The Light on a Dark Night

This was a sketch I wrote long ago, which was intended to go into The Ironwood Staff. As it happened, it didn't, but I thought it was nicely atmospheric, so I'm putting it in here.
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Tomas felt his spine crawl. It was just after the preternaturally early sunset of this far southern land, at the end of the fourth month. He could place no origin for the feeling – maybe it was just the shaggy, untidy, leaf-littered street, where dusk seemed to grow out of shadowed corners; maybe it was the gloomy feeling of encroaching winter, when the already unfriendly neighbourhood muttered unpleasantness to the unwelcome. A feeling of threat grew with the dark.

With full night, he felt a desperate, sobbing need for light. He lit a fire in the parlour, as he had to anyway (glad that he’d already cleared the grate) and put two lamps in the corners of the room – then found that when he wanted to go to bed, the shriek-black darkness of his own bedroom bared its fangs at him. He quickly returned to the now comfortless seating of the parlour, with its hard table, cold floor and a fire that might not last the night. Feeling mounting fear, he went to check the oil store – and found it nearly empty! Fear of the dark touched his heart with icy fingers. The hairs of his arms rose up and his eyes pricked with tears. He was too scared to stay in the house – but the terror of the autumn-dark streets outside kept him there.
Topping up one of the lamps with the last of the oil, he sat shivering right on the edge of the hearth, his mind reeling in rising and falling tides of madness as the light of the fire became dim.
Then, in a moment of clarity, he remembered a beautiful little song from a childhood now remote -haltingly at first, but with growing confidence, he sang that simple little childhood hymn. It told of the love of Light, the security of mother and hearth, the merriment of family. Eventually he was singing it out loud, tears streaming down his face for the things he no longer had – light, mother, friends.
After a time, his mind turned over his emotions, and he realised that for all his efforts, he was wretched. His life was a mess, for no other reason than he lacked light, companions, everything!
Finally, as his last source of light grew dim, he told himself that the lack of something was no reason to be afraid. Despite the dank, clammy fear, he put on a cloak, went out and locked the door, leaving for the neighbourhood Sanctuary.
It wasn’t as cold as he’d expected outside in the gusty small hours, but neither was it as threatening. Entering through the side door, he sat at the front, sitting cross-legged in elado-fashion, as he used to call it, in the front row.
Like all Sanctuaries, there were images of the patron Powers of the town all around, and scenes from the Lore. The whole building was octagonal, as usual, but the north-western wall was blank, free of images. It was the direction of the Shining Mountain. That wall was carved with abstract, swirling designs which focused attention on a large golden lamp with eight wicks, standing on a stone plinth. It was a representation of the Light of the One and was kept lit at all times. Right now, it was the only light in the place.
Tomas sat, looking at the lamp. It glowed continually, shining its light on everything, good, bad and indifferent. There was no darkness. There was not enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of one of those wicks. Tomas felt a wave of peace and contentment at the thought. To avoid the need, you had to go where the need was satisfied. Not to where it was denied, in an affluent, decaying society; not to where it was distracted; but to where it was truly satisfied. All other needs were simple reflections, or pointers to, that need which could only be filled by the Presence denoted by the sacred lamp. Tomas’ heart filled with gratitude at the gratuity of the Presence – it excluded no-one.
As he sat there, an acolyte came in from the passage that linked the Sanctuary to the Cloister. It didn’t look like he noticed Tomas, as he blearily refilled the Lamp and trimmed its wicks. After he had finished, he sat cross-legged in front of the Lamp for a few minutes, then got up to go. He noticed Tomas and started visibly. He looked hard at Tomas, but Tomas made no acknowledgement. Then he came down and sat close to Tomas. After a while he said, ‘I wondered why I was awake at this time of night. I often am, when someone needs to talk.’
And so they talked. It was full light when Tomas felt tired of talking. The old acolyte went off to get some holy water for Tomas, and Tomas thanked him and went home. The autumn sun was shining nostalgically on the locked-up house, and Tomas splashed the holy water on the door and moved to the windows. Then he saw it – swinging in the shadows of the thatched eaves was a loathsome bundle of artefacts. A twisted piece of metal, it looked like part of an axle; a crow’s wing-feather; a fragment of wood; and the paw of a monkey, all tied together with grass, and suspended from a rafter by strands of horsehair. The fear of the night before seemed to ooze from it. With his staff, Tomas knocked the excrescence off, then poured the rest of the holy water on it. As he watched, the pieces writhed and smoked, darkness fleeing before light.