Beating through the night, the sounds of the drum pulse through the air, tingling my senses and rippling the branches of the willow trees.

Dusk flickers idly, loitering for the moon, lazy moths and fireflies weave through the warm milk of sunset. We both wait for a candle, that small flickering hope, to illuminate the coming dark.

 

I can see him, the drummer. Dressed in white, glowing softly in the grove. With raised arms, he strikes the taiko, waves of peace reverberating, leaving a strange quiet in its wake.

He begins to move. The ring of grass his figure rests upon slides farther into the shadows. I walk. To follow.

 

And parting the wisps of the willow, and the shimmering arms of the aspens, I see my candle, resting. I take it up, and follow. faster.

 

As I slide through the night, the moonlight churns up the shadows. Other followers appear at my side, around me, near and far, each face illumined by the soft glow of their own candle. Drifting along in the dark, we arch in the wake of the drifting drummer, curiously taken along by the sounds of an unexplainable beauty and peace that we cannot fathom. We follow. A little faster.

 

Then, the moon is gone. Plunging into darkness, our candles fall. Torents of wind descend into the forest, and the shadows grow darker and sharper, curling up from the dark, blossoming along the oaks and clamber out of the graves. Shrieks sound and howls call the shadows of death and confusion and pride and fear and doubt into ranks.

 

They arch, sharpen their talons and teeth, preparing to strike. I scream, drop to my knees, and melt. My candle flame buckles and threatens to swallow itself.

 

They descend.

Upon the drummer.

 

His rhythm continues, steady and strong. He strikes at the leather, not at the shadows that swarm around him, bats that slash and claw and sting. Steadfast. Silent.

 

He bleeds.

 

Then, it is done. The moon slides out of the clouds, illuminating the frozen desolation. The shadows sigh and evaporate into silence, drinking the coolness of the victor's dark wine.

I look up, pushing away the tears. The drummer is dead. The candles remain, but they are alone. No faces gaze behind them now. And mine - it is barely there. barely alive.

 

I run to the drummer. His white robe is speckled with red. Blood that is just like mine. I take his drum and beat it myself. Not with sticks, but with fists. Not with beauty and strength, but with rage and hate and regret. I hit it again and again and again, thrashing upon the white specked red. weeping

 

I bury the drummer. At his feet, I place his drum, now full with my rage and hate. Beside it, I put my candle. I won't be needing it anymore. I turn and leave the grave, but I cannot bear to close the door. Maybe. no. It could't be. It can't. He's dead.

 

I tread along the path, toward the horizon, capped with clouds smoldering with the embers of dawn.

Behind me a voice sounds.

"You forgot this"

 

I turn, and see the drumer. He holds my candle with an outsteched hand. I take it, trembling, speechless. But, you were dead.

 

"Yes, I was. But now, I am"

 

He strikes his drum again, the steadfast beauty crashing into my heart again. I smile, and his eyes smile back. We turn. I march, he drums.

My candle isn't flickering anymore. It's burning.

I run, breaking forth, joy billowing into my lungs, sunlight slicing through all of the fears that I held.

I run, hard and fast. He drums. And we burn, hard and fast.