“Watch your step.” We didn’t realize that it had already gotten dark. The thunderclouds still hadn’t moved.

I turn my attention to the boy in front of me. Claude was thin. To spot a plump, poor child was a rare sight indeed, for most children living during these times barely had any meat in their bones. The ones who were portly had money and had starving people to work for them, their utensils still stained with grease and animal fat. Claude was thin, but he was not frail like me and so many others. His back was straight, his posture and stance shaped by muscles from his endless labor. His grip on his shepherd’s staff was sure and firm, guiding the sheep on the path. When it strayed, Claude would whistle, or throw stones ahead of it so that it wouldn’t go further.

The moonlight was bright enough. It was generous to throw several silver beams all over the land. One would think it would be a quiet night. But they did not know what we knew.

I watched him discreetly; my eyes snatching small details of his appearance. His tunic, of course, was caked with mud and dirt. The jacket he wore on top of it was muddier and dirtier. It was old, and once had been rich brown. It was too large for him—probably belonged to his father or older brothers. Yes, that must be it. Slightly torn and shredded, it spoke of many generations of hardy farmers toiling the land of their lords.

Claude used the staff to scatter sharp debris away from our path. He also told me where stray, fruitless shrubs lay so that I could avoid them, even though my sight was much sharper than his.

In the middle of his warnings, Claude did not see the big stone that rolled from the darkness, possibly kicked by wild foxes. I pulled him towards me.

Claude’s shoulder bumped on my chest and we held each close. His dark curls tangled with my thin wisps of hair. There it is again, those dark eyes, so close now. We pulled apart when we heard the stone lodge itself onto a bigger one near him.

We followed it to where it landed. I pointed with my finger to help him see where the stone lay. “Thanks for that,” Claude said. From where it was positioned, it could have caused a minor inconvenience. “That could have twisted my ankle. It would still work the fields, but that would have slowed me down.” His brows arched. “Good eyes. I suppose you don’t need me to lead you after all. You could have said something.”

I shrugged. “It fell just as my eyes landed on it.”

He called his sheep and tapped his staff near him. The sheep walked close to him, her eyes looking for danger. She bleated “Oh, now you’re terrified. You should have thought of that when you frolicked that far off in the meadow.” The sheep looked sorry, her wool brushing against his pants.

“Does she have a name?” I asked.

Claude shook his head. “We don’t name them, since we actually don’t own anything on the farm, and I might get too attached.” He twirled his staff in the night air. “But she looks like a Belle to me.” The sheep looked back as if it was her name all along. “You like that name? Well.”

I saw his life unfold from all these little details. It wasn’t vivid, but clear enough. The villagers we encountered in the past helped form the picture; their lives were similar enough that I think the pieces fit together. I saw him rise before the morning, shivering with the world’s first cold breath, those disheveled curls acting like thick curtains. I saw him sweat day after day, raising his axe, or hoe, or sickle; saw him play with the piglets and pigs; saw him sow and harvest crops with the changing of the seasons.

His life was set from the moment he was born. He would grow old with the farm if the lord allowed it. He, himself, was sure in his path to becoming a farmer. I do not know him at all, but I think he would be a great one. He seemed responsible and strong and sure. But I find myself imagining him to be something else. He could master a different profession, live a different life.

Something about what he said before struck me now. People discouraged him from dreaming; that he should not dream above what was possible, to not dream with his eyes wide open in daylight. Perhaps they thought that his mindless dreaming will get him nowhere.

I could not blame them. Dreaming and ambition were for the rich. It was for the lucky few. It was a luxury. Those below nobles can’t very well be idle—they had endless work to do all the way to the end of their very short lives.

The reason why he held the staff so firmly, and memorized each call to summon his farm animals, was that he knew of nothing else. And he will know of nothing else until someone opens the possibilities for him.

The same goes for me. The realization crept up on me, tapping my temples. What was the purpose of our existence, then? My identity was tied to these robes we wear. We cannot simply cast it aside and don other outfits. We still had a responsibility. No matter what Woodrow thinks, our responsibility and role are tied to our powers, and so long as we have them, we still have work to do. Let him masquerade as something else if he wished. I will stay.

Come to think of it, Blake also ordered us not to share our powers with people, to not share our vast knowledge and experience. Not that it was possible; we cannot imbue them with our powers just as I cannot receive my brothers’, just as they cannot share or switch their powers with each other. But to be told not to share our findings with them… Blake never intended for them to have the tools to ensure their own survival. I realize now that perhaps they would use our teachings against us. Or that they would build a paradise of their own, without our help, and they would share it to with their neighbors, and what where would that leave us? Where would that leave Blake? Maybe to the dark cave in which he sprung. He would be useless. No, the darkness must expand.

