With practiced form, Ingrid lunged at the boy, the slender wooden rod she held making a dramatic swishing sound as it carved through the air to meet its mark. The boy, several years younger, had already lifted his own stick to parry as though he had known the strike was coming, and the two weapons danced in an exchange of blows. Hers, bright and smooth, freshly carved hickory. And his larger and slightly gnarled, looking like the letter “Z” pulled from both ends, stretched out and twisted. Altogether more intimidating, his was made of some darker, more sinister wood that had been found in the Forest, polished to a menacing shine.
The weapons swept through the dim light of the Main Hut, coming together again and again. Their gleaming colors collided in great spectacle, leaving trails in the dark-adjusted vision of the sighted members of the small audience. Although the practical purpose of some of the duelists' maneuvers was unclear, the attendees were rapt.
“Vwooom... vwooom. Voom-voom..”
An old man, Uncle Ed, sat in a chair, a real chair, in the front row, stage left. Cupping his hands over his beard, he produced frightening, electric noises in harmony with the natural sound effects generated by the thoughtfully designed prop weapons.
Suddenly the combatants locked together. An audience member with no eyes and a nearly vacant, ego-less smile leaned forward on his front-row log, grasping his hands together against his chest. This was the Director. He hadn't been born blind, and had somehow retained, perhaps improved his keen sense of visual style since he had destroyed his own eyes. Like Beethoven, it was often joked.
“Your powers grow weak, Old Man.” menaced the boy actor.
Some of the audience were unable to contain their chuckles. This reaction reddened young Alex's cheeks with an implausible quickness, but he quickly regained his focus.
A few of the old folks in the back silently criticized the whole play as being entirely too loud.
“You won't win Darth,” declared Ingrid, with great defiance. “If you strike me down I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”
With a flick of the wrist, Darth Vader launched the hickory rod flying to the back of the hut, and the two stood staring at each other. Uncle Ed's sound-effects lowered to a dull hum as Vader pointed his blade at Obi-Wan Kenobi, who slowly knelt to his knees.
An old woman sitting behind the players against a small black curtain, who had been acting as a sign-language interpreter up to this point, now spoke aloud to the audience:
“Luke, Leia, Han Solo and Chewbacca arrive.”
A handsome young man trotted in from stage right, accompanied at a somewhat slower pace by three small children in ill-fitting costumes. One child wore a yellowed cloth that was probably white at some point, another had various furs tied around them, and the third with an old black vest that was far too large for them.
“Ben!” The young man exclaimed, somewhat flatly. The boy wrapped in furs let out a tiny growl.
Ingrid and Alex looked to the group, then back at each other. Ingrid smiled in a way that was far too subtle to translate through the candlelight, and as a soot-blackened hand reached from behind the curtain to attach something to Ingrid's sack cloth robe, Darth Vader struck her down.
The long robe miraculously levitated in place as Ingrid shrank towards the floor, stretching her arm out backwards to allow herself to be swiftly pulled behind the curtain by the man with the soot-blackened hand. In the dark hut, the effect was utterly convincing for the younger children, and the adults loved it too because they thought it so clever. Interpreters were unsure as to how much of the illusion to reveal to the blind, this sort of thing occasionally being a minor source of debate. The director enjoyed crafting illusions for his plays, but steadfastly refused to reveal his secrets to the few who weren't directly involved with the production.
Ingrid could not resist peeking from behind the curtain to see the reactions to her performance, and the smiles in the flickering light, and the children all agog, filled her heart with joy and pride. She was sometimes thankful that the director was blind, because he would not have approved of her peeking. Everyone was so happy! Even the old folks! She thought maybe their play had made everyone more happy than they had ever been before.
In the far corner Old Simon was having the events of the night signed into his hands by his even older mother, Angie. Angie was nearly always inscrutable, but Simon's stoic expression made Ingrid worry that perhaps the nuances of the performance were not being accurately described to him, and a small scowl threatened her pretty face.
Another man though, in his 40s, sat on an upright log wearing the most enormous stupid grin Ingrid had ever seen. This man's name was Hank, and Ingrid had decided that he was her father. Tonight he was positively bursting with excitement, giddier than the children even. Although Hank seemed to enjoy all the plays, Ingrid had to admit to herself that her performance alone was unlikely to be the sole reason for his high spirits, and she wondered what else was going on. She'd never seen anything like it.
