A Candle's Worth
…hiss… The candle wick shrivelled. For a mere second it seemed charred and still, only to become ablaze in a myriad of oranges and yellows the next. Within a fleeting moment, it settled into a tranquil glow and was ready to peer into the shroud of darkness obscuring the surroundings.
A glistening drop of hot wax started to melt its way down. Strangely aware of the burning sensation, the inquisitive flame grew brighter, avid to explore the treasures that the shadows seemed to jealously guard. Its mellow light poured into the ocean of blackness, and soon enough a golden thread wound its way onto the dark mantle. A thick carpet that could muffle the heaviest of footfalls came first into view. The long shaggy ivory strands resembled a Polar meadow – white and unruly, and yet emanated cosiness and comfort that could soothe the weariest of souls. The little flame flared gleefully with its discovery. Its light amplified, brushed against the fabric yet again, as if petting a warm, soft pet; and flooded farther into the gloom.
A second tear of melted wax rolled down the candle. “Happiness tears, everyone has those”, the little flame thought, and focused on its next find. And there it was, towering all the way to the ceiling, a mahogany and rosewood bookcase of elaborate craftsmanship. Its breakfront reposed on four sturdy Flemish scroll legs, and boasted an array of exquisite embellishments - ornate hand-carved columns rose from bottom to the top, entwined with ivy leaves and lily blossoms; two swan reliefs adorned the lower doors while the silver-leaf pulls of the drawers overhead glinted with the newly found source of light; the cornice was a ribbon of intricate lace of floral patterns and vines, adding that final Garden-of-Eden look that seemed to define the cabinet. However wondrous the design, what was truly unique about the bookcase was its shelves. Laden with heavy volumes from all corners of the world, they easily stirred a feeling of utmost awe. The little flame was instantly drawn to one in particular. Not so much on account of exceptional splendour, but more so because of the faint whispering it overheard. “Sh, someone might hear us”, sobbed a brittle voice in a hushed tone. “No one ever listens, either way…Only she does…or used to…” grunted another. “Stop whimpering, will you”, scolded a third, upon which the little flame mustered enough curiosity to overcome the initial dismay and directed all its light toward the secretive corner where the voices had come from. Presently, a company of three was illuminated. А fluffy, beige bunny – pink-nosed and wide-eyed, sporting white overalls and a chequered red and white heart-shaped patch on its right side, snuggled in the far left corner of the shelf. With one ear perked up slightly trembling with each sound, the other - cutely folded, Rou was the perfect blend of fear and amiability. The little flame would have greeted, had it not got completely lost in the sad eyes of the next companion – deep and black, their sorrow and anguish were tangible. Mr Gruff was a dark grey bear just like all the regular stuffed brown bears in the world, but perhaps his melancholy and pain had painted his coat the different colour. The little flame longed to learn what had happened but dared not ask. Ashamed, it turned its light away only to find a much sterner countenance resting on the last face. It belonged to a delicate doll with porcelain white face, big emerald eyes and thin rosy lips. Locks of soft, auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders. A lavender satin gown, trimmed with silver and studded with small gems, gave Rayne the air of a true princess. Still, there was peculiar austerity about her that was impossible to miss. “Perhaps, they lit a candle because things are taking a turn for the better,” said Rou thoughtfully. “Or, for the worse”, added Mr Gruff in a choked voice. “You light one when you cannot see what you need to see. If one goes out, you take another. Why fret over this candle’s purpose when they are all the same, manufactured to serve and be forgotten.” – remarked Rayne coldly. The little flame kept silent. A momentary flicker was the only acknowledgement of the last comment.
Another drop of hot wax gushed out. The little flame failed to notice it as it was now mesmerised by what stood a little to the left of the three toys. A pearl-white ceramic pedestal festooned with golden leaf engravings, petite quartz peonies and baroque ornamentation propped up a crystal glass sphere enclosing an enchanting aureate carousel. Three handcrafted wooden horse figurines, each dyed in a rainbow of pastel hues, pranced around miniature spiral posts. Piles of shiny glitter shimmered from below their hooves and promised a kaleidoscopic shower if stirred. Such enthralling beauty truly deserved its central position on the bookshelf. Vibrancy and ardour returned to the little flame and had its gaze not been directed a little further to the left by chance, it would have never been awakened from its transfixed hypnosis.