The kind of darkness that will eat people’s dreams. Appetizers before the main meal. His red eyes will glow, savoring every morsel of hope he takes from humanity, every scrap of dreams and love.

I used to think that it was the other way around, though; from darkness sprung dreams.

I breathed deeply and looked at the stars. The Four Saints were supposed to push us into a new era, one where anyone can dream. People can dream big, dream freely, and make those dreams a reality. Now that era itself is but a fading dream. Fading, not totally lost on account of old people who still believe the oldest stories. Soon, they too shall perish, along with the last remaining shred of the Four Saints’ existence. The villages would disappear. The cities would crumble. The noble bloodline will bleed out.

Parents cut off their children’s wings to spare them the bitter disappointment. What they saw growing up was the extent of their miserable lives, and If one had no horse, no sheep, no pigs, no fixed dwelling, then it would be a truly miserable life, indeed. I imagined their parents now: there is no use to flap about, child. You will only fall flat on your face. Better to stay rooted. Better to stay grounded.

It was like how Blake treated me.

And yet.

The memory flashed before my eyes. My small body, thrown in the sky. Weightless. Arms posed for flight.

When this phantom brother Ealhstan threw me, he told me that I had power. He saw in me many possibilities of what I was and what I can do, and perhaps even what I can accomplish. The way he looked at me conveyed that he was utterly convinced. He had not a doubt.

Well, if he can believe in a powerless monk achieving great things, then I can imagine a world where we remaining brothers can set things right so people like Claude can dream at any hour of any day.

I wondered briefly that if we could defeat Blake, would we have a chance of making the light bright again? Would Claude become something more, if he wished? The darkness robbed him of a choice. He knew nothing but to work the land and remain where he was in the world.

Maybe that was my own dream, my own wish; I could dream of seeing people like him grow old. That was our mission, after all. I found that nothing changed with how I wanted to walk in this earth. I wanted people to live out the rest of their lives in peace.

I hope I can find the power to do so.

______

“Here we are.” Claude stopped so that we can have a look around our surroundings.

The stone fence marked the perimeter of their lord’s inner property, the length of which reached farther up ahead where even the darkness swallowed them from our vision. There was a wide opening where the dirt path continued its way through acres of arable land, stopping on the porch of a snoring medium-sized house.

But the thing that caught my attention was before that entrance. It was the first thing anyone would see, really. A great naked tree glowed green and yellow. I gasped as Claude smiled.

“Can your eyes see what it holds?”

I described it to him, my voice washed with awe. “It holds many little houses in its branches. Fireflies entered and left through the holes—no, through the windows and doors. I see them hover about, dots of tiny flames circling around the tree.” I looked at him and saw the green and yellow in his eyes. “Claude, what is this?”

“Well, a dead tree. I thought that maybe it could do with a little sprucing up. ‘Sprucing’ was the word my Ma uses. Spruce up the place, she always says.” We walked closer to the tree and fell under its eerie warmth. “This tree didn’t bear any fruit, only flowered, and I remembered playing in the fields covered with pink and orange petals. And then it just stopped. It died. And there were no flowers, which meant there were no bees and butterflies. It was something I looked forward to after the cold.”

Woodrow and Wilbur were steps behind us, looking at the tree and patiently watching us. I pointed to Woodrow’s hair, gleaming under the fireflies. He covered his trick under his cowl and secured it.

Claude continued. “Anyway, two winters back, we finished harvesting our crops early and found ourselves with time on our hands. My Da picked up a sword, my brothers went to the far-off taverns, and I was stuck home with my big-bellied mother.” He chuckled. “The baby was kicking really hard that day, so my mother went to her room to rest and read it a story. That left me alone, free to roam anywhere. I chose my father’s shed. There on his table was a pile of wood, and out of nowhere, this idea struck me upon seeing it. I would make them into little houses for the fireflies. Since fireflies were the only insects that still dared to roam the night. My father taught us all wood carving; you see. Simple enough to understand, but it was I who really wanted to learn it. I got to work, and once they all returned, I showed them what I did. All of them looked at it as if it was a marvel.” He rolled his eyes and smiled wide. “Ma and Da looked so proud.”

I bet they were, I thought. “You made all of these? How clever!”

“No, not all of them. Just some. After that, the whole family joined in on making the houses. Yes, even the baby." Claude snorted. "It kept kicking and kicking as we carved away. We sat near the hearth and carved away until the morn.”

“What a lovely memory,” Wilbur commented.

“You could make money from that trade,” Woodrow said.

“If only folks had money to spend. People want swords and shields and mercenaries. Not farmers who can carve shapes out of wood. And even then…” Claude shook his head.