Hank was staring at the floating robe with his stupid grin and she beamed at him. He noticed her gaze and beamed back, his smile growing even wider as she made a mock attempt to hide behind the curtain before quickly peaking back out, her one visible eye singing of delight at the private joke.
The magic robe fell to the ground, now empty.
“Ben!” said the young man once again, somehow with exactly the same delivery, “No!”. Vader then turned to the audience, raised his arms, lifted his head back, laughed in the deepest, most evil voice that Alex could summon, and the play was over.
Enthusiastic but restrained applause filled the hut, and everyone save Simon and his mother were smiling. Our Chewbacca, still in wide-eyed amazement, had forgotten to exit the stage and was discretely escorted to the side by the Director who, somehow detecting that one of his actors was misbehaving, had speedily crouch-walked over and found him at his mark.
Ingrid and the boy who played Luke, an older, duller youth named Francis, strode onto stage to join Alex for their bow. Then, groups of people began standing up from the audience in turn and heading forward to the stage, about six at a time. Nearly everyone in the room, about three dozen people all told, which represented more than half of the entire population of the camp, had played some role in the short play, and there was much bowing and polite clapping and hugging among the cast and crew. The combined narrator and sign language interpreter, the soot-covered stagehand, Angie because she had interpreted for her son, Mary-Anne because she had sewn most of the costumes(although Mary-Anne had sewn nearly every piece of clothing in the camp, and it was Ingrid herself who made many of the bespoke alterations.)
The procession soon devolved into chaos, as even the Director surrendered control in order to graciously accept compliments and embrace his actors. The children, some of them struggling to stay awake, were escorted up last and received the longest applause despite the now-distracted gathering. Ingrid knew this was mostly out of politeness and was not the slightest bit jealous.
And so the performance became a social gathering with no particular moment separating the two. The night was cool and gentle with very few biting insects, and the Main Hut, though well-ventilated, had become far too warm, so the candles were extinguished and the crowd filtered out into the fresh breeze. The youngest children were herded or carried to their beds, and a few of the oldest made their exit in kind, but most of the adults would return, as there was merriment in the air and something new to talk about. Such a night was rare.
Spreading a prudent distance apart into the expansive central area of the camp known as the Pavilion, the big family settled into small groups upon the logs, overturned plastic buckets, and prestigious yet tattered and worn camp chairs arranged semi-permanently across the mossy, needle covered ground for quiet, or sometimes silent, conversations.
Ingrid emerged disoriented from the Main Hut into the inky blackness. Still, it was easy to get to her seat. As her fingertips found the edge of a large plywood-and-sawhorse table, Ingrid took several precise steps, then allowed herself to fall backward with perfect faith into the wide maw of a massive folding camp chair that was neither particularly comfortable or practical, but did have the effect of making her feel glorious.
Catching her breath for what felt like the first time in hours, Ingrid took a moment to soak the night in, and within a few deep breaths, to her amazement she felt even more incredible than she had before. She relaxed into the chair and basked in it.
By the time the novelty of basking in the chair finally wore off, Ingrid's sight was beginning to adjust. It can take a couple hours to get your full night vision, but the candles during the play were already quite dim, despite their illumination being cleverly directed to the stage by the loosening and precise angling of their dull metal coverings.
She looked up and saw only the barest hint of moonlight playing upon the canopy, surrounded by the expansiveness of the canvas chair, which was somehow impeding her vision from every angle.
With a surprising amount of effort, Ingrid hoisted herself up to a more reasonable position. She still couldn't see in any direction but directly across from her, where the vague shapes of the Director speaking to Mary-Anne.. or maybe Maisie.. were coming into focus. The dark figures loomed above the table which was now level with Ingrid's line of sight.
Ingrid blinked, then extended her hand out to her left, beyond the horizon of the throne, finding an arm that she expected to find. A boy startled awake.
“You were asleep!” whispered Ingrid.
“I wasn't!” said Alex.
“Shh! Don't you know it's late?”
“Oh come on.” Alex sighed tiredly, leaning back, relieved that the older girl was merely picking on him for no reason at all.
“You were so good tonight!” Ingrid gave a final push forward out of the depths of the chair so she could have a proper view. “I mean it!”
“Thank you. You said that before.”
“That's because I meant it!”
Her eyes had adjusted well enough to observe Alex smile before he stoically turned into the distance.
“Some of them laughed.”
“Oh Posh.”
“What does that mean?”
“You're being silly. Everyone loved it as much as I did.”