What was revealed to it next did not look special in any way upon first glance. Two ordinary books leaned against each other to the far right of the shelf. Neither one, nor the other was bulky or especially old, but there was something that captivated the little flame nonetheless. Both seemed to exude sheer happiness and literary talent. The heavier one was a string bound loose-leaf journal enveloped in leather, and had evidently once been posted given the broken scarlet seal on its front. It was impossible to deduce what secrets it held, but what could safely be guessed was that whoever’s hand had written the elegant cursive words in ink, which a protruding page divulged, belonged to a woman of education. The small piece of paper spoke of India and made mention of an exotic tiger crouching in the jungle; still the context was ambiguous – was it a biologist’s diary, a collection of skilful make-beliefs, or perhaps something completely different? Whatever it was, it fired up the little flame’s curiosity and it went on to examine the second book with an unquenchable thirst for answers. Alas, the two volumes did not belong in a set, for this one had a title, author and publishing house all neatly displayed in gold embossed letters upon a marble green background - The Happy Prince and Other Tales by Oscar Wilde. There was no mystery permeating the book, still its silent covers foretold unparalleled experience if allowed to speak. The empty space left between the two tomes, however, intrigued the little flame even more and would take it to the next chapter of its quest. Or so it hoped.
Scorching hot liquid wax poured from all sides of the candle. It was starting to diminish in size promptly forcing the little flame to part ways with the beguiling bookcase. But the missing book had to be found! Summoning all the zeal and fervour it had the little flame readied itself to set off exploring the room yet again. A mere instant before diving back into the sombreness, it was wafted by a puff of crisp air. It presently dawned upon the little flame that in its eagerness to unravel the secrets within the shadows, it had remained oblivious to its immediate surroundings. A delightful arched window with frosted panes had been a powerful ally along the journey, streaming the luminescence of the crescent in the sky. The pale radiance soaked into the darkness of the room and tamed its monsters. What lay beyond the curved frame was obscured by the icy maze etched in the glass, still a few vague details could be discerned – the occasional neighing of a horse suggested a late traveller’s return from the scenes of the arts, the imploring meowing echoing from some lonely alley indicated freezing cold, the metallic clatter of trash can lids resounded with painful hunger and despair. Overwhelmed, the little flame glimmered, its essence craved to send its warmth to the destitute outside.
A heart-rending sigh reverberated in the room. The lips that had uttered it belonged to a genteel lady in her thirties. Dressed in a posh navy blue velvet dress, tightly laced black bodice, with a train of fabric flowing from a large bow at the back, to later weave around her feet, she was undoubtedly of noble descent. Her ginger hair was braided and put in a bun decorated with a single pin in the shape of a peacock. Its feathers were a precious mosaic of turquoise and sapphires set in silver. Stately and dignified she looked indeed, still it was her face that sharply contrasted with the opulent wealth on display. To say that it was ridden with grief would have been an understatement. The visible traces of months of affliction and agony were now highlighted by fresh tears. A veil of grim melancholy might well have been the sole garment that the lady wore, for it was all that the little flame could see. With hands clasped, head bent down and eyes closed, she verily resembled an inanimate statue of a mourning shrine. Her choice of seat was in harmony with the ambiance of the room – gorgeous, yet bleak. The antique, curvaceous ebony frame was upholstered with forest green plush, while foliate garlands carved their way onto the crested rails and arms of the settee. A pair of gold damask tapestry cushions huddled on top, each depicting a cherub amidst skilfully embroidered peach roses and white lilacs.
The inexorable desire to be of assistance burgeoned in the little flame, still it knew not how. Immediately to the right of the sofa was a marble-top oak taboret side table, seemingly cluttered with an assortment of bottles. By all accounts, it could have been an alchemy lab, given the generous array of vials and flasks on display. Each held an ominous looking tincture, finely ground powder or tablets of various shapes. Colourwise there was every hue from iodine brown to murky green and inky black. What the little flame only had eyes for, however, was cast away desolate and forlorn underneath the table – an open book that perfectly fit the yawning gap on the bookshelf. The top left corner of the page was inscribed with the name Andersen followed by a grey sketch of a china teapot accompanied by an inspirational quotation: “Imperfections we all have, but we also have compensations.” The little flame vibrated with delight having found the lost treasure of the bookcase. Albeit, its moment of happiness was short-lived for on a bed beside the tabouret amid alabaster white sheets, lay a frail six or seven-year old child with a ball of fur curled up by her side. Her hair was honey gold, wavy and scattered all over the crocheted pillow like a luminous halo. Fair of skin and gentle of frame, she was lost in a dream. “Where are you child?” the little flame inquired. “Is it a nightmare or a sweet reverie that has taken you away from this world?”
A viscous drop oozed down, closely followed by another, and then a third. The little flame was almost extinguished, yet it struggled to persevere, yearning to talk to the child.
