Like The Ashes of Lanterns on the Wind

One of the problems with living in the swamp is that there is no horizon. The other is the random appearance of the wisps. The lantern’s glow reminded me of the little pests, each a lantern unto itself. Sometimes, like tonight, they would cover the swamp. Like people, there were many types of wisps, and the problem was figuring out which were which, especially given how identical the flames were to each other. If you followed the right ones, you could become a richer person, but if you followed the wrong ones, you could become as ashes in the wind.

It was nights like this that I wish I still had Charlene at my side, on my bed, in my life. I took in the smells of the swamp, made sure the full moon was behind me, and walked down to the shore. I could see the wisp who would be guiding light for the night.

I followed one with a quick, steady pulse to a possible pirate’s treasure: A mapper imp There were many treasures hidden in these swamps, hidden by pirates and then forgotten like a squirrel’s nut horde as the pirate died, was imprisoned, or just decided to go elsewhere. As Atticus, I followed its light like a lost ship follows a lantern on the shore. Hopefully, it wouldn’t turn out to be one of the other three types, the wicked boy who led people to their deaths, the mad man who led people on merry chases that could end in death or riches, or the dead man’s light, led a person to the corpse of the manifesting wisp.

Each wisp was a ghost, a person who had died in the swamp. The wicked boys were either sociopaths in life, or their victims, their slow pulse matching their patience in looking for victims to either kill or share their fate. The mad men, with fast yet erratic pulses, were driven insane by the swamp, those who were unable to find a way out and succumbed to frustration of survival. The dead man’s light marked where they had died, their slow and steady light a final marker of their death. The mapper imps, with their fast but regular pulse, were the saddest of all, seamen who were sacrificed to keep the secret of their treasure’s location.

They were usually cabin boys who had mad the mistake of following the wrong man, only finding out as a cutlass slid in between their ribs.

I paddled through the swamp’s thick water, following the mapper imp. I didn’t realize the truth until the shadows became treacherous. Each wisp had its own poetry, its own meter that showed the world what it was. “Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought, and the thought has found words,” Frost once wrote, and finding the missing words defined each wisp.

I found that out the hard way when I almost died, following a wicked boy who knew of a patch of quicksand hidden by the shadow of a mangrove. Fortunately, I relaxed and stopped sinking, but nonetheless, developed a new respect for the secrets shadows keep. However, I noticed that the wicked boy had a slower pulse than the others.

I quickly reached the shore, more treacherous than the swamp itself. I became unstoppable once I had that epiphany.

Carry your own lantern, even when the world tries to blow it out, and you can find anything, sometimes even what you didn’t know you were looking for.

Since I had learned to watch pulses, I quickly learned the qualities of the wisp of the pulse. Even quicker, I found that if I were prepared for an expedition, the mapper imps were a means to an end, and a profitable one at that. I became rich and a friend to several local museums. Some tried to find out my secrets, and those I introduced to the mad men.

The mapper imp had led me to a grove of mangroves. It’s mission complete, it became the image of a teenager, emaciated by weeks in a boat, and then faded out of existence, likely never to be seen again. Sometimes madness hides in the silence until it has found the person it likes; the mad men liked everyone. The men and occasional woman I introduced them to followed the wisps wherever they went, not realizing until it was too late that the wisp was leading them on a wild chase. One or two even found the pot at the end of the chase, but most found hungry gators, angry cottonmouths, and stretches of quicksand; they were never seen again. Some were likely to become possible wisps of their own, lantern ashes on the wind of fate.

I loaded the treasure into my boat. I would need to come out several more times, but it would be worth it: Several chests of doubloons, jewels, and jars. The doubloons would disappear into the internet, the jewels into the hands of cutters, and the jars into the museums. This would be easier if I still had my Charlene. Once I would have followed her to the ends of the earth; I had followed her here, after all. We headed into the swamps together, two young people living in the sun during the day and in the bedroom at night. We promised to stay together forever. We had, in a fashion.

As I loaded the treasure into my boat, I realized that staying here was inane. Yes, it was a sort of madness; Newton could calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people. I guarded my swamp’s jealousy, the treasures within mine and mine alone. The price had been paid, and that price was heartbreaking. Once back at my cabin, I loaded the treasure into my truck and made sure it was ready for whenever I decided to wake up, probably late afternoon. I then found my favorite wisp, just a few steps from the cabin.

As per my ritual, I knelt beside the grave marked by its own dead man’s light. The person had died of cottonmouth venom from a snake we only saw at the last moment. I had tried to stop it, to kick it away as it struck, but my reflexes were too slow. Below the wisp lay the body of Charlene. She was one horizon away, and I couldn’t see a horizon in the swamp. I only hoped it was still there.

All I could see were the ashes of my lantern, glowing in the wind.