“It's supposed to be a big scary moment, it's a big line.”
Ingrid thought. “I think they were just laughing at the idea of me being an old man.”
“I don't think you think that.”
“Oh come on!” Ingrid exclaimed, in a whisper. “Oh now you come on. Stop being posh.”
Ingrid now stood up and gave a sweeping bow before Alex.
“You were mah-velous dah-ling, absolutely mah-velous.”
Alex laughed a little too loudly, and the other figures at the table, more of whom had come into view as the darkness lifted, abruptly turned and made disapproving faces at the two of them. Just enough to make a point, before returning to their conversations.
After being briefly mortified, he and Ingrid shared a conspiratorial smile. The actor voice always made Alex laugh, although he wasn't exactly sure why it was funny.
“You have soot on your face.” Alex said.
“What?” whispered Ingrid, touching her forehead. Bringing her hand close to examine, there was indeed soot on her fingertips.. and covering her palm, and all up her arm.
“Where is it?” she demanded, glancing around the table at the adults, and Francis, who had just been staring at them. Again she was thankful that the Director could not see.
“Like all over.”
“Oh my God Alex why didn't you tell me?”
“I just saw.”
Ingrid unnecessarily used Alex's shoulder to launch past him towards the washing station.
Alex leaned back in his own special chair, not as luxurious as the vacant camp seat to his right, but quite a bit more practical, and with a better view. To his left, Francis and his partner were getting up to leave, and Francis bent over to whisper “Great job tonight buddy, Alex, great work.”
“Thanks, you too!”
Francis gave Alex a friendly squeeze on the shoulder, and walked off before Alex could think to warn him about the soot.
Now Alex was awake again, and beginning to feel as ecstatic about the night as Ingrid had. Forgetting his concerns about the performance, Alex absorbed the world around him. Alex possessed above-average night vision, a fact he was proud of, and he was able to see much as his eyes passed over the wide Pavilion.
Like ripples of light on a lake-bed, delicate tendrils fell from the Moon, worked their way through the cloudy sky, down past the gently swaying branches, through the fabric canopy and onto the mossy, pine-needle coated ground of the camp. The light continually shifted and coalesced, dispersed and coalesced again, painting an image in memory more than in color, as no one feature of the gathering was adequately illuminated for very long.
Angie's crooked figure was shuffling off to her tent at her usual pace. It would only take a full moon cycle for her to arrive at this rate. Her son, Old Simon had remained and was standing about 20 feet away, having been joined by the two other residents of the camp that could neither see nor hear. These other two did not usually attend productions such as the play, feeling that they had better things to do with their time, but it seemed even they had not wanted to miss out on the party. The three had a special relationship, and as they stood together, bolt upright, signing into each other's hands, Alex thought they looked scary, although he knew it was wrong to think that. He wondered what they were saying to each other, and whether Simon had enjoyed the play.
Uncle Ed and a couple of the other Old Folks sat knees touching in a secluded corner of the secluded place, apparently discussing something of some importance with Hank. Hank's happy state was such that it could be seen in his body language, shining through an unconvincing posture of seriousness. The man listened closely to the Old Folks' every word as they leant forwards and spoke to him in turn. He was receiving instructions of some kind. It must be a good thing, Alex thought, and happily put it out of his mind.
In fact everyone seemed happy, he realized. Extra happy, as if some hidden contagion had entered Camp. Is this why Alex felt so good, as well? A shadow of fear flitted through his mind, and this was also pushed aside, because it couldn't be. He was being silly. The adults would have stopped it. Not every good thing is secretly bad. There were fresh berries and shelled hickory nuts in two wooden bowls in front of him and Alex reached forward to select one, popping it in his mouth.
The Director's bald head shined brightly across the table, he was speaking.
“...You're of course right Mary-Anne, and you know I share your respect for tradition. That said, and respectfully, the cast party is also a tradition, an ancient and venerated one.”
“It's just too much ruckus for this hour of night. You should know that.”
“Ruckus?”
Alex watched the Director.. Paul, really, which was his name every other day, lift his arms and gesture with remarkable clarity of meaning to the world around them. The crickets were roaring, drowning out the chorus of frogs, who in turn were drowning out the sound of the nearby river, the river that on a quiet night would have already made it nearly impossible to hear any of the muted conversations happening nearby. Indeed, above the cacophony Alex was only able to make out the two of them.
“There aren't crickets every night.” Mary-Anne countered.
