'The Nighthawk's Candle' --Part IV

IV.

A boy was running through the trees, gasping and terrified, and he kept glancing behind himself, as though to try and get a glimpse of that which he was fleeing from. The rain was so strong now it penetrated even here, and rain ran from his face, his bare arms, his fine clothing--the dye had begun to run from his garments, streaking his skin with green and blue and red, and the cloth would surely be ruined by the wet, which was a shame. It was masterfully made, and fine as though the last stitch had been sewn only that day.

He tripped and fell, but caught himself on his hands and knees and scrambled upright again, rushing onward, ever onward. His knees and hands were red, and it was not from the dye of his clothes. His thick black hair whipped in wet swirls against his face, and the brambles and stones he stumbled past tore at his skin.

He was a very little boy, only a child, no more than eight years old from the look of his face and his thin limbs. A child: tiny and white and sobbing, running through the vast forest, tripping and staggering, trembling in the rain. There was a terror, a blind, hungry terror pursuing him, and he was lost, running through the trees that leered at him with their long black faces.

At last he fell and did not get up, but sprawled painfully on the moldy ground, drenched and cold and alone. Slowly, he raised his head, and pulled himself into sitting position, staring with frightened eyes at the blood on his hands. He tried to wipe them clean on his shins, then pulled them back with a yelp of pain. He clawed frantically at the fine clothes he wore, and they tore a little, but not much. They were very well-sewn.

Trembling and rocking slightly, he gazed up around himself at the tall black trees, the hammering rain, hte tall black night. The Candle he had left far behind.

And with a despairing wail he covered his face with his hands, and cried, soaking wet, cold, and shivering like a child--which was only to be expected, since he was a child . . .

"Mother," he cried, "What has she done to me? What has she done to me?"