“Child, I need you to ready the lantern,”
whispers the head midwife, who Lenora
knows as Mother. “At the edge of our woods,
another village has just fallen dark.
The elders summoned runners … you were one
of the names.” Lenora nods, the oldest

child in her home now. It’s true, I’m older
now than I’ve ever been, she thinks, lantern
readied in hand. “I know you’ll be the one,
Child, who can save them.” “Yes, Mother.” The woods
await. “When you reach the huts, Lenora,
you know what to do?” “Yes, I'll search the dark—”

“Yes, you’ll search for cauldrons in the darkness
to light with your fire.” Constant dusk and cold
own this season—the Long Night. Lenora
checks the foul-smelling oil in her lantern.
Not full … but likely enough. The wooden
floors creak as Father comes in. He’s not one

to show himself like this. He leans to one
side, hiding his scars. Rarely leaves the dark
of her brother’s room. Talks about the woods
in a crazy way, like he knows what Old
Ones think. Now he stares straight at the lantern,
and growls, “I hear your lies to Lenora!

How dare you and the elders … Lenora’s
only twelve years old! I should be the one!”
Lenora watches the door, the lantern,
her pending path out into the black-dark
night. “Foolish man, you’ve done your duty,” scolds
Mother. “We must trust our girl to the woods.”

Mother’s eyes say I should go now, though I’d
wanted her to send me off. … Lenora
leaves, running for the canopy of old,
immense trees that stretch high beyond sight. Stone
torch posts mark her trail: racing in the dark,
she’s a fragile firefly with her lantern.

Despite her weak light, it’s not her lantern
that leads her—she’s been exploring the woods
since she was a young girl, learning the dark.
Only my brother’s wandered farther, I
know, drawn beyond our home. Until the one
time he didn’t return. Many said the Old

Ones finally caught him. Monsters older
than this black forest. … And yet his lantern
had been found. Near town. Intact. With not one
sign of struggle. Now her path through the woods
feels less worn—she’s past the border of her
home. There’s a difference to this darkness.

Then a very bad thought comes: it’s too dark …
When did I last pass a torch post? The old
beacons still aren’t in sight … The speed of her
steps surges. And where are other lantern
runners? Under this canopy of woods,
the shadows flicker harshly from her lone

light. Still her feet spare each leaf, crunching none
—in return, she moves unheard in the dark.
Minutes later, she finds an old, wooden
totem. It tilts hard, half-fallen in cold
clay. She stops to study it: her lantern
reveals dozens of inch-wide claw marks. She

feels her heart pounding steadily in her
chest. There’s never been a time when Old Ones
would dare approach us like this. … Her lantern
circle-sweeps above her—in the darkness
she sees a smashed cauldron, part of the old
clay network for sharing fire through the woods.

She dips her flame in the spilled oil—the woods
flash as burning paths reveal veiled huts. She’s
somehow reached the village first. This stronghold
remains strangely silent. Like I’m alone …
Closing her eyes, she hears the waiting dark.
Just wind and dead leaves. Nothing more. Lantern

in hand, she finds no lit shrines. Nor lanterns
yet behind her. I’m not surprised … Why would
the others risk their safety for the dark?
Near the huts, large footprints lead Lenora
to another attacked cauldron. Crushed stones,
oil-soaked. Her flare undoes what night withholds:

black fuel trails blaze brightly. She beholds
wild, inhuman forms pulling back. Her lantern
shakes. Something enormous appears, taking one
long, heaving step toward her from the woods.
How was it hidden despite its size? … She
feels its immense gaze, even through the dark.

Shoulders, ten … no, fifteen feet high … Its dark
eyes widen like pools, watching her. Eyes, old
and sad. But then the town stirs—Lenora’s
light has brought them from their huts. “A lantern
runner! Your fire will save us from the woods!”
The Old One’s face contorts, all mercy gone

as it roars—many large forms, all at once
and barreling hard, burst from the darkness.
Six men seized by six jaws, dragged to the woods.
A woman stomped red in the earth. An old,
robed man steps forth, wielding his cracked lantern.
A retired runner! Passing Lenora,

he shatters his tool on a small beast. She’s
shocked how the Old One ignites, fur and bone
losing detail in flames from the lantern.
With combusting jaws, it bellows a dark
howl before descending upon the old
man, goring him with burning tusks. The woods

are watching this happen … Her brother would
flee … But she feels weak. The beast topples near her.
Fur crackles and bones pop, a smoldering
heap, caved in. Then she notices someone
chased: a man begs for parents in the dark.
Now I understand … This world of lanterns

is a nightmare … The heat from her lantern
sears her leg, wakes her—she sprints for the woods
beyond this agony. She sees darkness
regain swift command of the town. All her
work lighting cauldrons, snuffed by the Old Ones.
She runs past ruins, huts, and screams. Sees an old

woman, pinned in rubble, as claws take hold
of her. Lenora knows now her lantern
isn’t enough to save her. Or anyone …
She crouches, trying to hide from the woods
—when her brother now appears beside her.
He’s fast. She strains to trace him through the dark

paths of this lost town, beyond its darkness
to the forest. Deeper they sprint, past old
trails of their people. Blood hot and raw, her
legs and lungs ache. Did no other lantern
runners arrive? Further into the woods,
she almost trips on a pile of giant bones—

looking up, it seems her brother is gone.
Instead, many eyes reflect from the dark.
She runs, feet mocked by rocks; bushes bite; woods
slash at her skin. All around her, the Old
Ones pursue from the edge of her lantern’s
light—yet don’t strike. A red glow catches her

sight. As if the Old Ones are guiding her.
More feral skulls. The ground’s littered with bones …
But now, in a clearing, cloaked in lanterns:
a massive structure stands, blasting the dark
with tall walls of fire. She smells something old,
foul, and familiar. Coming from the woods,

the pack surrounds her. Oh Mother, why would
you let me go? … From their living ring, she’s
approached now by the same enormous Old
One from the town. She asks, “A-am I the one
to go inside?” It nods, face darkening
then points to a door. Leaving her lantern,

she enters. Inside, she gags—an old smell she knows, like her lantern, but far more raw and
rancid. Rotting wooden barrels, stacked high. A long knife. Tangled nets. A dark-stained
table. A beast hanging in the room. Thin tusks. Gashed throat. Exposed bones. She thinks

of the skeletons from the woods. The creature’s dark blood pools in thirsting pots below
—a steady drip-drip-drip. She opens a barrel. Finds finished oil. The same for her lantern.
For her village’s spreading fire. To keep my people safe … and to burn the Old Ones alive.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Theodore Monk during our annual Kickstarter.]