“An excellent point Mary-Anne. May I suggest that we only hold productions on evenings when there are crickets?”
“The crickets could stop at any time, I've heard it happen myself. Are you going to stop the play?”
“Now we weren't going to talk about altering the plays themselves Mary-Anne, we agreed that we would come back to that another time.”
“Perhaps the after-party could be held the following morning, when the birds are...”
From the darkness, someone burst into laughter for a moment, followed by what was distinctly giggling. Mary-Anne made her own eloquent gesture towards the sound, before seeming to remember that Paul was blind and gently taking his hands to sign something into them. Paul grinned. She noticed Alex, and having already utterly forgiven him for laughing earlier, smiled sweetly.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Excellent job tonight Alex, you were wonderful.” she spoke without pausing her comments to Paul.
“Thank you Miss Mary-Anne, and thank you for the costume and for all the other costumes and for all the hard work you did for the show.”
Alex was still wearing the black, hooded robe, a color that thankfully concealed what he was positive to be a considerable amount of soot on the left shoulder.
Mary-Anne stopped signing for a moment.
“How thoughtful of you to mention it! You are quite welcome, you were absolutely adorable.”
“Don't listen to her Alex, you were terrifying, you nailed it.” interjected Paul immediately, whose authority on these matters was final, and whose honesty was unquestioned.
“I meant before the play of course, your performance was riveting. I'm sure the children will be kept up with nightmares for a month. That's actually something else I wanted to discuss with you, the subject matter...”
Paul and Mary-Anne fell back into their conversation, facing each other in silence.
Alex continued watching, idly curious what they were talking about. The Director, or Paul, was his form of jolly, the work of the evening complete and to his satisfaction. Wearing a warm, easy smile on his placid face, he somehow withstood Mary-Anne's onslaught.
Worrying of any kind was considered a public service at Camp, and Mary-Anne had taken on the duty with enthusiasm. It was unthinkable to not respectfully listen to, and consider seriously, any fear or concern raised by someone else in the community, no matter how minor. This rule applied to anything really, but most specifically anything to do with Safety. Mary-Anne and Paul were friends, though, and this was more of a game than an argument to them. The Safety Game. They subtly leaned towards each other as the conversation went on. Mary-Anne was smiling now too, like a teenager. A rare sight, and Alex looked away embarrassed.
A white five-gallon bucket flipped through the air beside him, and was deftly, nearly silently, caught by the suddenly returning Ingrid. She caught an eyebrow from Mary-Anne and gently placed it on the ground, then less gently plopped down on top of it.
“Did I get it all?”
“Lemme see.”
Ingrid looked up at him and scrunched her face.
“Pretty much.” Alex observed.
“Pretty Much?” hissed Ingrid.
“A bit on the nose..” Alex began to reach over.
“I can get it!” Ingrid grabbed his billowing sleeve and wiped it all across her face, safely avoiding the parts of the robe that had already been contaminated with soot, somewhat to Alex's disappointment.
When she lowered the cloth Mary-Anne was staring at her wearily.
“I think maybe we should move.” Ingrid whispered.
“Yeah.”Alex agreed.
Alex hopped down and Ingrid stood up. Addressing the only two other people left at the table, Ingrid began: “Good night Paul, good night Mary-Anne.”
Alex echoed “Good night Paul, good night Mary-Anne.”
The conversationalists stopped moving their hands. “Good night Ingrid, Good night Alex. Great work tonight, the both of you. Everyone loved it.” spoke Paul. “Good night kids, it was a wonderful show. The sword-fight was... “ Mary-Anne yawned “... my favorite part. Don't stay up. Don't wander.”
Ingrid picked up her bucket, twirling it between her fingers, and they walked together into the familiar darkness.
“Where did you get that?” said Alex, examining the bucket in an attempt to determine which specific white, five-gallon bucket it was.
“Don't worry, I'll put it back.”
“Last time I borrowed a bucket Old Sam busted his ass.”
Ingrid laughed. “Busted his ass?” She said. Realizing they were far enough away from the other groups that her laugh hadn't drawn any attention, Ingrid relaxed further.
“Yeah he sat down where the bucket wasn't and busted his ass.” Ingrid giggled at this again. “It's not funny, he could have been really hurt. And I had to do latrine duty for a month.”
“You make it sound so funny though.” Ingrid teased.
Alex walked silently.
“How did they catch you?”
