Varying Horizons

As dusk settled into night the stars flickered to life, one by one, over the softly stirring ocean. Casual conversation amongst the family died down to whispers, almost as if the darkness was soaking up their voices.

Standing up, the oldest of the group smiled and announced, "Time to begin." His bones creaked loudly, but the lines around his excited eyes spoke far louder.

His family took the hint, and the whole of them drifted down the sanded hill to the place where the tide crept up to kiss the land. They lined up beside each other, their blood stretching far down the shoreline, all facing the dark sea under the faintness of the moon.

The oldest of them walked behind the line with a large bunch of Burning Sticks, his youngest daughter behind him carrying a blazing torch. He would hand a Stick to each person, and she would follow to light it for them. Most of the family were used to this, as it was a yearly custom, but there were a few who were just going through the motions trying to accurately mimic those who knew what they were supposed to do.

Once their Stick had come to life with that exciting orange heated glow, they would point it to the horizon and stand there respectfully to think about why they were here as the fire ever so slowly crawled closer to their hand.

Once they had made it to the end of the long line of relations, the oldest took the torch to light his daughter's Stick, and then his own. He waved the torch wildly, silently gathering everyone's attention. After they were all watching, he gently placed the torch into the ocean, the fire hissing as it dissolved into the cool water. He righted himself, pointed his own Burning Stick towards the horizon, and the ceremony was fully in motion.

It was beautiful. If you were to stand opposite of them, you would see a row of glowing lights above the water, the reflections making it double, flames seeming to twirl and spin and dance on top of the moon lighted sea. The slightest night breeze didn't hesitate to play with any loose hanging hair, it wasn't strong enough to even consider blowing out the lights, just tickle the backs of their necks.

Somewhere near the beginning of the line, a man was gazing thoughtfully at the sky above the horizon. He had brought his girlfriend with him, telling her it was just a family tradition and she could come if she wanted. She had, but he hadn't offered any explanation as to what was going on with fire, and her arm was beginning to hurt from holding it out so long. Not wanting to disrupt… whatever it was he was thinking about so deeply, she turned to the lady next to her. His cousin.

"Am- am I allowed to talk?," she whispered hesitantly.

"Whispering isn't gonna hurt anything. What's up?"

The cousin had kind brown eyes, and the younger girl was hopeful that she would maybe get some answers from someone without looking like a fool.

"What is this…," she wiggled her Stick and raised her eyebrows, "for?".

"He didn't tell you?" The cousin asked, seeming quite taken aback, even with a low voice. The answer she received was a shake of the head, so she took it upon herself to explain.

"Two hundred years ago, a relative of ours lived here near this very beach. She was a very beautiful lady, and played lots of important roles in the village. She was loved by all, and loved all. One day a rich prince came across the sea to trade and had ended up seeing her. He was so struck by her beauty that his greedy heart, which had never been denied anything it had ever wanted, decided she was his. He waited until night, and ordered a few of his men to steal her from the very place she slept, and send her to him in his ship. They did, but she was so frightened that she screamed loud enough to wake half the village, so the men hurried. Her family chased them, full of fury and worry, but were too slow. The beautiful lady wouldn't quit screaming, and the men were unhappy with the attention she was causing, so one hit her in the face hard enough to cause her to bleed. The family watched as the evil men ran with her, blood and all, into the prince's fancy ship and took off." The cousin's eyes had tears in them at her own retelling, but she continued. "Her family loved her so much that they could not just give up, so they gathered sticks and lit them on fire and waved them around as they screamed and yelled. Their goal was to draw attention of other nearby ships, and beg them for help. A couple did come to see what all the fuss was about, but they were far too afraid to even think about going after royalty. No one was brave enough to steal a passenger on a prince's ship. So, she slipped away as they were powerless to do anything but watch her drift into the horizon to an unimaginable fate of lifelong captivity."

Once she finished, the younger girl could do nothing but stare into the distance with tears pooling in her eyes, a few stray drops rolling down her cheeks.

"We do this every year in what I imagine to be a memorial. And showing how devoted we will always be to each other." The girl nodded, causing more tears to fall.

