Fresh Ink: 2019 Short Story Collection

Darkest Before the Dawn

The Boy was restless once again, already showing signs that he would spend yet another night without sweet slumber. He pestered his mother with the same cycle of demands that children could be counted on to follow when they wanted to put off sleeping. A glass of water, a bedtime story, readjusted pillows, another glass of water, a sudden need to visit the bathroom. A list of distractions to keep the lights on. Because when the lights turned off, The Monster would come creeping in.

It was a monster without form, for none had seen it. The Mother disregarded its existence, The Father unable to find any trace of its passing. Only The Boy could register its presence, flinching at the clatter of claws in the dead of night, their rapid-fire pattern sending him quivering under the covers clutching his protector close. But it was always so dark under the sheets, which became a terrible canvas for imagination to craft every wicked claw, fang and bone that might belong to such a beast. And each night, like the last, The Boy's fears would build up with nowhere to be released, until he could withstand them no more and flee to the comfort of his parent's bedside. Each long night was taking more than simple restlessness from the child, leaving dark circles under The Boy's eyes and long yawns accompanying his dragging footsteps. He tripped over himself, moved sluggishly in the waking hours, fell asleep at any random time, sometimes having to be sent home from school, unable to focus for more than a few scant moments on his lessons. If things continued in this way, it was only a matter of time before he lost all sense of time and reason and with it, any ability to live peacefully.

This could not continue.

The Veteran was an old hand of night-time security. Before the Boy, he'd served at The Father's side and at The Father's Father's side before him. The years of service showed on his dull grey fur and ragged clothes, faded by the long march of time. His stitching and stuffing had been replaced and renewed so that he could return to the line of duty, but he'd never recovered his left eye, lost during a particularly rough part of play on The Father's part. Not that he minded all too much. If children were comfortable enough to throw their toys around without fear of serious harm, then his service was not in vain. There was little worse in the world than an unhappy child.

Which was why The Monster had to die, so that The Boy could return to proper sleep. Its poisonous influence would spread no further than this night. The Boy had protested and attempted to draw out the inevitable as long as possible, but his young body could no longer resist the siren's call of slumber, disrupted for so long. And so, for the first time in ninety years, for this night and this night alone, The Veteran would willingly desert his post so that his duty might be fulfilled more completely.

The others were against it, of course. He was too old, they argued, too invaluable to The Boy. That, were he to go missing in the course of his hunt, The Boy might never sleep again. Some offered themselves in his place, but they were all too green or too fragile, as toys were these days. Too much flash and thunder, instead of strong construction in threaded limbs. Most of them lacked hands with which to hold a sword and shield in defence of youth. Not one would he risk the safety of in his place. Instead, he assigned them to take over his shift and watch over the room until the dawn, so that he would be safe in the knowledge that the homestead was protected should The Monster finally work up some measure of courage in its black heart and come for the boy directly.

Unwillingly, they brought him his sword and shield, armaments of cardboard forged many years in The Grandfather's time, back when he had been a knight of honour. They tied a lantern around his neck to break the dark, from when he had been a miner of hard grit in The Father's time. They tied a handkerchief cloak over his shoulders, from when he had soared high as a hero of justice upon The Boy's hand. Such days of play were long behind him, and for the last few years he had served as a simple watchman. The weight of his equipment was strangely welcome, like an old friend had walked into the room and embraced him. He had very few old friends these days. Most of them were sealed away in the attic for the crime of failing to entertain The Boy like his new toys could. But such was life. If they could not entertain him as well as flash and thunder, then perhaps it was time for a quiet life in gentle darkness, until such time as The Boy had a son and they could prove themselves anew. He hoped so at least. It was one thing to rest for a time, but to remain useless when you doubted the capabilities of those coming after you; he was not sure that he would be able to endure such gnawing doubts, with no knowledge of when you would have your fears assuaged.