The Candle Life
A Ballad
For George
“Sugar, needles, and barley seed,
This good tinker has what you need.
Knives to sharpen, letters to send,
Bring them to your old tinker friend.”
“Cinnamon, paper, ocean salt,
Silver, bronze, copper, and cobalt.
Jars of honey, a wooden ball,
Your roving tinker has it all.”
“Bolts of cloth, brandy, and smoked meat,
Sharpening stones, sickles, ground wheat.
If you have a penny to spend,
Come over to your tinker friend.”
From her cottage, Jane heard his song,
And her heart grew merry and light.
For months they’d not had a candle,
But that would not be so tonight.
Hurrying over to the man’s stall,
Her eyes scoured across all his wares.
But among the barrels and bags,
Was no candle to ease her cares.
“Tinker, have you candles to spare?”
She looked at him with pleading eyes.
He smiled and rummaged in his cart,
And at last emerged with his prize.
“I have only one candle left,
And it’s a special one, at that.
Wrought by the faeries this one was.
I’d swear it by my trusty hat.”
The tinker waved his leather cap,
But shrewd Jane suspected a trick.
“Half penny is all I’ll give to you.
Not one bit more for wax and wick.”
The man huffed and hesitated,
But then wrapped it up smooth and fast.
“May you enjoy its merry light,
And through many nights may it last.”
***
As Jane prepared that evening’s soup,
Henry came through the cottage door.
His woodcutting axe on his shoulder,
Made him look like a knight from lore.
He wrapped his arm around her waist,
and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“This smells fit for a king,” said he
And gave the bubbling pot a peek.
Once the soup was hot and served up,
Jane untied her package’s string.
“I bought this from the trav’ling man,
To have light in the nighttiming.”
From the stove, she lighted the wick,
And at once a glow filled the room.
But horror! What vision was this?
A man emerged amid the gloom.
Brave Henry leapt up from his chair
And with his axe himself did arm.
But the figure cowered in dread,
And feebly cried he meant no harm.
“Why come you like an evil elf,
Skulking in darkness?” Henry cried.
“I’m but a tailor,” squeaked the man,
“With whom the fae would not abide.”
Jane looked carefully at his form
And saw it gently waxed and waned.
He flickered with the flame she held
As though by fire he was maintained.
Seeing Henry had stayed his hand,
The apparition hurried on,
“I am guiltless of heinous crime,
I merely angered a foul fawn.”
“He was the son of a cruel nymph,
Who for him gathered wax from bees.
Over three nights, with magic dark,
She formed this prison to hold me.”
“For ten years I’ve been trapped inside,
Dimly hearing through waxen walls,
I was bustled from place to place,
And ended in that peddler’s stall.”
“A foolish old twat that man was,
Saying the candle was nymph-made.
Thinking to get a higher price,
He drove fae-fearing folk away.”
“But there is a way to save me.
A human hand must touch the flame,
And then at once I will be free,
To return to my home again.”
His tale was so devastating,
Pity stirred the heart of gentle Jane.
Through the fire she moved her fair hand,
And then up leapt the tiny flame.
It surged over Jane like a wave.
A moment later she was gone.
Henry cried out, struck with horror,
And then, the man, he bared down on.
Henry knocked the man to the floor,
Crying out at him all the while,
“Bring her back you spawn of hell!”
But the imp just gave a sly smile.
“She is not gone. She’s here with you,
In the cell from where I was freed.
I thank you greatly for your aid,
You’ve helped a weary fiend in need.”
“Into that candle I was put,
To keep my tongue from causing harm,
But once again, it served me well.
I’ve unlocked myself with my charm.”
“But do not grieve, my peasant friend,
You still have long hours with your wife.
While the candle still can burn bright,
It will yet sustain her life.”
With a savage cry of fury,
Henry seized his axe, prepared to strike,
But the imp dealt him a quick kick,
And scampered out into the night.
Henry raced off after the fiend,
Bent on killing the hellish spawn,
But after empty hours of searching,
Henry knew that the imp was gone.
Beat, he returned to the cottage,
And found the candle on the floor.
With trembling hand, he lit the wick,
And to him, Jane, it did restore.
“Henry, Henry! I’m such a fool!
Believing that false scheming fiend.
From the candle, I heard it all.
Too late, what wisdom I have gleaned!”
Tears flowed down her flickering face.
Henry stretched out his quaking hand.
But, oh, he found that he could touch,
Her arm, her lips, her wedding band.
To each other they clung in grief,
But Henry pulled away in dread.
“Quick, before the wax is burned down.
Dear, I will take your place instead.”
Henry reached out a ready hand,
But flame just lapped it all around.
“No,” declared Jane with gritted teeth,
“I won’t be free and have you bound.”
Henry pleaded, but she stood firm,
Preventing exchange with resolve.
“I will get you out,” Henry swore,
“No matter what it will involve.”
He saw the candle melting fast.
A tenth of it was by now gone.
He kissed Jane and blew out the flame,
Then sank down, exhausted and wan.
Leaving his home empty and cold,
Henry joined with a merchant’s band.
For a year, he roved round the world,
Seeking faeries in every land.
But every whiff of them he got,
Was just a charlatan at work.
Nowhere could he find true magic,
Though he searched every shrine and book.
One night, he left his band’s warm fire,
And lit the candle in a glade.
He held Jane in a fierce embrace,
Dreading when she again would fade.
Tears filled loyal Henry’s bright eyes,
As he spoke of his seach for fae.
She spoke soft words to comfort him,
That she had planned all year to say.
“Henry,” she implored him at last,
“Please let the candle burn away.
Let us enjoy this last sweet night.
But my end we should not delay.”
She loved him in the forest glade,
Her kisses mingled with her tears.
But she wished him to let her go,
As to find joy in his last years.
The candle’s life was nearly spent,
And Jane clung to the one she’d wed.
But Henry, seeing the wax stub,
Was bested suddenly by dread.
He ran and snuffed the candle out,
Clutching the warm stump to his chest,
“I can’t let you go,” he whispered,
Even if it’s what would be best.”
***
Henry returned to his last trade,
Cutting lumber for the townsfolk.
But at every idle moment,
To the dear candle stub he spoke.
He stroked it and whispered to Jane,
Telling her all about his days.
He sung her songs he’d made for her,
And softly recited sweet lais.
Folk began to say that he’d cracked,
Telling tales of the woodcutter.
“Dabbles with spells. Mad as a midge.
Jinxed by a ghoul,” they would mutter.
Children were told to shun his house.
His lumber grew thick with mildew.
And perhaps Henry went a bit mad,
With just a candle to talk to.
Yet still, he continued his work,
Selling wood to those who would buy.
Until one day, out in the woods,
His axe sank deeply into his thigh.
He cried out, but there were none to hear.
Staggering, he found flint in his cart.
With shaking hands, he struck a spark,
And lit the candle hung near his heart.
Jane appeared, looking wan and dazed,
But then perceived the deadly gash.
With a cry, she caught Henry’s arm,
As he sank down, face pale as ash.
She tried to tie his bleeding leg,
But he stopped her with one weak hand.
“Fret not for me, my dear, my love.
A better end could not be planned.”
“Let me put my hand through the fire.
You can live, even if I die.”
But fiercely she shook her fair head,
And refused to yield to his cry.
“Death is sweeter than life parted,
Let me breathe my last upon your chest.”
She sang the songs he had sung her,
And gently stayed his weak protest.
Her tears rolled down and mixed with his,
And peace replaced all lingering doubt.
Entwined, side by side, on the ground,
Together their lives flickered out.