Yellow Lanterns

“Don’t bother the manor folk.” His mother tugged Alex out the vine choked gate, her hand tightly curled around his small one. Alex dug his heels into the muddy path and flopped his entire six-year-old self back with rag-doll dissent.

“Why?” Alex howled the mournful word into the evening sky as he was dragged down the towards the proper village paths. The mismatched arches, needle-spires, and squat sides of the strange house vanished behind the steep hillocks.

Alex’s mother heaved him up with arms thick from harvest work. “Hush, they don’t want any of your nonsense,” she scolded into his hair. Alex turned over her shoulder, round eyes fixed back the way they’d come. Below them, the village’s yellow lanterns began to show one by one in the valley.

******

“We aren’t supposed to bother the manor folk–” Zak’s said distantly, as if half-remembering the rule. Alex blew out a breath in response. Both of them watched the manor’s window between its soft blue curtains. From outside, bellies pressed to the evening’s wet grass of the nearest hill, they could see shapes move within the steam.

At twelve-years old, with wiry limbs and unreliable voices that faltered when they needed them most, all they had was their bravado. That, and the stolen glances of immortal golden skin they’d trade later with the other village boys. Alex slipped words into his friend’s ear. “We’re just looking, not bothering anyone.”

Zak nodded satisfied, “how old do you think they really are?” His eyes locked themselves on the open window and the promising darkness within. They stole every splash of water, soft laugh, and glossy sheen on dark hair for themselves.

Alex didn’t get a chance to guess. A massive hand closed on his shoulder and hauled him up and onto his feet. Two manor folk loomed over Alex and Zak both bullishly built and frowning. Under the darkening evening, the two boys were marched back towards the yellow lights of the village, Alex spinning innocence as they went.

******

“Keep out of the way and don’t bother the manor folk,” The sailor snapped at Alex and pushed him to a section of railing. The small crew avoided the prow. There the brothers from the manor house looked out over the water. The shorter brother rolled his angular shoulders and the wind crashed down on the ship.

In his eighteen years living in the village that sat beneath and served the strange house, Alex had learned their names and habits. He knew who courted whom, who visited the village to fix fences and help harvest, who brought small festival gifts for the children, and who never left the strange mismatched place. The larger brother was Cole, broad of shoulder, jaw, and judging looks. The shorter was Aren, fair haired, who spoke and dressed with precision. Alex knew they didn’t know his name, none of them did.

The rigging creaked, the full sails cracked, and the entire sea seemed to beat at Alex’s skull as they darted forward into the open ocean. His knuckles were white on the rail, gripped tight lest the ship pitch him into the sea and the razor bits of rock hidden just beneath the water. Alex closed his eyes and imagined the yellow lanterns, lit one by one beyond the sharp island mountains.

*****

“And the manor folk? Do they really live forever?” The six-year-old asked Alex, a small finger tracing the pastel pictures in the book between them.

“Well,” Alex said, looking down at the curly mess of his son’s head and catching the inquisitive green eyes they shared. “I think so. The young ladies certainly stayed all dewy and bright like spring mornings. The men never stopped their brash pecking around like peacocks.”

His son chortled in the crook of Alex’s arm, attention darting between the stories on page and the ones hanging in the air.  The laugh was interrupted by a yawn and Alex drew up the blankets. “Why did you leave?” His son asked, sleepy and distracted by the illustrations of a fiery, armored woman next to her black-cowled, snow-haired sister. The boy turned the page to a verdant scene where a young druid wandered a forest path.

“Sometimes the island felt like a prison.” The honestly spoiled the air and Alex sighed. He quickly smiled and stood before his son could make anything more of the words. Alex bent forward, taking the book and tucking the six-year old into the blankets.  “There was no room for me there, an island so full of other people’s stories, I wanted to make my own. And so I have.” Alex tapped the tip of his son’s nose, causing the boy to snort.

Alex set the book aside. As his son yawned and turned over, Alex reached up to light the lantern hung in the window. With the soft yellow light keeping watch and the worst of the darkness away, Alex left his son’s room with a smile.

Perpetually late as usual, but not a thief this time. The line Sometimes the island felt like a prison. was taken by a few larcenous writers as part of the Legal Theft Project. See them below. 

A Mad Writer….Legal Theft Project: Practiced Escapes

An Animal Lover…. Favors

A Librarian … The Sea Serpent