Once upon a time, in a village like many others, a village who danced and sang, a village with traditions and myths, a village of stories and magic.
The village was nestled into the crook of a mountains’ arm. It was a charming destination. It was filled with violet-covered wooden cottages and cobblestreet downtowns where people sold eggs and bread. The villagers loved each neighbor dearly. They provided for one another and never let anyone go hungry. Every one of them loved and laughed and sang.
Except one little boy. He was of fair, dark skin hair and raven’s eyes. Other villagers seemed disinterested with the boy’s blandness, and the feeling was mutual. He was a quiet child who rarely joined in on hopscotch or make-believe. But he was very good at pretending.
One day, the boy went for a walk in the woods. Now, the woods that surrounded the village were friendly enough. Trails that snaked throughout assist travelers in navigating the area. But in the uncharted forest, wild things prowled. Some of the village’s dearest stories were prompted by the unusual noises that echoes from the dark emerald forest late at night. But as much as the village loved to imagine what filled the forest, but no one ever looked.
On the day in question, the boy wandered off these paths. He crossed a creek and climbed a few trees. His dark cheeks were flushed with exertion and his bones were happy. But it was getting late. Not that anyone would notice if he came back late; his parents rarely noticed when he was there. He was just deciding to turn back when he heard something from deeper inside the forest.
The boy stood, panting. He was conflicted. He had two options; turn back, and insure getting home before darkness fell, or; follow the noise.
A memory came to the boy: his grandmother, telling him the story of their village. His grandmother had been perhaps the only person to ever love him, but that was before she died. She was sitting cross legged in the meadow at twilight. Per tradition, it was she who taught him all the stories of their people. The story that night had been a strange one, a story of an element the boy had never heard of nor encountered. The story of the Midnight Sun.
Fire.
It was fire, his grandmother said solemnly, that stole away the first village. On an midsummer midnight, when clouds misted over the stars, a stranger had slipped into town, matches clutched in his white fist. The details were cloudy, like the night. All the villagers remembered was suddenly the wooden cottages were swooped into the fire like fish into a net. It seemed to strong and so inevitable that those who made it out of their houses could only watch. It crackled like a forest simultaneously falling. It blazed with the strength of the sun.
The damage was devastating. The village was forced to rebuild completely, replacing wood with stone, banning all fire. Even candles were fed to the river to be washed away. No flame had entered the village since the Midnight Sun.
Telling it, a strange trance settled over his grandmother. Her voice became low and fluent. There was a strange light flickering in her eyes, their brown catching fire as easily as the village had, all those years ago.
The man who set it disappeared, she told him. Into the night.
Or into the fire.
A mischievous smile widened across the boy’s face as he turned in the direction of the noise. He ran towards it, breaking sticks, pushing branches out of the way. The sun sank further. It was dangling precariously between day and night, turning the sky a dusty blue. The boy ran. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. . .
He stopped in his tracks.
He had found the Midnight Sun.
It was grander than he imagined, much grander. At nearly five times the boy’s size, it commanded everything from the center of a clearing. The sticks and leaves littered around it were all burned and twisted. What his grandmother had described made sense; it did sound like an entire forest falling to its knees, it did glower like the sun.
Yet there was a calling about it the boy could not have imagined. It tugged at him from the center of his small chest, overpowering any other urges.
It was so tangible. So close.
Like he could touch it.
He took one step. Then another. Then another, and another, he could feel the heat on his cheeks, taste the dryness of the air, eyes watering, nose stinging with smoke, just one more step-
He was in the fire.
Yes, in the fire. Warmness came first- surprisingly pleasant, like a wool blanket. Scratchy. Then a buzz. He felt it in his toes, his arms, his whole body. It filled his soul up like the element was inside him, not around. He needed to do something, he was sure of that. He needed to move, to scream, to satisfy the payment he knew he owed the fire.
He started to dance.
He let himself grow lighter until he was floating off the ground. While he felt effervescent, the fire and dance were filling parts of him that nothing ever had. Loneliness, perhaps. Wistfulness. The flames grew warmer. They hummed with pleasure, a melody so aberrant he wasn’t sure it was even truly there. His moves matched the rhythm perfectly. Oblivion was a dance and he knew every move.
He didn’t know for how long he danced, but one one moment he was there, the next, he was sitting on the forest floor. The burned twigs were still there, as was the looming forest. Stars had come out to watch his performance.
In the firelight, he checked his arms and legs. No burns, Nothing. Not even a scrape.
