The Jar of Small Lights
Idris walked down the moss path with Pip close beside him. The stars came through the branches in little spills of light. In his hands he held an empty glass jar. In his pocket he had a handful of red rowan berries. "One step, then another step, Pip," said Idris. Pip's ears went up at once. Ahead, the path dipped down beneath the big roots. No starlight reached down there. That was the part Idris did not like.
Idris stopped at the top of the dip. His chest felt tight and small. He said the scared feeling out loud, quietly, so Pip could hear it. "I don't like the dark bit," he said. Pip sat down next to his boot and waited. He did not hurry Idris at all. The trees creaked softly above them, the way old trees do. Idris held the jar against his jumper and breathed out slow.
Then he went down one step. He counted it. He went down another step, and counted that one too. Behind him, the starlight lay on the path like spilled milk. Pip's russet tail brushed his ankle each time he stopped. "One step, then another step, Pip," Idris said. His voice came out steadier than he expected. Three steps. Four steps. The moss under his boots grew cool and deep and quiet.
At seven steps, the dark was all around him, soft as wool. It did not grab. It did not rush. It only sat there, being dark. Idris waited with his hand on Pip's warm back until his eyes changed. Slowly, slowly, shapes came out of the black. A leaning root. A wet stone. And then, low near the ground, one tiny green light, no bigger than a crumb.
Idris crouched down. Pip's nose came down beside his cheek. Under a fallen log, the green light had friends. Nine of them. Twelve. Small round beetles with lamps in their tails, glowing on and off like slow breathing. They were crawling over the old wood, looking and looking for something. The log was bare. There was nothing sweet on it anywhere. Idris watched them search and felt the berries in his pocket.
He took the berries out, one at a time, and set them on the log. Red berries in a row of green lights. Then he laid the jar on its side beside them, open, like a little glass cave. He sat back on his heels and did not touch anything. Waiting was easier than walking. Pip curled against his knee. Above them, far up, the stars kept leaning through the branches.
The beetles found the berries. They climbed and clustered and tucked in. Then one beetle, then two, then a whole slow parade went into the jar instead, because it was warm from his hands. Their light bounced off the glass and out again. The jar began to shine like a small round moon. Idris lifted it carefully. His own fingers glowed pink. "One step, then another step, Pip," he whispered, and stood up.
He walked back up the dip with the light held out in front. The leaning root was only a root. The wet stone was only a stone. Pip trotted ahead, gold at the edges, his ears bright and his shadow long. Behind them the beetles who had stayed went on eating berries in the dark, their lamps blinking slow. Idris did not feel tight in the chest any more. He felt wide, like the sky.
At the top, where the moss was soft and warm, Idris lay down with Pip tucked under his arm. He turned the jar on its side and let the beetles go. They drifted out into the ferns, one light, then another light, then all of them. The forest held them like tiny stars come down for a visit. Idris closed his eyes. Pip's breathing slowed. And then Idris's breathing slowed too, until the two of them were breathing the same.