The Last Lantern

The lanterns swing above the main street. They are lit day and night, flickering a bright yellow light that never goes out. It has always been this way.

Lin runs along the stone road until she reaches the right lantern, a gold sphere with red flower patterns. She talks a mile a minute as she sprinkles the incense powder over the coals inside an incense burner. She leaves a small cup of her mother's favorite tea and a few plump oranges. Then she darts off, continuing on her way to collect firewood in the forest.

That night, the wind blows violently. The lanterns sway and bump into each other, but the lights inside continue to flicker and dance. Lin watches from the window of her small house. Hundreds of lanterns cover the town's road in a row, five across. The lights inside aren't candlelight or anything that can be snuffed out. When someone in the town dies, their spirit floats out and enters a lantern. Their family members take care of them by lighting incense and leaving offerings.

Lin visits her mother's lantern every day, twice, on her way to and from the forest. In the evenings, she comes with her father and her other family members to light incense for her grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents. This ritual has gone on for as long as anyone can remember. The lanterns are a tie to family, a bond between the living and the dead. They light the night like a thousand floating moons.

On this night, the wind blows stronger than Lin has ever seen. The window coverings rattle and moan like cows in the field giving birth. She watches the lanterns bounce around in the storm with a little trepidation.

One lantern, a faded one that has been there for centuries, falls to the ground and begins rolling down the stone pathway. Lin jumps to her feet. She has to run after it. Someone has to save it. She buckles her small shoes and runs out into the wind, which threatens to pick her up and whisk her away. She runs after it, the light leading the way. She chases the light as it blows toward the river.

She's not supposed to go to the river alone. The current is too strong for little girls. She is only allowed to go fishing in the stillness of the pond outside the town.

She follows the light to a small pool at the the river's edge, where the lantern has landed. The current swirls it around, banging it into rocks and catching it on submerged sticks. Lin makes her way to the edge and, using a long branch, tries to scoop the lantern out of the raging water. As she does, the branch pierces the lantern, tearing a hole in the cloth. Light spills into the water, then rises before her, taking the form of a woman.

Lin drops her branch in surprise and watches in awe as the woman bows deeply, both hands pressed together at her chest.

"Thank you," she says in a voice made of light.

Then, with a sigh, she dissipates into millions of sparks and floats into the sky.

Lin is left confused and bewildered. She fishes the torn, empty lantern from the water and carries it home. As she walks beneath the other lanterns, they suddenly look different to her. The flickering light inside now seems trapped. But they must want to be in there, or they wouldn't go, she thinks.

She stops below her mother's lantern. What once looked like the soothing glow of candlelight now seems to dart from side to side, searching for an exit. She lights incense, but it doesn't bring her comfort. She talks to her mother, desperately wanting to hear a response.

At her door, her father runs to meet her. "Where have you been?" His voice is worried and angry. He sees the ripped lantern in her hand and snatches it from her.

"What did you do?" he demands.

She tells him the wind knocked it down and that she went after it to save it. She tells him how it ripped and how the light inside escaped like sparks from a fire.

He barely listens. " Go to bed," he says.

Lin lies awake that night, thinking about the woman who thanked her for letting her go.

The next morning, she asks her dad, "How old was that lantern?" He frowns. "That place is the oldest in the village. The lanterns there have hung for hundreds of years, maybe more."

"The fire was a woman, Baba. She bowed to me and said thank you before she turned into sparks and flew away in the wind."

She speaks with such conviction that he hesitates before swatting her words away like mosquitos.

"And now her hún soul is lost," he mutters. "Her family will not have anywhere to honor her."

Lin stands her ground. "But she bowed to me. She was grateful."

Her father looks into the distance. "Maybe you misunderstood."

Lin steps closer. "Their hún souls are trapped in the lanterns, Baba," she says, her eyes wide. "Mama is trapped too."

"You are not trapped if you are with your family," he firmly replies.

She starts to argue, but he ends the conversation with an abrupt "Hmmph."

Lin watches him walk out the front door, her eyes drawn to the swinging lanterns. They've become a question that she needs to answer.

That night, after her father and siblings are asleep, Lin creeps out of the house. At the edge of town, where the lantern road ends, she stands on an overturned pot and cuts one of the lanterns down. She runs with it, the light illuminating the ground around her.