So he stood, brushed off his hands, and turned back to the woods. At the edge of the clearing, he turned. There was the fire, blazing strong as ever. It tugged at him from that inexplicable place deep inside him. But it was too late in the evening, and soon his parents would worry. But he made a promise there, caught between reality and bliss, whispered to darkness, fire, and the moon-
I’ll be back.
And he slipped into the shadows.
The boy kept his promise. Every night, just before twilight, he’d escape to the forest. It took quite a bit of wandering to lose himself and find the Midnight Sun, but he did. Every night. And every night, he stepped into the flames and became host to a magical entity. He danced until the whole world was lost. Until if there was a world, it consisted only of the flames flickering on his fingertips.
The villagers took notice to his frequent absences. They began whispering about the boy with eyes of ash and clothes covered with leaves. They frowned when they caught a whiff of smoke lingering in his hair. Noses flew into the air when the boy did a move or two on the street. His mother yelled at the boy for wearing through his shoes. He grew quieter still. The other children downright ignored him. They played games to see if the could walk right through him, as if he were merely a wisp of smoke. Even his elders joined in, sneering at him when they passed on the street.
Dancing was his only respite. Once, he became so desperate for a constant companion that he cupped a flame in his hand and tried to steal away with it. For the first time, he learned the searing pain of a burn. He howled and dropped the fire immediately. But that did not stop him from trying.
One day, the boy did not go to the forest. He instead sat alone in his room, staring at a spot on the wall. He was making a decision.
He ate dinner and went to bed, but not sleep. He lay awake until he was sure everyone in the village was unconscious in their dreaming. Then he slipped out to the forest. A cold breeze tousled his dark locks. There was a stone in his stone and a tightness in his fist. He wandered slowly that night, each even, calculated step taking him nearer to his destination.
The Midnight Sun was stronger the usual. Taller. More demanding. Giving off enough light to cast shadows deep into the woods. He entered the flame at a sprint and a feeling so intense swelled into the boy he went blind. The blindness did not prevent him from his dance. It felt like a fight, that dance did. He savored it like a starving person would a king's feast. When every muscle in his body was exhausted beyond comprehension, he stumbled out of the flame. His sight returned gradually. When it did, his gaze his fixed on the heart of the fire. He knew what to do.
He knelt. Sure enough, there was the base of the fire. A tangled nest of twigs. He darted his hand out and snagged one. In the air, it continued to burn. The little sun gleamed furiously against the darkness. A mischievous smile widened across the boy’s face. The boy cupped it in his palm and took off into the night.
Branches caught on the boy’s hair and clothes as he tore through the forest. His legs burned as adamantly as the twig. His hitched breath filled the entire cold atmosphere. The only warmth in existence, it seemed, was the tiny flame he clutched with both hands.
Soon the village was in sight. He raced through the streets, passing framiler buildings that had never felt like home. The roads all lead to the center of town; that was his destination. Many carriages were parked along the cobblestone road. He scrambled to the top of the nearest one.
He stood, bones aching, breath broken, clothes tattered. The tiny flame trembled with his uncontrollably shaking hand.
He remembered the children’s laughter. He remembered sitting alone for every activity, always watching, never living. He remembered the taunts about his vagueness and remoteness. And he remembered seeing the fire for the first time, feeling the fire. It was in his head. In his body, when he danced.
It was in his blood.
The boy drew back his arm. He aimed the twig at a chain of buildings that connected all over town. It would catch so easily. Then all the people who hated him would know the joy of the Midnight Sun. He was kind, really. They didn’t deserve his fire.
He threw the stick.
It caught immediately. Like a cast of performers finally bursting out of the wings, filling the stage with vibrance and illumination, the fire leaped and twirled intricate patterns up and down the village’s walls. The boy watched all this interestly. This was as grand as his own fire. Yes, this would do nicely.
There was a strange light flickering in his eyes, their brown catching fire as easily as the village was, just as it had all those years ago.
He walked slowly, deliberately, towards the fire
to dance
one
last
time.
The village was nestled into the crook of a mountains’ arm. It was a charming destination. It was filled with violet-covered wooden cottages and cobblestreet downtowns where people sold eggs and bread. The villagers loved each neighbor dearly. They provided for one another and never let anyone go hungry. Every one of them loved and laughed and sang.
Except one little boy. He was of fair, dark skin hair and raven’s eyes. Other villagers seemed disinterested with the boy’s blandness, and the feeling was mutual. He was a quiet child who rarely joined in on hopscotch or make-believe. But he was very good at pretending.