“I was sitting on it. Right there when he fell. Right over there.” Alex pointed through the darkness in the direction of what was probably the food processing area, by the root cellar, though Ingrid wasn't sure.
“You mean right there when he busted his ass?” Ingrid prodded.
Alex didn't respond.
Ingrid looked down at her bucket. The Moon was setting now, and detail was fading from the visible world.
“This one was by the washing station. I think it's just for water.”
Alex looked over. “Oh yeah.”
They walked on, curving back towards the Pavilion as they passed around the latrines and the sparse tents and hammocks arranged near the Western edge of Camp. Every root and low branch was known to them.
“Why are you being mean to me?” Alex surprised Ingrid by asking.
“Mean to you? Alex, you're my best friend!”
“Yeah so why are you being mean to me?”
Ingrid was perplexed.
“You were just starting to cheer up!” Ingrid protested, then, pondering, continued: “did something happen when I was gone?”
“No, it's not that.”
Ingrid allowed the silence and they walked. Passing the washing station, Ingrid trotted over to place the bucket precisely back into the circular depression in the moss that marked its place, then rejoined Alex. After continuing on for a while, he finally spoke.
“She called me adorable, in the costume.”
“Who did, Mary-Anne?” Ingrid looked over at Alex, and though the darkness should not have permitted her to see, she was certain he was about to cry. Quickly formulating a plan, she waited until he met her gaze and then growled, with great exaggerated indignation: “That bitch!”
Alex's eyes bulged and he clasped his hands over his mouth, his body stiffening as he toppled to the ground, convulsing in a heroic effort to contain his laughter.
“Oh my god, Alex, you're going to hurt yourself.”
“Shh!” intruded a nearby hammock.
Alex stopped convulsing and Ingrid bent down to help him to his feet, the uneven teeth of her wide smile shining down on him like a Crescent Moon.
“Why did you do that?” gasped Alex as he rose from the ground.
“To see you do that.” grinned Ingrid.
“You are being mean to me.” lamented Alex as his fingers found the edge of the table that was their unspoken destination. Sitting down on his favorite part of the long log, Alex began sadly brushing away the pine needles that now covered the right side of his costume. Ingrid sat beside him. The crickets were beginning to quiet down, which meant it was getting pretty late. It seemed that quite a few people were still at the party, by the indistinct sounds of conversation and the few sets of muffled footsteps passing through the Pavilion, but it was now difficult to tell. After a moment, Ingrid spoke.
“What do you think is going on?”
“Is something going on?” asked Alex, although he was pretty sure he knew what she was talking about.
“What, did you think everyone is in such a good mood just because of our wun-durful play?”
“Not really.” Alex said, not reacting to the joke. After a pause, “The Old Folks were talking about something with Hank.”
Ingrid was intrigued. “Did you hear anything?” She asked.
“No, but Hank was excited. It must have been something good. But serious.”
“Good.. but serious..” Ingrid rolled this apparent juxtaposition around in her head.
“Maybe the boars are back?” Alex suggested.
“Oh!” said Ingrid, suddenly excited by the possibility of meat. Then, “No, I don't think so. We would know about it by now.”
“Something better than boars?”
“What, like deer?” Ingrid's mouth was watering at the thought.
“No, that's not what I mean. Is it because there haven't been any bombs dropping?”
“That's happened before,” replied Ingrid with the dry cynicism that was practically a requirement for living at Camp. One of the first things any child learned was to not get their hopes up about such things. “The safer things seem, the more dangerous they are.” She quoted the common cliché.
“There haven't been any drones either.” Alex ventured.
“Some of them don't make any noise. And some of them are too high up to hear. You know that.”
“Yeah, never mind.” Alex dropped the subject and they pondered in silence.
“Look,” whispered Alex, “I think that's Hank talking to Old Simon.” Ingrid strained her eyes but could see nothing.
“I suppose we'll find out eventually” said Ingrid as she moved to lay down on the half-log that was the table. It was too short for her and her calloused feet brushed against the ground. Looking up at the canopy she pretended that she could see the stars.
“We should probably go to bed soon,” said Alex.
“Everyone else is still up” Ingrid intuited but did not know.
Ingrid listened to the crickets, and the frogs, and the toads, and the night birds, and the river. Carefully focusing on each piece of the orchestra in turn, she organized them in her mind and examined them individually. This was a practice taught to everyone, for there was much information to be learned from the sounds of the Forest, but Ingrid also found it relaxing. To her satisfaction she discovered, as she filtered through the noises, that she had been correct. There were still quite a few people at the party. Colorful patterns swam across the canopy, and Ingrid idly watched as they formed and dissipated. She could not tell if what she was seeing was real, or if they were now in complete darkness and it was all in her imagination.
