The door is ajar as Sylvia approaches the home of The Candlemaker. As she continues moving forward, she sees candles floating in the home like fireflies. Some constantly burning with dripping, wet wax, others twinkling alight and the rest unlit.
As she enters, the door slams shut behind her. In the center of the room is a tub filled with bubbling wax. To her right, a bald older man is rocking rhythmically in a creaking rocking chair like a metronome keeping count. He is seated by a hearth with a warm fire blazing.
“Welcome in, Sylvia. What can I do for you today?” The Candlemaker asks without averting his eyes from the fire.
“I need you to Kindle me,” she says.
The old man turns to face her. He slowly rises and shuffles to a small table with two chairs.
“Sit, sit,” the man gestures to the available seat.
Sylvia pulls out the wooden chair and sits. She quickly tucks a few stray gray hairs behind her ears. She interlaces her hands and rests them upon the table. Her posture erect. She attempts to appear as confident as possible, though The Candlemaker knows it bruises her pride to come to him for aid.
“Tell me why you need my services,” the old man says.
“It’s rather embarrassing,” Sylvia slightly slinks her shoulders and looks to her side.
“You know that you must,” he responds.
She makes a heavy sigh.
#
It was a rather ordinary day. There was a knock on my door. A young, gangly man dressed in ragged clothes with soot smudged across his face held a pathetic, drooping look. He looked at me with pleading eyes.
“Might you be The Paintress?” He asked.
“I am,” I responded.
“I was hoping you could paint me something,” he said pitifully.
I stepped aside the doorway and welcomed him in, “Come in, come in.”
“Take a seat by the easel,” I said gesturing to two seats next to a palette, blank canvas and, of course, my paintbrush.
“And what did you say your name was?” I asked.
“Archibald. You can call me Archie.”
He looked around my house, as though his eyes were absorbing every detail as he went to take his seat. As he sat, he stared at the paintbrush. The paintbrush always appeared new and hardly used, but apart from that, it was rather unremarkable.
“Is it true that everything in your home was made from your paintbrush?” He asked slowly turning his eyes from the brush to me.
“Indeed it is true. In fact, I even painted the house itself,” I said. “Now, what is it I may help you with today?” I took hold of my paintbrush and palette looking at him readily.
“Well you see… I… might I trouble you for a glass of water before we begin? I traveled an awful long way to get here…” Archie said in a wretched tone.
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” I said as I went to my pitcher. I felt a slight murmur in my heart as I had my back turned pouring into a cup. “Now, you were telling me what you might…” As I turned around the man quickly bolted out the door. I quickly turned my attention to the palette. I dropped my cup. It was as though my heart was the water—splattered and slowly sinking into the floor. My paintbrush was missing.
I looked out my door and saw him sprinting towards the trees. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch him. Even if I could, would I be strong enough to wrestle it back from him? After all, he had the paintbrush.
#
“Just like that, huh?” The Candlemaker asks.
“Just like that,” Sylvia says.
“I thought—” The Candlemaker begins.
“Spare me your lectures, old man,” Sylvia interrupts.
The Candlemaker flashes a grin. His white teeth compliment his dark skin. “All right, all right,” he says giving Sylvia a calm down gesture.
“So, will you Kindle me?” She presses.
“Yes,” he responds getting up from his chair. “Come with me,” gesturing her to follow. “Step into the tub.”
“Do I need to disrobe?” Sylvia asks.
“That depends on whether or not you mind getting wax on your clothes,” he responds insouciantly.
Sylvia dips her bare feet into the vat of wax. It feels warm, not scalding like she expected. She submerges her entire body into to the wax with only her head above the liquid.
“Your head too,” The Candlemaker says.
Sylvia slowly sinks her head into the wax. Only her mouth and nose peer above. The Candlemaker grabs her face and plunges her deeper. She begins to violently thrash. He holds her under until the thrashing stops.
The Candlemaker lifts both arms underneath her, lifts her body dripping with wax out of the tub and places her on the floor. His dark hands are suddenly coated in an orange fire. He runs them along Sylvia’s seemingly lifeless body. The gray wax drips upward off her body and into a cylindrical shape floating above her body. As the last drop of wax melts into the candle hovering above her, Sylvia gasps awake.
“I didn’t know it was going to be quite like that,” Sylvia says through heavy breath.
“Well, it’s done now. This is your candle,” he says grabbing the hovering object.
“It’s rather small for all that work,” she says dressing into her clothes.
“Every candle starts out at the same size. No soul is more important than the other,” The Candlemaker says. He walks over to the table. “Sit. We have things to discuss,” he gestures to the available chair.
“This candle is your soul,” The Candlemaker says pointing the candle at Sylvia. “Every time you Kindle your candle will burn. If you burn through your candle... poof!” He opens his free hand. “You will cease to exist. If you misuse your Kindling, your candle meets the hearth,” he gestures to the fireplace behind him. “So, no taking over the world. No burning up kittens. None of that,” he finishes.
“I presume you will be keeping it here,” Sylvia says.
The Candlemaker nods and releases the candle. It floats into a place among the rest of the candles overhead. It looks indistinguishable from the rest albeit yet to be lit.
“How am I supposed to know which one is mine?” She asks.
“You can’t, but I can. That’s all that matters,” he responds.
He takes a moment to look at the candles overhead. “So, how do you propose to find this thief anyway?” He asks.
“You know how I made my paintbrush, right? It was made from my heart. It is my heart. I’ll follow the wend of my heart to the ends of the earth. Besides, Archie couldn’t have gone far. I’m sure his artwork will pop up soon.” She finishes.
“Fair enough,” The Candlemaker responds. “When you see that artwork of his I’m sure your Kindling will come in handy.”
“Can I use it to kill Archie?” Sylvia asks gravely.
“I assumed you would,” The Candlemaker says nonchalantly.
“Perfect,” she says with a spark in her eyes.
#
As Sylvia makes her way out the door, she follows the distant pulse of her brush, pulling her towards the forest.
Ahead of her she spots a lanky, clumpy, russet figure. It’s humanoid. Did Archie make a stick figure made of… mud? As she approaches, the figure turns towards her. It runs toward her with a raised arm carrying a stick… sword?
Sylvia Kindles her right hand. Fire coats her hand like a dawning sun’s light warming its terrain. She hurls an orange orb at the creature. The blast crumbles it to clumps of dirt.
As Sylvia ventures forward she sees a the outline of a black house. Two muddy stick figures stand guard. Their limbs droop from their moist ooze. They must have been recently painted. Archie is standing in the makeshift house hastily painting the walls solid. The two thin guards run after Sylvia like frothing attack dogs. Two searing fireballs pulverize the two guards.
Archie still frantically colors the walls of his home. Sylvia steps to the side and walks through an outlined wall.
“Enough! This ends here,” says Sylvia.
Sylvia Kindles her hands. She feels the wick of her soul’s candle burning to its end. She hurls a large fiery orb at Archie. The thief is reduced to a pile of ash—as worthless in life as he is in death. She takes hold of her paintbrush and collapses to the floor. She stares at the paintbrush and waits. She waits and she waits like a beating heart in a comatose body. Without her soul, what more can she be?
As The Candlemaker oscillates in his rocking chair, he suddenly stops. He turns his head watching the last drip of her candle fall into oblivion. He shakes his head and turns his attention back to the hearth, resuming his back and forth rocking.
