The Gate That Needed Music — By the first owl-call, Elian had promised himself he would light every path lantern without asking the ravens for help. Read the full story →
By the first owl-call, Elian had promised himself he would light every path lantern without asking the ravens for help. He left the warm tool shed with seven matches, a brass bell on a red ribbon, and the sweet smell of cider still clinging to his sleeves. The gravel whispered under his boots as he passed the bent yew tree and counted, “One, two, three…” Each lantern bloomed honey-gold.
At the great gate, the last lantern hung dark between two stone gargoyles. Its glass was whole, its wick was dry, but the iron doors stood open just a hand’s width, sighing in the cold. Elian struck his final match. A gust snatched it out. The gargoyles blinked grit from their noses. “It wants a sound,” one croaked.
Elian untied his little bell. It had been his comfort on lonely rounds, chiming tin-tin against his coat. He looped the red ribbon through the gate’s curling iron and rang it once. The sound ran down every path, soft as silver rain. Lanterns answered, one after another, until the whole graveyard glowed. Elian went back without his bell, but the joy in his chest rang louder; if you trace the open gate, can you hear it sharing its tin-tin with the stones?