“Do you think the stars are really hundreds of light-years away?” Ingrid asked her companion.
Alex blinked out of his own personal reverie. “What's a light year?”
“'The distance that light travels in one year'” Ingrid quoted. She sensed that Alex had no idea what she was talking about. Turning to him she said “You know how when the bombs go off sometimes there's a flash and then the sound comes after?”
Alex of course knew this. “Yeah, like lightning,” he said.
“That's because sound doesn't move instantaneously... all at once... it takes time. And light.. the flashes.. are the same way.”
Alex raised his hand and peered at it, waving it in front of his face, slowly, then quickly. He thought he could see what she meant.
“Not like that you oaf...” As she said this, they heard footsteps approaching and Ingrid raised herself up onto her elbows. “Hello?” she inquired into the darkness.
“There you two are,” came the voice of Uncle Ed. “Come back to the table now, we're having a toast.”
Alex and Ingrid dutifully stood up and followed the faintly visible black pillars of Uncle Ed and whoever he was walking with back in the direction of their assigned seats. Alex had a burst of courage and, doing his duty, stepped up alongside Ed, touching his arm to indicate that he had something to say. Ed stopped walking and everyone followed his lead. Leaning over so that Alex could be heard without raising his voice, he spoke.
“Yes, Alex?”
“I just.. it seemed like everyone was being kind of strange tonight, and first I thought it was because of the play, but then I thought it probably wasn't, and Ingrid didn't think so either.”
Ed chuckled softly, along with Hank, who was standing next to him.
“You were wise to bring this to my attention Alex, thank you. But no, there is nothing to worry about. Good news for once. Real good news. It seems to have leaked out.” Ed noted with disapproval. “Or perhaps people just figured it out on their own. Anyway, everyone will find out more in the next few days. I expect you will like it.”
“Is it about the War?”
“That's enough Alex.” said Ed kindly, and they continued walking.
The night creatures had mostly begun to settle down, and this meant it was really time for bed. Even Ingrid could sense the danger and stepped carefully and softly. This also meant that as they approached the table where they had sat at the beginning of the party, the Director could be heard still in conversation, but now with someone else.
“The line is wrong, Paul. I remember.” argued the new voice playfully.
“The line is right, I saw it the same time you did.”
“I watched it more times before, I'm older than you.”
“You're also more senile than me.” Paul joked. “Of course we did have to make some slight narrative changes for the format, and to split it into two parts.”
“That's your prerogative I guess, but..” began the other voice.
“Indeed it is.” interrupted Paul. “Listen. It seems we aren't alone after all.”
“Did you think we forgot about you?” said Uncle Ed softly as the group came to their destination.
“I didn't think you forgot about the wine, Ed, but we were about to call it a night regardless.”
“Our little meeting ran late. Apologies are of course due, but hopefully this will suffice.” Uncle Ed placed something small on the table, from the sound it was ceramic or possibly even glass. “We found a couple of your stars, as well.”
“Hi Paul!” whispered Ingrid.
“Hi Paul.” echoed Alex.
“Wonderful.” said Paul “Is Francis here too?”
“No, he was completely unfindable.” said Uncle Ed. Reaching into his cloak, something sparked twice and then light leapt out, revealing his smiling face for a moment. When the newly lit candle sufficiently dimmed down, Ed produced a small lantern and placed it carefully on the plywood table. The base of the lantern was leather, and there was a thin leather loop tied through an eye at the center of its metal roof. Its four metal walls had a series of horizontal slits that, angled down, allowed the orange-yellow light to spill out onto the surface of the table in rows, but hid the heart of the flame itself. One side was a door, with leather hinges. Thin scraps of cloth lined the edges of the door, and a leather fastener clung tightly to a pin on the adjacent side of the lantern, holding it securely shut.
“Who have we got then?”
