves a new life, wherever it may be.”

  Ophelia nearly choked on her coffee. Not because of it was hot, or she drank it too fast, but because of Faulkner’s statement. “But how can you be sure that you’ll survive? Depending on how long it takes, you could be escaping with a pregnant wife or a child in your hands. Either way, that child is doomed, not matter what you do. You do not know what is outside those walls. There could be worse fiends than what we have here, for all you know! Castoro’s own legend says that he crossed a vast wasteland to find the Well. How can you be certain that vast wasteland is no longer there?”

  “But I cannot do nothing! I need my wife. I need my child. I must fight for them. For my life. For our life.”

  “But you will set yourself up for tragedy and loss.” She had to stop herself from arguing any more as she could see sadness entering his face, growing exponentially, like an inrushing tide of emotions. “Look, I’m so sorry.”

  “Please,” he simpered, falling from his chair onto his knees before Ophelia in absolute and undeniable desperation. “I am begging you. I need Harriet, and she needs me, and we both need this child. Don’t think of it as a betrayal to your brother—I’m sure he would not take offence to you helping me. Think of it as a part of your job. It is your duty to guide people by keeping the city’s fires burning. Can you not find it within your heart to help me.” She felt that absolute pain in his gaze as he stared deeply into her own eyes. “Help me.”

  Ophelia looked from the flames, and back to Faulkner.

  Flames.

  Faulkner.

  Flames, as if they were the spirit of Thom himself.

  Faulkner, a helpless, lost soul.

  “Keep the fiends at bay,” Faulkner whispered. “Burn them with your flames.”

  She thought of the boy that had helped her in the streets only a few days before. If he had done it so bravely, why shouldn’t she?

  “Forgive me,” she murmured, lowering her hand onto the begging man’s shoulder.

  Weaved Fates

  When the water of the Well was discovered to have the qualities of blessing, I can remember the people lining the streets. They would come to be Blessed, marked by the waters, and they would gain powers. They said that these powers came from me; their King, their Architect, their God.

  Nataniel had spoken many times to Elenor in his dreams, her beautiful voice soft and kind. In the dreams—he still called them dreams though they were too clear and consistent to not be some kind of reality—they had spoken with each other, quietly, whispering as though every mundane statement was a secret.

  But never before had the voice continued outside of his slumber.

  “Nataniel,” Elenor said, as his eyes opened.

  For a moment, he felt a sense of sick confusion as the voice resonated in his thoughts. He shook his head, ignoring what had surely been an illusion, and sat up. Outside it was dark, except for the lights of the lamps below and the candle at his window. His room was lit softly by the flame of a candle, the shadows cast against the walls shaped into strange creatures of his imagination.

  “Elenor?” he whispered so as not to be heard by Delilah and Byron.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice simultaneously in his thoughts and out. He could almost sense her presence beside him, like a mist; invisible but present.

  “Can you even do this?” he asked.

  “What sort of question is that?” Elenor retorted in a strangely demeaning tone.

  “Oh, sorry,” he murmured. “What is it you want?”

  “You must go outside,” she responded. “There is someone you must meet.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “I cannot say,” she replied simply.

  He lingered hesitantly in his bed, his sheets now ruffled, his pyjamas holding the warmth. Outside, it was raining. “Do I have to leave the house? I’m only fourteen. I probably shouldn’t.”

  “You must,” she replied. “And you will be safe. I will protect you, as will the light of the lamps.”

  He considered her words for a second. He trusted her constantly, yet the more logical part of his thoughts told him to ignore her and go back to sleep. He was tired enough as it was. Going out would not help that.

  “Can I not see this person tomorrow morning, when every other sane person is awake?”

  “No, you must go now.”

  There was no other explanation, no other reasoning. Just go.

  He rose from his bed and changed quickly—there was no way he would be walking about the city in his pyjamas. He grabbed a pair of trousers, a shirt and a warm hooded jacket, which he zipped up tightly. He did not bother with a candle—it would only extinguish itself in the rain, and he had the lamps to guide him—and so he left his home, following Elenor’s directions. He took an umbrella from the hallway and kept to the light that bathed the ground from the lamps. In the alleyways and shadows lurked the monstrous night fiends, and he had no desire to come anywhere near them.

  As he walked, he felt a strange sense within him. A sense that suggested he knew, in part, where he was headed. What is this? he asked himself as he pulled the hood up closer about his face.

  *

  Ophelia did not sleep that night. She lay in bed, restless, the thoughts of her brother and her decision swimming through her thoughts. By promising the Faulkner fellow to join him on his climb to save his wife, was she really betraying her brother? Would he condone it? Would he feel sad? Perhaps…but she tried not to think of it.

  It still did not mean she could sleep.

  Outside, the rain beat against the window, soft light from her candle giving her some warmth against the strange iciness she felt. Was this her brother’s way of punishing her for her decision.

  You are doing the right thing, she tried to assure herself. Your brother would want you helping him.

  What was she thinking? She did not know what her brother would want. She only knew what she felt was right.

  She stirred again, pulling the blankets more
tightly about herself, keeping what warmth she could gather beneath the doona and sheets. Perhaps sleep would find her soon.

  *

  Faulkner did not want to intrude on Ophelia’s own life, so after convincing her, begging on his knees, he had left her. She had allowed him to keep the clothes he was now wearing, though had told him to leave the rifle behind. He would draw less attention to himself without it than he would with it. He found that hard to believe, when he had always found a Blue Guard with a rifle an eye-averting sight, but he supposed that a civilian with a firearm was an entirely different matter altogether. Out of the kindness of the girl’s heart—and what a large heart she must have!—she had given him some coins so he could spend the night at an inn. Initially he had been sceptical, but perhaps with a little extra coinage exchanging hands he could convince the inn-man to ask no questions. The later he went in too meant he could enter while there were only a few people still drinking, and even then a large number would be inebriated beyond recognising him.

  As he turned onto a quiet, rain-swept street, he caught sight of a boy, probably no older than fourteen, wandering down the street, keeping to the light of the lamps, an umbrella pulled over his head. Strange, he thought. A boy out so late, and by himself, too. Hanging over the boy’s head was a swarm of hearthflies, circled like a fiery halo.

  The boy, as if he had heard Faulkner’s thoughts, looked up, staring directly at Faulkner. For a moment, Faulkner expected the boy to come running to him…and he did.