One day, the boy went for a walk in the woods. Now, the woods that surrounded the village were friendly enough. Trails that snaked throughout assist travelers in navigating the area. But in the uncharted forest, wild things prowled. Some of the village’s dearest stories were prompted by the unusual noises that echoes from the dark emerald forest late at night. But as much as the village loved to imagine what filled the forest, but no one ever looked.
On the day in question, the boy wandered off these paths. He crossed a creek and climbed a few trees. His dark cheeks were flushed with exertion and his bones were happy. But it was getting late. Not that anyone would notice if he came back late; his parents rarely noticed when he was there. He was just deciding to turn back when he heard something from deeper inside the forest.
The boy stood, panting. He was conflicted. He had two options; turn back, and insure getting home before darkness fell, or; follow the noise.
A memory came to the boy: his grandmother, telling him the story of their village. His grandmother had been perhaps the only person to ever love him, but that was before she died. She was sitting cross legged in the meadow at twilight. Per tradition, it was she who taught him all the stories of their people. The story that night had been a strange one, a story of an element the boy had never heard of nor encountered. The story of the Midnight Sun.
Fire.
It was fire, his grandmother said solemnly, that stole away the first village. On an midsummer midnight, when clouds misted over the stars, a stranger had slipped into town, matches clutched in his white fist. The details were cloudy, like the night. All the villagers remembered was suddenly the wooden cottages were swooped into the fire like fish into a net. It seemed to strong and so inevitable that those who made it out of their houses could only watch. It crackled like a forest simultaneously falling. It blazed with the strength of the sun.
The damage was devastating. The village was forced to rebuild completely, replacing wood with stone, banning all fire. Even candles were fed to the river to be washed away. No flame had entered the village since the Midnight Sun.
Telling it, a strange trance settled over his grandmother. Her voice became low and fluent. There was a strange light flickering in her eyes, their brown catching fire as easily as the village had, all those years ago.
The man who set it disappeared, she told him. Into the night.
Or into the fire.
A mischievous smile widened across the boy’s face as he turned in the direction of the noise. He ran towards it, breaking sticks, pushing branches out of the way. The sun sank further. It was dangling precariously between day and night, turning the sky a dusty blue. The boy ran. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. . .
He stopped in his tracks.
He had found the Midnight Sun.
It was grander than he imagined, much grander. At nearly five times the boy’s size, it commanded everything from the center of a clearing. The sticks and leaves littered around it were all burned and twisted. What his grandmother had described made sense; it did sound like an entire forest falling to its knees, it did glower like the sun.
Yet there was a calling about it the boy could not have imagined. It tugged at him from the center of his small chest, overpowering any other urges.
It was so tangible. So close.
Like he could touch it.
He took one step. Then another. Then another, and another, he could feel the heat on his cheeks, taste the dryness of the air, eyes watering, nose stinging with smoke, just one more step-
He was in the fire.
Yes, in the fire. Warmness came first- surprisingly pleasant, like a wool blanket. Scratchy. Then a buzz. He felt it in his toes, his arms, his whole body. It filled his soul up like the element was inside him, not around. He needed to do something, he was sure of that. He needed to move, to scream, to satisfy the payment he knew he owed the fire.
He started to dance.
He let himself grow lighter until he was floating off the ground. While he felt effervescent, the fire and dance were filling parts of him that nothing ever had. Loneliness, perhaps. Wistfulness. The flames grew warmer. They hummed with pleasure, a melody so aberrant he wasn’t sure it was even truly there. His moves matched the rhythm perfectly. Oblivion was a dance and he knew every move.
He didn’t know for how long he danced, but one one moment he was there, the next, he was sitting on the forest floor. The burned twigs were still there, as was the looming forest. Stars had come out to watch his performance.
In the firelight, he checked his arms and legs. No burns, Nothing. Not even a scrape.
So he stood, brushed off his hands, and turned back to the woods. At the edge of the clearing, he turned. There was the fire, blazing strong as ever. It tugged at him from that inexplicable place deep inside him. But it was too late in the evening, and soon his parents would worry. But he made a promise there, caught between reality and bliss, whispered to darkness, fire, and the moon-
I’ll be back.
And he slipped into the shadows.
The boy kept his promise. Every night, just before twilight, he’d escape to the forest. It took quite a bit of wandering to lose himself and find the Midnight Sun, but he did. Every night. And every night, he stepped into the flames and became host to a magical entity. He danced until the whole world was lost. Until if there was a world, it consisted only of the flames flickering on his fingertips.
