The Candle

By Shawn Michel de Montaigne

She got up and found a book of matches, came back and sat. She examined the wick, which was partially buried in the wax, and then pried it free with her thumb. She thought of the handsome dark man: the mysterious vendor who had told her that lovely, sad story of a candle that would light only for a sorcerer's true love. His sparkling blue eyes. His strong countenance. His long black hair. She remembered repeating the story to John, who didn't listen to a single word of it, but jumped down her throat all the way back to Denver, lecturing her on how much more important his business was than her ridiculous flights of fancy, how she had been gone nearly an hour, and how he had missed a very important meeting because of her. She remembered running into her apartment, where, crying, she threw the box with the candle in it across the bedroom into a wall. She had left it where it lay for weeks before dumping it in her closet and forgetting about it.

She struck a match and held it to the wick, smiling. What a lovely story, she thought. What could be lovelier than if it were true?

If it were true ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Michel de Montaigne
• Release date: Mar 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201122713

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

I'm a writer, illustrator, and fractalist. A wonderer, wanderer, and an unapologetic introvert. I'm a romantic; I'm inspired by the epic, the authentic, the numinous, and the luminous. Most of all, I'm blessed.

Book preview

Chapter One

In a Place Beyond Thought

––––––––

C’mon home, girl,

Momma cried on the phone,

"Too soon to lose my baby

and my girl should be at home...."

But Momma try to understand,

Try to understand,

Try, try, try to understand—

He's a magic man.

~Heart

~~*~~

HAD ENOUGH, Allison? Can we leave now?

I'm not through here yet, John. Can't you be a little more—?

His phone went off—again. He held up his finger, quieting her with a single, swift motion, pulling the phone to his ear with his other hand. Moments later he was speaking to a business associate.

Allison, frustrated and offended, sighed. She resented being shushed for a stupid call; she resented that John had even brought his phone here to the Renaissance Festival. She had told him just last night not to. She resented that he wore sunglasses in heavy shade, that she could not see his eyes. She resented his slacks, how they seemed entirely out of place, and how his gut was beginning to hang over them. She resented hearing him say to his associate in a mocking voice, "Yeah, I’m here at the fake fourteenth-century fru-fru-a-thon. It’s nothing but a bunch of fairies and liberal pansies in tights wanting to hug trees and sell me incense. Right. Twenty minutes? Should be leaving by then. I'll be at the office later. What? What quotes? Hold on a sec ..."

He brought the phone down and forced a meek smile to his fleshy lips. The effort accentuated his contempt. Baby? I just have this little bit of business, then we can keep walking—

She had done this before, and forced a fake smile in return. Have fun.

She walked away.

Catch up with you in just a sec, hon ... he yelled. Promise this'll be the last call I take. Promise. Just a sec, baby....

But she was already lost in the crowd, one that melted in and out of the hillside shade as folks watched the plays and listened to the music and browsed the many vendors of the Larkspur Renaissance Festival.

~~*~~

After a time she found herself at the festival’s periphery. The crowds had thinned away like early morning fog in bright sunlight. Dreamy silence lulled her into a quiet sense of timelessness. Somewhere deep in her spirit a young girl ached for something she had never seen before but somehow always knew existed.

She raised her chin and looked around. The vendors here were selling everything from medieval swords to stationery to—yes—incense, along with silk scarves and clothing of a kind she had never seen before. She heard laughter and music, but it was as though both were echoes in a barely remembered dream. They sharpened only when she sought for their source, looking for them.

Several large, proud horses grazed in a flaxen field beyond, black and rippled with muscle. The vendors made no effort to bring the crowds to them, preferring to sit well inside their awnings and well beyond the heart of the festival. They regarded her coldly. Clearly she had wandered too far, having been preoccupied with her frustration and anger.

As she neared the field to take a closer look at the horses she heard, Candles, my lady?

He stood behind a table full of them, under an awning providing shade over his tall, slender frame. His straight black hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. As he moved from shade into the bright sunlight streaks of brilliant yellow flashed like lightning through it, vanishing at his broad shoulders. His hair framed an angular, almost gaunt face. Ocean-blue eyes watched her. A slight smile played across his face, inviting and disquieting, a smile framed by high cheekbones and a strong, almost pointed chin.

She suddenly felt as though she was two inches tall and under a microscope; as if he could, with a simple flick of his wrist, squash her without any effort whatsoever. For a brief moment she wanted to run, to wheel about and find her way back to the easy, monotonous safety of John, but the vendor’s presence was undeniably compelling. The dull, ever-present ache within her bloomed like a desperate flower. She approached, painfully conscious of her form, as if she had entered the presence of some medieval god, there to offer the sacrifice of her own body to his every desire.

Candles? she said, smiling overaggressively, knowing instantly that he could sense her effort to assert herself.

He inclined his head slightly, affirming her query without a word.

She looked over his selection. Most were just like the hundreds of others she had seen from countless other vendors today, everything from the tall and thin to the psychedelic to the ornate and Gothic. None were lit.

She shook her head. I don't think I need any, but thanks anyway.

He nodded in patient silence.

Perhaps it was frustration. Before she could stop herself she spoke, the sting of reproach in her voice. "You know, I think you'd do much better if you were actually part of the festival, don’t you think?"

I have no interest joining people who ... annoy me, he said with that same slight smile. And if I may say so, it seems you feel the same way.

His voice was low and gentle, not a whisper but not a rumble either. He tilted his head, studying her.

She looked at him, then down at the table. She chuckled. Is it that obvious?

Not with everyone, no.

So why don't you—?

He lifted his chin, puzzled, then nodded again. You mean, why don't I choose to make more money over in the main area? I think I told you that. And the people who seek me out do so for a reason. They just don't know why most of the time.

You really believe that?

He let her question linger on the still summer air for several seconds without answering. Instead he queried, "So why are you here, Miss—? Please forgive me: I haven’t asked your name ..."

She hesitated. Allison. I’m Allison.

So why have you wandered to the edge of the festival, my fair Allison?

I'm just trying to get away. Away from my—

—lover, he finished for her.

The word jolted her, and she blinked blankly. It occurred to her then that she had never thought of John as her lover. Boyfriend, yes. Significant other, yes. But—lover? They had sex, yes; when John got drunk, which was often, they fucked. But the way this man just used the word lover made fucked, a word which Allison hated, sound even more disgusting.

She rallied. He's just really not into this gallantry and chivalry and medieval stuff. He thinks it's gay. I mean—I, er ... I hope that didn't offend you.

He shook his head indifferently.

And he's just ... well, he’s just such a damn yuppie, and I’m ... She shook her head with a couple of violent shakes, as if to clear it of an invisible but persistent gnat. I'm ... I’m just frustrated, I guess ... I mean, I don't know why I'm telling you this, I don't even know you.

She watched his smile warm toward something that felt like empathy, so she continued, feeling increasingly stupid: I guess I'm just aggravated that he can't come here and enjoy the woods and the fields and the smells and the foods. He's always got to be 'productive,' whatever that means. He's probably still on his damn phone. Jesus, that makes me angry! I mean, we only get to see each other weekends, if that, and here he is, still at the office!

She saw that he was listening intently. But it was more than that. Somehow she felt as if he already knew everything she was going to say and was only waiting for her to realize it. His look encouraged her to continue.

She stood in uncomfortable silence, shifting her weight from her left foot to her right and back again. She brought her eyes from his to the candles on the table. She felt embarrassed over her confession. She randomly spotted a plain white candle mounted on an equally nondescript pewter base: a bright, thick stalk maybe four inches in diameter and perhaps that tall. It was lost in a garish forest of wax and fairly close to him. To break