The Lantern Keeper

Long ago, nestled in a wide valley surrounded by thick pine forest, was a quiet village named Stillwater. It was named this because of the lake that lay in its centre - a lake so still and so calm that the mountains above could always see their own reflection. Stillwater was small, but it thrived.

People there worked hard, traded fairly, and celebrated each other’s happiness. No one locked their doors. Every night, families gathered around fires and candles, and there was laughter, food, wine, and stories.

At the edge of town lived an old man named Elias. He lived in a crooked house with a tower attached to it. The tower housed a lantern that burned through the night, its light visible across the valley.

Nobody remembered who had built it first, only that Elias’s father and his grandfather had both tended the lantern before him. So Elias became known as the Lantern Keeper.

The lantern, Elias would explain to the village children, was not ordinary. It had to stay lit. Always. ‘Why?’, the kids would question.

‘Is it for the safety of village?’ No, Elias would shake his head. ‘Then, is it for the safety of the travellers?’ No, Elias would shake his head. ‘Then what is the purpose of the lantern? Gravely Elias would turn to the children, and say ‘ The lantern must remain lit forever. It is for faith. As long as the light shines,” he’d tell them with a wink, “we shall remember that there’s more to life than what we see.”

The kids didn’t  quite understand, and some of the would adults chuckled at what they called ‘the silliness’.

But Elias kept the flame alive every night, without fail.

One year, a drought befell the village. The rains forgot to come to Stillwater. The lake shrank. The crops wilted. The wind turned hot and dry. Only mud could be seen in the wells.

At first, the villagers prayed. They gathered in the chapel, and sang together, asking for rain. But weeks turned to months, and soon their faith began to weaken.

Some farmers left the village. Others turned bitter and angry, and began to blame god for their woes. Arguments sparked and fights ensued. The inn closed down. Soon, the baker left too. And even the chapel’s only priest quietly disappeared one morning.

Yet every night, Elias lit the lantern.

People began to resent him. “What good is your light, old man? It can’t grow wheat. It can’t fill the wells.” Others blamed him for wasting oil. “You are being selfish,” they said angrily. “Keeping the lantern burning when the rest of us are cold without any source of heat.”

One night, a stone shattered Elias’ window. The village started turning ugly. People began to turn against each other.

But Elias didn’t stop.

And then, as though God wanted to cause even more trouble, came the great fire.

The forest that was already bone dry was aflame. The wind fuelled it into a massive blaze.

Elias saw the smoke before anyone else, because he always kept watch from his tower. He rang the ancient bell below the lantern to warn the villagers. To wake them up. The people of Stillwater woke up in panic.

They ran. Some headed for the lake, others packed what they could land their hands on and made for the hills nearby. But the fire was fast. And very strong.

Screams split the night air. Smoke blinded everyone. Loud sounds of scared animals and birds added to the eeriness.

And then, through the smoke, they saw it.

A beacon.

The lantern.

Elias had carried it from the tower and hoisted it on a long pole.

He walked slowly toward the lake, coughing, weeping, holding the light high. People ran to it, guided by its glow. They followed him into the shallow lake where the fire could not reach them.

All night they huddled in the water, soaked and trembling, watching the sky turn from red to orange, then black, then grey. And still Elias stood, holding the lantern, until after many hours his arms failed and the pole fell into the water beside him.

Elias died that night.

No one had realised the effort it had taken for his old, frail frame to fight against the smoke that he had inhaled. No one forgot what he did. No one forgot that Elias allowed himself to fall only when the fire had spent itself, and the sun came up over the mountains.

The fire had passed. But it took with it more than half the village. Ash covered whatever was left. It would take years to rebuild everything.

But the people spoke differently now. They didn’t talk about crops or wells.They didn't talk about the fire or drought. They talked about faith.

They remembered the Lantern Keeper who kept the lantern burning when no one else saw the point. They remembered how, in their darkest moment, it was not strength or wealth that had saved them, but a small light in the hands of one frail person who refused to let it go out.

A woman named Mara, who had once mocked Elias, humiliated him, threatened him even, took over the tower.

She was uncertain about what to do, but she knew she had to do this. She had wished ill upon him, and now it was up to her to repay that debt. Her hands trembled the first night she lit the flame. Thrice she burned herself. And thrice more the match went out when she was about to light it. But she had faith. And there was a debt to pay. She had to honour Elias. She had to honour the debt. Burns and darkness would be endured. Mara kept repeating to herself, ' I have faith. The debt shall be paid.'

And finally she lit it. And from that night, she continued to keep it lit.

Years passed. Children grew. And many had their own children now! The village came back to life, slower this time, but wiser. And the lantern still burned, but this time it was no longer the responsibility of one person. It was the chosen duty of all… to keep the light burning.

Years slipped into decades. One day, the villagers decided to mark the day of the great fire, and to celebrate it with merriment and meaning unlike any before.

Carpenters strung ribbons along the main street, bakers filled the air with the smell of cinnamon bread, (Elias' favourite bread), and the schoolchildren rehearsed a song they had written themselves.

As twilight settled, everyone carried a small lantern and walked toward the old watchtower on the hill. At its centre still rested the original flame. One by one, elders recounted moments when that single, stubborn light had made a difference: a mother who had been guided home through the storm; a grieving father who had found refuge in a neighbours home; a traveller who stayed the night and later returned with bags of seeds of different grains that now made the villagers prosperous.

When stories gave way to silence, and a hush fell over the gathering, each one walked towards the central flame, even the youngest child.

One by one, with steady hands, they tipped their lanterns toward the central flame. That night the light of each person there burned bright and brilliant. They had all lived through the darkest times of their lives, but in each one’s heart was a fire brighter than the one they carried in their hands.

They remembered in silence the lesson Elias had taught them. The heart must be alert to see when another’s light grows dim and be willing to share its own light when darkness comes to another.

So the story of the Lantern Keeper lives on - not as a legend of miracles or visions, but as an unbroken chain of ordinary hands uplifting an extraordinary hope.

It glows in windows during blizzards, in doorways during harvest dances, and in quiet corners where someone, somewhere, waits desperately for the dawn.

And on nights when faith seems to weaken and fade, the villagers step outside, lift their small lamps to the sky, and remember:

All that is needed is for the light to keep burning.