The Lantern and the Threshold
1339 Words
The door was heavier than I expected. Its iron latch resisted, stiff from disuse and sea salt, until with a slow groan it gave way. I pulled it open and stepped back, lantern raised.
A man stood just beyond the threshold, his figure blurred by the soft mist rolling in from the cliffs. He was wrapped in a wool cloak the colour of old bark, a shapeless hat pulled low over silver-threaded hair. His beard was full but well-kept, and when he met my gaze, his eyes were surprisingly alert. Pale grey, the kind of colour one associates with morning frost.
We looked at each other for a long moment.
“I hope I haven’t startled you,” he said, voice deep and gravelled by age, though not unpleasantly so.
“Only a little,” I admitted. “Are you from the village?”
“No village,” he replied. “Not for miles. I keep a cabin further inland. South-east of here. You can’t see it from the cliffs.”
His accent was clipped and old-fashioned, yet not unfriendly. He shifted his weight, and I noticed he carried a walking stick with an antlered handle. It looked as though it had been carved long ago by someone who knew the shape of wood better than most.
“I saw your light,” he went on, glancing toward the lantern in my hand. “First time in years I’ve seen one in that window.”
I followed his gaze, back to the narrow, arching glass slits above the entry hall. The library’s face was mostly hidden by bramble and ivy now, but I imagined it had once stood proudly against the horizon.
“You’ve been watching the house?”
“From a distance,” he said, quickly. “I don’t trespass. Never crossed the threshold, not once. It never felt like a place that welcomed company.”
I tilted my head. “And yet here you are.”
He offered a faint smile, no more than a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Curiosity, I suppose. Or the kind of silence that grows heavy after enough years. I thought if someone had come to take the place in hand, they might like to know the land hasn’t forgotten them.”
I stepped aside, just enough to clear the doorway. “Would you like to come in?”
He hesitated, eyes flicking past me into the shadows of the entryway. “Only if it’s no trouble.”
“Not at all. I’ve just boiled water for tea.”
He inclined his head. “Then I’d be honoured.”
I led him through the front hall, past the sloped corridor lined with damp stone and curling ivy. The candlelight flickered as we passed, and I noticed he walked with surprising care, his steps are steady, deliberate, as though measuring each one.
In the small kitchen alcove, I pulled another chair beside the iron stove. It was hardly grand, but the hearth had held heat well through the afternoon, and the kettle still steamed faintly when I nudged it back onto the flame.
He lowered himself into the chair with a soft grunt, then unfastened his cloak. Beneath it, his coat was patched and thickly woven, with a knit scarf looped once around his neck.
“Milk or honey?” I asked.
“Neither. Just strong and plain, if you’ve got it.”
I nodded and poured us both a cup, setting him before him on the old pine table. The cups didn’t match, one was chipped porcelain, the other a thick ceramic mug shaped more like a bowl, but he seemed not to mind.
He took a sip, then exhaled slowly, as if the warmth had found something cold in his bones. For a time, we said nothing. The only sound was the soft ticking of the kettle settling back to rest.
“I never learned who lived here,” he said eventually. “Only that the doors closed one day, and no one ever came back. Some say it was a place for old books, sacred or secret. Others called it a sanctuary. To me, it’s always just been the house on the cliffs.”
“I suppose all of those might be true,” I replied. “It belonged to a relative I never met. The name was on the will, but the details were vague. I think the house was passed down through more obligation than affection.”
He nodded, cradling his cup in both hands. “That would explain the state of things.”
“I’m here to catalogue the library,” I added, almost absently. “It’s part of my work. Ancient texts, mostly. Languages people don’t bother to speak anymore.”
He looked at me carefully. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. A caretaker, perhaps. Or a priest. Someone older.”
I smiled, faintly. “Not many priests left in this kind of work.”
He chuckled softly, the sound more breath than voice. “Fair point.”
I refilled the kettle and set it to boil again. “You said you live nearby?”
He nodded. “As nearby as one gets, out here. I keep a small garden, hunt when I can. Trade with the coastal folk once a month. Quiet life.”
“And you’ve truly never come inside?”
He shook his head, a touch more firmly. “Never. It always felt... set apart. Not in a sinister way. Just... separate. Like it wasn’t meant for me. Or anyone, really. I’ve walked these cliffs since I was a boy, and I’ve always gone around this place.”
I studied him for a moment. His face bore the softness of someone who had made peace with solitude. Lines traced the corners of his eyes, more from weather than worry. There was something grounding in his presence, like old earth.
“Have you ever heard anything?” I asked, then quickly added, “I mean before tonight.”
His brow furrowed as he looked into his tea. “Once or twice. Long ago. Sound carries strangely out here. You learn to tell wind from animal, storm from birdsong. But one night... perhaps six or seven years past, I heard something that didn’t sit right. A man’s voice. A yell, or maybe a cry.”
“What kind?”
“I couldn’t say. It wasn’t repeated. And I wasn’t brave enough to investigate. I told myself it was just an echo, or some trick of the cliffs. But it’s stayed with me.”
I nodded slowly. There was nothing in his tone that asked for reassurance or disbelief. He simply offered the memory as one offers weather reports, factual, without embellishment.
“I’m Alessia,” I said, after a pause.
He looked up and smiled more fully now. “It’s good to know your name.”
“And you?”
“People call me Bran.”
“Is that your real name?”
He shrugged with amusement. “As real as it needs to be.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that.
We sat in companionable silence after that, letting the last of the mist press against the windowpanes. The air in the room had warmed, and the tea had done its part in softening the edge of evening. Bran leaned back in his chair, and I let myself relax, just a little. There was a comfort in his company—something solid and steady amid all the crumbling stone and forgotten shelves.
He glanced once more around the room, then back to me.
“Strange place for someone young to bury themselves in,” he said gently.
“Maybe. But it’s not buried, not really. Just waiting.”
He considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps that’s true.”
The kettle gave a quiet sigh as it settled, and neither of us moved to pour another cup.
- Writer