The villagers took notice to his frequent absences. They began whispering about the boy with eyes of ash and clothes covered with leaves. They frowned when they caught a whiff of smoke lingering in his hair. Noses flew into the air when the boy did a move or two on the street. His mother yelled at the boy for wearing through his shoes. He grew quieter still. The other children downright ignored him. They played games to see if the could walk right through him, as if he were merely a wisp of smoke. Even his elders joined in, sneering at him when they passed on the street.
Dancing was his only respite. Once, he became so desperate for a constant companion that he cupped a flame in his hand and tried to steal away with it. For the first time, he learned the searing pain of a burn. He howled and dropped the fire immediately. But that did not stop him from trying.
One day, the boy did not go to the forest. He instead sat alone in his room, staring at a spot on the wall. He was making a decision.
He ate dinner and went to bed, but not sleep. He lay awake until he was sure everyone in the village was unconscious in their dreaming. Then he slipped out to the forest. A cold breeze tousled his dark locks. There was a stone in his stone and a tightness in his fist. He wandered slowly that night, each even, calculated step taking him nearer to his destination.
The Midnight Sun was stronger the usual. Taller. More demanding. Giving off enough light to cast shadows deep into the woods. He entered the flame at a sprint and a feeling so intense swelled into the boy he went blind. The blindness did not prevent him from his dance. It felt like a fight, that dance did. He savored it like a starving person would a king's feast. When every muscle in his body was exhausted beyond comprehension, he stumbled out of the flame. His sight returned gradually. When it did, his gaze his fixed on the heart of the fire. He knew what to do.
He knelt. Sure enough, there was the base of the fire. A tangled nest of twigs. He darted his hand out and snagged one. In the air, it continued to burn. The little sun gleamed furiously against the darkness. A mischievous smile widened across the boy’s face. The boy cupped it in his palm and took off into the night.
Branches caught on the boy’s hair and clothes as he tore through the forest. His legs burned as adamantly as the twig. His hitched breath filled the entire cold atmosphere. The only warmth in existence, it seemed, was the tiny flame he clutched with both hands.
Soon the village was in sight. He raced through the streets, passing framiler buildings that had never felt like home. The roads all lead to the center of town; that was his destination. Many carriages were parked along the cobblestone road. He scrambled to the top of the nearest one.
He stood, bones aching, breath broken, clothes tattered. The tiny flame trembled with his uncontrollably shaking hand.
He remembered the children’s laughter. He remembered sitting alone for every activity, always watching, never living. He remembered the taunts about his vagueness and remoteness. And he remembered seeing the fire for the first time, feeling the fire. It was in his head. In his body, when he danced.
It was in his blood.
The boy drew back his arm. He aimed the twig at a chain of buildings that connected all over town. It would catch so easily. Then all the people who hated him would know the joy of the Midnight Sun. He was kind, really. They didn’t deserve his fire.
He threw the stick.
It caught immediately. Like a cast of performers finally bursting out of the wings, filling the stage with vibrance and illumination, the fire leaped and twirled intricate patterns up and down the village’s walls. The boy watched all this interestly. This was as grand as his own fire. Yes, this would do nicely.
There was a strange light flickering in his eyes, their brown catching fire as easily as the village was, just as it had all those years ago.
He walked slowly, deliberately, towards the fire
to dance
one
last
time.
- Icestorm's blog
- Sprout
- Log in or register to post comments
serenamae2020
Sep 03, 2018
Whoa. The title was what caught my eye first, but your first few paragraphs hooked me. I knew instantly that something was special about the boy, because you said that everyone loved each other, but he was all alone. Nice job setting it up.
Another favorite moment of mine was when the boy was walking through the woods and he heard a noise. I expected an animal - a wolf, perhaps - but the fire was a real plot twist that I enjoyed.
As I kept reading, I was drawn deeper and deeper into the story. When I read about the grandmother telling him about how the first village was burned down, I was intrigued. Previously I was wondering about how the fire had become lit in the forest, but after reading about the village that was burned, I was satisfied, because in my head, the man who burned the village was the person who was setting the fires for the boy. I don't know if that was your intention, but it was how it played out in my head.
I really enjoyed the entire story, but the ending was truly unique. It was a horrible thing that happened (the boy did murder hundreds of people, after all) but you made it sound calm, peaceful even, like the boy did it simply because it was the right thing to do. He again was calm as he went to dance "one last time" as you put it, and this made for a very satisfying ending.
Overall, I am very impressed with this piece. You have done a fabulous job creating a world in which the reader is drawn into quite quickly. I feel like short stories don't get enough love on this website, but I just wanted you to know that I love this one.
-Serena