Normally, I would fall silent, but I did not want to leave this tree with that remark, so I said, “It is beautiful. What you and your family did was beautiful. The tree looks alive.”

He smiled and gestured towards the path, where more shrubbery ran rampant against the stone-walled fences.

Claude seemed more relaxed now that he was home. His shoulders were less tense as he placed the staff over his head and behind his neck. He leaned on it as he whistled. The farm welcomed him home.

We saw the quaint house clearly now, the smoke we saw earlier still rising.

“Oh, how charming.” Woodrow gushed. Claude nodded as if it was the truest thing on earth.

It was a setting out of a fairy tale; the kind of quaint scenery mothers oft told swathed babes and bored little children—the kind of children that were still round and soft and had loose teeth.

The little children would gather around the storyteller for the evening, even if she weren’t their mother. She could be an aunt or a stranger. It wasn’t important, so long as she had a story to tell. There was usually a fire during these storytelling sessions to cast the chill out and pull them closer so that they wouldn’t notice the veined monk lurking just out of sight.

I hid behind columns where the shadows concealed me, a hidden member of the audience whose ears twitched for old wives’ tales. Some nights, it was the same story. Other nights, it was a variation. Characters would change and switch, but the choices and endings were mostly the same. It was always a little girl or a little boy or both a little girl and a little boy who began their lives in these cottages; the starting point of all their adventures.

I had thought that these stories were the only dreams allowed to them; tiny comforts to soothe their jelly minds. These stories would be the sail to help them drift off into the blackness of sleep and the rope that secured them to the docks of reality. The reality that they must wake and walk in daylight, and, once they have started to walk on two feet and were able to fend for themselves, the magic of the stories drained from their hearts. They wouldn’t know what to do with them until it was their turn to tell those tales and send younger children off to quaint cottages and mighty castles.

“What?” Woodrow’s eyebrows arched. “Why are you looking at me?’ He touched his face, tucked his stray hair back inside his hood.

I did not realize that I was staring at him. My mind was still back to those storytellers and how they breathed life into its flames, how they held the breaths of their audience. Even from my place, I was not immune. I did not notice that I had paused my breaths until my lungs called for air.

I felt this pull only when the conditions were right. If the storyteller was not invested in the story and unable to hold the children’s attention, then the fires would burn as it does normally and the children would play on the grass. But if the storyteller was able to draw you close to the story that you forget yourself on that grass, then the fire and his words created something like Woodrow’s charm.

That was why I was looking at him. I remembered the pull, the irresistible tug when he needed to use his powers. It was different, raw. But still similar.

What a thought it was that perhaps everyone after all had some magic in them. Magic. A word different from power. Power was what Blake obsessed over.

A thousand thoughts had raced through my head ever since leaving Blake. I was uncertain if the thoughts were snatched away before they even landed on my consciousness or if I was too afraid of Blake and the rest to entertain them. It felt like I was just waking, just breaking free from the frozen lake we were trapped in.

And here comes another thought: It occurred to me just then that our powers were linked to our nature. Our attributes. Looking at my brothers now, Wilbur was a perfect embodiment of dark and secret knowledge just as much as Woodrow fit the trickster charmer perfectly. If their roles were reversed, then perhaps they would find difficulty in using their abilities. Maybe Ealhstan was right, maybe I do have powers after all but haven’t had the means to figure out what they were.

Maybe in my sleep-like state, I had not the right mind to pursue anything but to follow Blake's orders and never question his authority. At least, in front of his lined face. Perhaps the reason why Blake led me alone towards those thieves was that he had hoped that I would be badly hurt enough or embarrassed enough that I lost the confidence I showed him that night in his study when he threatened to throw Wilbur away.

This cottage—Claude’s cottage, slumbered snugly around more hedges; hedges decorated with straw dolls and straw flowers. A lit window cast an inviting glow and told the presence of his family, and a line of smoke wafting in the inky canvass told us the food was about to be served.

After so much bloodshed, it was a welcome sight.

In all those stories that I’ve heard, there were always lessons at its core. A child’s heart can taste the coating of the lessons as if it were sweetmeats and digest the lessons. I saw them scream in fright whenever the witch appeared, or cheer with delight at each triumph. They would scold the hero in these tales for acting so stupid; eating the cursed cake, picking the shiny jewel. Briefly, I thought how it was such a shame that dreams were discouraged. In my mind’s eye, it was like offering water to a thirsty student, only for them to withdraw it halfway and throw the remaining contents into the parched earth, wasted. And then the student will do the same until no more stories should be passed, and no more dreams will be waiting. Just the endless bowl of darkness.

Claude may be one of the fairy tale characters himself but instead brought the darkness right into their hearth. We were the shiny new cursed things Claude was bringing into his home.

I swatted the thought away. I should stop thinking this way.