Ingrid and Alex could now clearly see the small assembly. The Director had been talking to his brother, George, whose arms and similarly bald head were still darkened from his role in the play as the stagehand and light operator, though an attempt to clean up had been made. Unbelievably, Mary-Anne was still up, in some sober conversation with one of the blind/deaf trio who sat with her just at the other end of the table. She was back to wearing the concerned expression that she wore about 80% of the time. Uncle Ed, of course, and Hank beside him holding Old Simon's hand, who had been moving so silently that the two youths were almost startled to see him. That was it, it seemed, and Ingrid and Alex felt proud and a little excited to be included among such an elite group. The rest of the central cast, besides Francis, were of course long since put to bed. What Uncle Ed had placed on the table, next to the Lantern was a tall shot glass. A glass shot glass. The glass shot glass, mind you. It was nearly full of a liquid that appeared utterly black even in the significant candlelight.
“Hold on just a moment folks.” said Uncle Ed as he disappeared into the black, soon returning with fingertips delicately upon the elbow of the third blind and deaf man, who had apparently been nearby, doing who knows what. Probably just standing there in the darkness, thought Alex.
Uncle Ed lifted the shot glass aloft, and indulging everyone with a barely noticeable, and assuredly temporary, raising of the volume restrictions, he quietly said:
“To the Director!”
Ed dropped the glass into Paul's outstretched hand who caught it, then turned to translate what he had said to his member of the trio. Mary-Anne did likewise, as did Hank with Simon. Paul took a sip and smiled, the thick wine taking its time to return down the edge of the glass. There was some almost silent clapping, Paul could hear it, but even if he couldn't have, it wouldn't have mattered. Paul raised the glass to Ingrid and said, matching Ed's tone:
“To the stars of the show!”
Mary-Anne continued to interpret, or just chat, it wasn't always clear, but she still looked over at Ed, who gave a little shrug. Transporting the glass across the table he carefully placed it into Ingrid's hands. Ingrid smelled it. It smelled nasty. She took a sip, it tasted putrid. Like berries left too long on the bush. But life was full of unpleasant things for Ingrid. She made a small face that she hoped at least went unnoticed by the silent trio. “Thank you.” she said, but then she wasn't sure if you were supposed to say thank you.
Taking back the glass, Ed offered it to Alex, who almost coughed when he took his sip. Anticipating this possibility, Ed hadn't fully let go of the precious item, but now he passed it into Alex's hands. Ingrid leaned over and whispered.
“Say 'to the rest of the cast and crew.'”
“To the rest of the cast and crew!” said Alex, more meekly than he had intended to.
Uncle Ed levitated the glass back across the table to George who took his sip, then leaned across the table to pass it to Mary-Anne who said “Oh I only did the costumes but it was my pleasure.” as she took hers. There was a certain order to these toasts and Mary-Anne knew it as well as anyone. “To Hank!” she said magnanimously. The day was finally catching up with Hank and he swayed subtly with exhaustion, looking like he was being solely held up through the combined efforts of the persevering yet faded smile on his face, and the man whose hands he had to release to take his drink.
“To Ed!” said Hank, and Ed took his sip graciously, with a bit of non-applause. Ed now raised the glass, still half full, high above the table and said with greater sincerity and weight than perhaps anything else that had been said that night:
“And to the Guides!”
“To the Guides!” said the others in unison, perhaps with one or two stragglers. All but the three blind and deaf men, who had joined each other beside the table and now stood as a unit once again. They received the last of the wine and began to share it, without ceremony and in no particular hurry.
Ed returned the lantern to his cloak where he quickly extinguished it, and everything was black again. “Now my children, I think you know what I'm about to say.” said he, facing Alex and Ingrid.
“Yes, Ed.” their voices were as one. They moved to leave.
“Excellent work on the play, you two. The duel was my favorite part. Better than the… original..” he concluded with a yawn. An invisible smile passed between Paul and George. Thinking of something else to say, Ed caught Alex and added playfully “The old folks will be having nightmares for a month, consider taking it easier on us next time. There's such a thing as too scary.” Giving his shoulder a squeeze, Uncle Ed sent him on his way.
Alex felt that Ed had probably been joking, but the comment filled him with pride anyway. As the two youths started to leave again, Hank leaned over and whispered in their direction:
“Hope for clouds,” he said.
“Thank you Hank, good night.” said Ingrid, sleepily.
“Good night Hank,” said Alex.
It was a common thing to say, but seemed to carry some secret meaning.
The two walked together, hand in hand, until their paths could no longer be shared, and Ingrid headed off to her hammock, Alex to the large youth tent that he still shared. As Alex lay down on his mat, something was bothering him about what had just happened, but he couldn't decide what it was. It was then that he remembered...
The soot!