As the nightfall closed in upon the two great lakes, the little house by the shore lighted up.
Theodore took out his shovel, carefully closed the door behind him and walked towards the water. The moon was already lighting up the valley and reflected itself on the surface of the lakes. In this part of the North, the birds would sing until midnight, and as he walked towards the bridges, he imitated the same breathless song.
Showel in hand, he took place on the large, sandstone rock separated only by a few meters of terrain, and lit his pipe. The white smoke arose quickly and the smoke filled his lungs before leaving his body with his breath.
The night moved on as it always did, the tide falling and rising as it should. The two lakes quiet as the moon walked across the sky, east to the vest, followed by the stars. There was nothing array.
A tiny silhouette suddenly emerged from the house of which he himself had emerged. The darkness hiding the face of his only son. Sleepless and warm, he had come to dwell under the shining stars beside his farther. They greeted each other only with the eyes as the boy took place on the large, cold rock. Looking up at the stars with wonder, his son spoke in a drowsy voice.
“Why are you always out here during the night?” His cool, blue eyes reflected the water, the stars and the space between them. He was still a young child, chubby by the cheeks and his hair still downy and fine like the downs of baby swarns.
The soft, pale skin of the boy’s young face made him look much like the moon. In a deep breath, his father smiled as he spoke. Perhaps old enough to know by now.
“We are keeping track of the world,” he said.
Confused, the boy frowned. There was only the pine forest woods around for miles and miles and more miles. After following the boys look out into the forest, the father spoke anew.
“You know, when people are happy, and when they are sad, saltwater flows in drops from their eyes, right?” he said in a soft, explanatory tone. The boy nodded, eager to show that he understood.
“Here, our finest occupation is keeping track of all the tears of the world,” he said gesturing towards the two lakes. The sound of the water broke the silence as the boy’s breath mixed with the smoke of the pipe in the air of the cold, winter night.
“We make sure that none of them will overflow,” the father continued as he lit his pipe anew. The fire took the tobacco and travelled down into his mouth and out through his nose. The boy nodded again, now with wrinkled eyebrows.
“These are the happy tears,” he said raising his forehead towards the lake on his right. With his pipe, he pointed towards the lake on his left.
“And these are the sad ones,” he said. Silent, the boy said nothing, but a muscle moving beneath his lower lip suggested that he was trying to make sense of it all.
“As you see, we are almost even, and this way it must remain,” the father said. The birds had stopped singing, it was the darkest time of night.
“There needs to be balance, you see.” Despite his modest age, the boy seemed to understand, and as his father took his hand, they looked back up into the starry night sky.
As the boy closed his eyes, resting his head on his father’s lap, a bell starting ringing softly from its place by the left lakes’ shore. Theodore took a deep breath before gently moving his sons resting head and jumped from the rock to the ground. Shovel in hand, he rushed to the soft-sounding bell. The water was rising again.
It was the third night in a row that the left lake was flowing its banks, and the man knew from experience, that something would have to be done about apart from simply shovelling the excess water this time.
He was the lake keeper after all.
With a look back towards the rock, he rested assured that his son would remain sound asleep for the rest of the night, and thus took off into the woods towards the east. Through the moonlit terrain, he walked and walked and walked until he reached the town he had planned to visit.
Looking down upon it from the forest opening, he noticed a small wooden house by the east of the town in which the lights were still burning. As he rushed towards the house, the sound of grief reached his adept ears long before the sight of it. Although it was an old, familiar sound to him, his heart still dropped by every step he took as he approached. Walking towards someone in grief would always feel as endless as strolling across the infinite night sky. As he knocked upon to wooden door, a small, grey woman appeared from behind the painted doorframe. Her eyes were swollen, and her gaze was distant. She appeared to have been crying for years. Although her face had lost its expression, silent tears were still flowing down across her cheeks to the fully soaked fabric beneath her chin. She was very much in pain. Without a word, she simply looked up at him. No question came, neither from her mouth nor from her large, watery eyes, but still she stepped aside inviting him inside.
As he stepped across the doorsill, the feeling of sorrow almost overwhelmed him and as he looked towards the kitchen table, he finally understood the reason for her grieving. Upon it, a dozen pictures of a young, sunburned man with a bright, wide smile were placed alongside an empty pack of matches and a thin, golden watch. It had stopped a quarter to midnight several nights ago. By the look of her sunken eyes and cheeks, she had not eaten for days, and the man thus took out the orange berries he kept in his pocket and placed them on the table in front of her. She hardly noticed his gesture, but simply continued starring into the wall, tears still rolling slowly from her large, blue eyes.
“Eat these,” he said as he pushed the golden berries towards her. The woman did as he said, and almost instantly, her face gained back a little bit of colour. She coughed at the sudden feeling of food slipping through her teary throat. After a little while, he took the word.
“He might have been taken from you this time, but it is time to move on with your life,” he said as he placed her hands in his. The woman looked up for the first time and meet his eyes.
“But, how can I?” she said in a little voice with soaked, hopeless cheeks.
“There is no easy way,” he answered, still holding on to her hands.
“But you must try to remember him with joy.” The woman looked out the window into the dark, heartless night. For a while they sat at the table in silence; him holder her hands; her staring down into them. Then, Theodore placed the golden watch between his hands and blew into them gently, much like when trying to whistle through a blade of grass. Within seconds, a ticking sound appeared from within his palms, and as has he opened up the hollow crater, the clock was ticking once again. For the first time, the grainy layer covering the woman’s eyes disappeared, and she looked up at him in awe. Between them, there was nothing more to say.
As he returned to the lakes, his son was waiting on the rock, still sound asleep beneath the early morning sky. The left lake had returned to its banks and the two were now back in perfect harmony. As he approached, his silent steps did not wake up the sleeping boy, and so, he lifted him from the rock to the house and placed him in his bed. The boy opened his eyes and asked in a drowsy voice.
“Why was the lake overflowing, papa?” The man looked at his son with a calm expression.
“Because of someone who could not regain their hope because they could not accept the inevitable,” the father answered his son.
“Time had stopped for her the day her son had died.” The boy frowned with a concerned expression. Following a long, thoughtful silence, he looked back up at his father and smiled.
“But we will never die, right papa?” With calmness, Theodore answered his son the best way he could.
“No son, you and I, we will never ever die.”
Photo credit: Canva AI