Her boyfriend noticed this and pulled her close with his free arm. She switched her Stick to her other hand so as to not burn him and to give her arm a break. She was silent after that.

A little ways down the line from them, was a little boy with his father. He too was holding fire, but was being watched scrupulously. He got bored of drawing shapes in the air with his Stick, and asked if he could go play now. His father said not until everyone's fire was out and he groaned. For a moment he looked as if he were going to poke his father's pants leg with his weapon, but decided against it. He was quiet for a moment before he asked, "Daddy? Why are we even doing this?".

The man's tired eye roll quickly turned into the smallest of grins. "Are you sure you want to know the truth?" He whispered conspicuously.

"Yes! Yes!" the son, finally agreeing to whisper, answered back.

"Alright then." He cleared his throat, eyes scanning the water in an air of important thinking. "Well son, a long time ago there was an age of children who did not stop misbehaving. And not eating their veggies. And thought it was fun to hit their sisters." He pauses and looks down at his wide eyed son and adds, "Kind of like you, huh?" He did not relish in the flicker of fear in his oldest child's eyes, of course he didn't.

"Well, what the parents would do was they would get sick of this, and they'd cut off an arm or a leg of the kid and burn it over the ocean to attract sharks. When a shark came, the parents would feed it the body part and the shark would want more of that specific taste, so it would jump onto the land to devour the rest of the naughty child. That's why we do this every year. To remind the sharks that we are still here, and if our children misbehave that much again, we know they are hungry and waiting for more."

The little boy had thoroughly not enjoyed this story, and it showed in the way his brows were furrowed in thought and the slight tremor of his Stick (not to mention the slightest glisten of salt on his eyes). His dad watched him carefully, gauging if he had gone too far, then deciding he hadn't, tried not to enjoy how well behaved his son was the rest of the evening that they were anywhere near that beach.

Down the line still, was another child and parent, but of very different ages than the previous two. The mother was old, almost as old as the man in charge of the Burning Sticks, but she had not aged as well mentally. Her mind was almost completely gone, and she could only remember bits and pieces of her life and things she once knew.

Her son was with her, now of a rather old age himself. He loved his mother deeply, and was her sole care provider, even if she could only remember who his brother was, and not him.

"Why do I have this in my hand?" She asked gently, trying hard to remember what she was doing with a stick clenched in her wrinkled fist.

Her son smiled and replied, "It's because of a story. Would you like to hear it?"

She leaned back in her wheelchair, dug her sandals into the muddy cool sand, and nodded her head.

He took a breath, and slowly told her the story she had told him countless times as he was growing up. "Years and years ago, there was a shortage of food in these lands. Mothers withered away just so their children could have meager scraps to eat, pets died and were sometimes eaten, everyone was sick and dying and in pain. They would have ceremonies every night where they lit fires to keep warm as they went out under the stars to pray for food and health. One night, a ship saw their lights and came to check it out. They saw these pitiful people, and gave them food and water and blankets and went back to get even more. They saw the lights and were able to save their lives."

The old lady had tears in her eyes, and a soft happy smile as her eyes squinted contentedly at the sea.

Her son, who she didn't know was her son of course, felt joy blossom in his chest. He had not seen her smile in so long. With such a muddled and confused mind as hers, being happy was a rare luxury and he could not help but stare at her instead of the horizon.

Everyone was thinking about something, as they held their Sticks pointed proudly outwards, and hardly anyone was thinking the same thing.

One by one, just as they were lit, the fires died out. Down the row the lights calmly died and turned into smoke, until finally the one that had been lit last, died last and completed the journey.

The oldest finally yelled down the line, "Well done! Another year spent together."

His youngest daughter then added "Let's go eat!" and the family herded back up the hill, guided by hints of moonlight to the celebratory feast they had yet to fully unpack and set up. Lights were hung up and staked out so that they could see properly.

No one spoke of what happens down at the shoreline. Maybe that's part of the tradition. Maybe if it were spoken when there was no solace of Burning Sticks and stirring water present, it would lose its magic.

Or maybe everyone would just have the same story.

But maybe that's simply less magical, too.