At the river's edge, she takes a deep breath and slits the fabric open. The light bursts out in a small explosion, and she hears the sound of a child laughing. The sparks swirl around her, tickling her skin before disappearing into the sky.

She hides the torn lantern in some plants and runs back home, slipping into bed unnoticed.

The next morning, Lin wakes to loud voices.

She looks out the window and sees the entire village gathered where she cut the lantern down. People are upset. There are now two missing lanterns.

She runs outside to stand with her father at the back of the crowd. He looks down at her and shakes his head no, putting his heavy hand on her shoulder.

Lin stands quietly, but she can't contain it.

"They were set free," she yells over the commotion.

Her small voice silences the crowd.

"What do you mean, set free?" a voice demands.

"They do not want to be in there. The first one ripped in the wind, the second one I let go." She takes a deep breath. "They were grateful."

Everyone begins to yell all at once.

Her father, who was scared at first, now silences the crowd.

"I think it is true," he says. Remember the story of the Wūshī's son?"

The crowd grows silent.

"I do not think it is just a fable. The Wūshī bound his son's soul to a lantern so he would not lose him." He looks up at the dancing lights in the swaying lanterns. "And every soul since then."

The villagers stare at the lights, watching the way they dart from side to side like tigers in cages. Understanding spreads through the crowd as they remember the tale of the grief-stricken shaman and his dying child.

"What do we do?" an old woman asks, thinking of her own approaching end. "Will we be trapped too?"

Lin's voice is confident. "We cut open the lanterns. We set them free."

Everyone begins to talk at once.

"The Ghost Festival is coming soon," a man shouts. "We will free them when we know they'll be guided home." The villagers unanimously agree.

The monsoon rains come. The muggy heat fades into evening with no relief from the heat. Tables are arranged with offerings of food and drink. The air is thick with incense smoke from coils hung between the lanterns, for guiding the spirits home. Priests chant, and the old Wūshī from the mountain performs rituals to release the spirits bound to the earth.

Lin waits in front of her house for her father, but he hasn't returned. Getting impatient, she hurries to where her mother's lantern hangs. To her surprise, she finds it missing.

She searches for her older brother and asks if he's seen their father. He says he hasn't, they split up to look, not wanting to miss the ceremony. Lin runs into the forest and spots a soft glow through the trees.

"Baba!" she calls. There's no answer.

She runs closer and finds her father leaning against a tree, the glowing lantern resting in his lap. His face is wet with tears.

"I can't let her go, Lin," he sobs. "This is all I have left of her."

Lin kneels beside him, her voice soft. "We have to let her be free."

He pulls the lantern closer to his chest.

"It's ok. She's in all of us, Baba. The way An sits with her feet in the stream while she peels garlic, like Mama used to. The way Jian carries bugs outside instead of killing them, is like her too." She looks into her father's sorrow-filled eyes.

"How you sing to yourself all the time," he says to her.

Lin smiles, not realizing that was one of her mother's traits too.

"See? She'll always be with us," she says.

He knows it's time to let go. Lin takes the lantern from his arms.

"Let's go back for the ceremony. I want you to see her."

Her father rises to his feet and follows her back to the village. As his children gather around, he hangs the lantern back in its place. All around them, families cut through the fabric holding their loved ones captive. He hesitates.

The light of the freed spirits fills the village like a rising sun. Her father looks around at the human forms taking shape in the glow. Lin encourages him.

"It is ok, Baba. Go ahead."

He gently pierces the golden fabric. Light surges outward, widening the hole.

Lin's mother spills out and swirls around her children, her light flickering like fireflies. Tiny sparks land on them, making them giggle. She wraps around Lin's father like a hug. He laughs out loud. Lin has never heard such joy from him before.

"I am sorry for keeping you here," he whispers.

Her light pulses, he can see her smiling.

"Care for each other," she says as she begins to float away.

The sky fills with rising incense smoke and scattered light. The villagers watch in awe and sadness as their village grows dark. As the smoke lifts, a gasp travels through the crowd. They see, for the first time, the silver river of the Milky Way. It stretches like a glowing ribbon across the sky above them.

Lin finds her voice first, "Look Baba, that is where mama lives now."

They follow the priests to the river, where each family releases a lantern lit by candlelight to symbolize spirits being guided home. Eventually, the tired villagers return to their homes.

The Wūshī continues chanting and ringing bells into the night to ensure that no spirits will get stuck again.