Swamp light

⏱ ~4 min reading

Orest and his grandfather were returning from fishing. The sun was already setting, painting the sky a pink apricot color, and in his grandfather's bag were two crucian carp - not very big, but their own.

The road ran past a swamp. Orestes didn't really like swamps. During the day they were just a wet lowland where sedge grew and frogs croaked. But in the evenings it was a different matter. In the evenings a light mist rose above it, and it seemed as if someone invisible was watching from the water.

"Grandpa, let's go faster," said the boy and took his grandfather's hand.

"Where are you going?" Grandpa Bohdan smiled. "Look how beautifully the sun is setting.".

Orestes obediently looked to the west. It was really beautiful. And then out of the corner of his eye he noticed: something was glowing above the swamp. Small. Yellow. Warm.

Light.

The light floated over the sedge—slowly, unevenly, as if someone were carrying a flashlight and searching for a lost handkerchief. Now it rose higher, now it sank almost to the water. Now it moved to the right, now it moved to the left.

“Grandfather,” Orestes whispered. “Look.”.

Grandpa Bogdan stopped and squinted his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said calmly. “I see.”.

"This... what is this? Swamp fire?"

— It seems so.

Orestes felt a chill run down his spine. He had heard from the boys at school that swamp lights lured people into the quagmire. That they were the souls of those who had once lost their way.

“Grandpa, let’s go!” he pulled his grandfather’s sleeve.

But Grandpa Bogdan didn't move. He stared intently at the light, his eyebrows moving as they always did when he was thinking about something.

“You know what,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go take a look.”.

— There?! In the swamp?!

"There's a bridge here. It's old, but it's strong. I remember it as a boy.".

Grandfather turned decisively off the path. Orestes swallowed. He didn't want to let go of his grandfather, but he didn't want to let him go either. So he squeezed his hand tightly and followed.

The bridge was indeed found. The dry planks creaked underfoot. The frogs fell silent - they listened to who was coming. And the light... the light suddenly froze. And began to slowly fly towards them.

Orestes closed his eyes. His heart was pounding as if for a holiday.

"Open your eyes," Grandpa said gently. "Look.".

The boy cautiously opened one eye. Then the other. And gasped.

In front of them, a small paper lantern hung in the air. Quite ordinary. Yellow, round, with a tiny candle inside. Only it was very, very old: the paper was worn out, there was a patch on the side.

“But this is… a flashlight!” Orestes was surprised.

The lantern swayed slightly in the air, as if nodding. And the candle inside blinked twice, like eyes.

"I know this flashlight," Grandpa said quietly. "It's old Panas' flashlight. The fisherman's. He used to sit with it every evening, on the bridge, and catch tench. Panas has been dead for ten years. And the flashlight, you see, is looking for its owner. It must have fallen into the water somewhere, and it's still wandering around.".

Orest looked at the flashlight more carefully. And he didn't feel scared. But sad. Small, worn, lonely. Here he has been hanging over the swamp for ten years, waiting for Panas to come for him.

“Can I… can I take it?” the boy asked.

— Ask him himself.

Orestes held out his hands. The flashlight slowly sank right into them. It was warm—like a kitten, like fresh bread, like a mother's hand.

"Will you come with us?" Orestes asked in a whisper. "I'll look after you. I'll put you on the window in the evening. You'll shine.".

The flashlight flickered with a candle—quietly, gently. And suddenly inside, at the bottom of the paper circle, Orest saw an old, old drawing: a little fisherman with a mustache and a pipe. Panas. He seemed to smile at the boy.

Orest carried the flashlight home in his palms, like an Easter egg. Grandfather walked beside him and kept repeating:

"You see, grandson. Not everything that glows in the swamp is scary. Sometimes you just have to get closer.".

At home, Orestes placed a flashlight on the windowsill. He lit a new candle in it—from his mother's match. And the flashlight glowed with an even, warm light, as if those ten lonely years over the cold swamp had never happened.

At night, before falling asleep, Orestes looked at the yellow light. And it seemed to him that somewhere very far away, in the heavenly garden, the little fisherman Panas was sitting on a cloud with a fishing rod, seeing his flashlight in the boy's window and smiling softly in his mustache.