As she took another step towards the lustrous dome, a flicker of light caught her eye. Ada looked back and suddenly became aware what it was that unfolded before her. Surely it was her room. There was the fluffy rug where she would play catch and cuddle with her beloved pug Taffy. Oh, how she adored peering into those warm, melting eyes, caressing the smooth fawn fur, kissing the cute muzzle. Hours on end, she would spend recounting to him all her daily adventures, and then when she confided about her haunting nightmare monsters, Taffy would growl and bare his teeth. Ada both missed his company and yet felt his presence somehow.
There, on the bookshelf reflecting the tiniest specks of light was the snow globe that her late grandfather had brought for her from his reading tour in America. He had told her so many stories about the wondrous fairs he had visited, the fascinating attractions and fortune tellers he had encountered, that Ada now wistfully wished she could one day experience. For a fleeting moment she danced with the melody of the carousel and off on a horseback she went.
Glancing upon three familiar faces put a swift end to her fantasy ride. Rou was timidly peeping from the corner. The small bunny had been a gift from her darling sister. She had sewn it herself right before getting married to an eloquent gentleman and leaving for the picturesque French Riviera. Pensive as usual, right next to Rou was Mr Gruff! How could she ever have forgotten him?!? Her governess used to take her to the orphanage on Shirland Road, at first just at Christmas, later once almost every month, to bring food for the children in need. There was one boy in particular whose face would never light up at the sight of the dainties. One day Ada came up to him and they had the pleasantest of conversations. It was he who gave her Mr Gruff. “Me mom made this for me. She meant to give me a proper stuffed brown bear but you see, all that she had was an old grey sweater that she could spare, and she knitted it into this friend o’er here. He was me only companion before you came along. He is special, you know. He hears you, and sometimes if you listen real careful, he responds! Would you keep him safe for me? I don’t want someone to take him away.” Whole-heartedly she had consented and now Mr Gruff was under the best guardianship possible – Rayne’s. She was strict, seemingly cold, but once you had proven worthy, be it with kindness or wit, then you had her utmost care and undivided affection. Just like Ada’s grandmother who had bought her the doll, under Rayne’s solemn façade hid a true angel. The rest of the toys, the majority of which quite costly, were put away in a spacious walnut chest each evening. These three, however, would forever have a central position, not just on any shelf, but in her heart, for they were keepers of memories, treasurers of the most precious of jewels.
Unimposing, to the farthest right, stood a journal, which held a collection of her dear aunt’s letters. She had become the wife of a missionary in India and had dedicated her life to exploring the mystical, captivating folklore of the place, while living under the scorching sun of Mumbai. Such bizarre, yet enticing stories she would send, as often as she could. It was a culture so compellingly distant that Ada’s exuberant imagination could not get enough of. Once her mind would leave India and its colourful spirit, it often immersed in the spellbinding enchantment of the neighbouring book - a certain Irishman’s fairy tales, which her father insisted he read to her every day. They would sit on the settee below the window and she would peer into her dad’s face as he acted out each line as best he could. At the end of a story, she was left heart-broken, puzzled at times, appreciative of what she had and many didn’t, and invariably weakened by the emotional turmoil the tales entailed.
Ada looked away from the book and noticed the settee was occupied by a silhouette that she recognised in a heartbeat. There were no words to convey what she felt for her Mama, and how much it pained her to see the listless, downcast expression that presently defined it. Ada had seen her sad, though quite as sad – never before. Upon catching sight of the phials and bottles hoarding the nightstand, she remembered… The months of staying in, the loss of appetite, the exhaustion… she stopped being able to stand up at one point, so her mother would read to her the Andersen tales, which Ada loved for they brought to life ordinary objects and told of all the important lessons one has to learn in life. But she had stopped hearing them…. Each word had slowly been fading…. Up until all of a sudden the little light showed them back to her. How could she ever forget and let go of them! She wanted to stay, but something was calling her to a place more dazzling than any other…
“Please, don’t go! Come back, come back, come…” the little flame couldn’t voice another sound. It drowned in hot liquid lax and was gone.
On the next morning Ada woke up to find her mother drowsed on a beautiful throw pillow and a misshaped lump of hardened wax on the window sill. Underneath its stand was a small note written in the delicate cursive of her dear aunt’s hand:
Light a single candle in the dead of night.
Let hope fuel it with all its magic might.
Only once it has delved deep into your heart
Can it stop a soul from body to depart.
For a candle's real worth and strongest light…
Lie in the sacrifice for what is truly right.
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