Superstition

Darkness fell upon the estate like a huge blanket. Night on the plantation was thick, black, and hot. All across the bayou, people were sleeping and dreaming, but not him. He had to wait until the day was done, and the stars came out. He came to life only in the dark, and only at this place. He was not dead, nor was he asleep—he was in suspended animation, a child of obscurity who lived only in shadow. Few knew he existed. Of these few, two were practitioners of magic—one dark, and one light. These magicians warred against each other; each particularly interested in his fate because their destinies were tied together with his like a bow. All the destinies depended on the other—his, the magicians’, and an innocent girl’s.

He begrudgingly rose with the moon and lurked in the shadows. He never wanted to be like this. But he was what he was, and there was no going back. Besides, he couldn’t really remember any other way. The light of day was foreign to him; he sometimes wondered what it was like to feel the sun on his skin, but its warmth was a distant memory. He thought he missed it, but he couldn’t be sure. How could he miss something he didn’t even remember? Now he was dusk and stillness. The night was his refuge and his prison; he hated it and loved it. The moon-lit shadows were beautiful as they bathed the world in silvery light. No extra color, no extra people. Achingly lovely, yet the loneliest time of day.

On this particular night, there was no moon. It was even blacker than usual, and the silence roared in his ears like the ocean. The quiet was almost palpable. He licked his lips and tasted it. Bittersweet.