Gabrielle’s Magical Notebook

It’s the darkest part of the night and the boy is afraid. He is hiding under the blankets, his small form completely covered, as if this will save him from the frights, from the monsters lurking in his room. He knows they are there though he can’t see them just as they know that his fear is tasty and filling. Their darkness leaks out from the closet and from under the bed filling the room with a clammy, sickly cold.

The little boy wraps his arms around his legs and shakes. He can smell the air in the small space under the covers going stale. He can feel the cold of the darkness wrapping itself around his bed. He can almost taste his own fear. The whole bed is shaking now with his terror. And he’s tired, he’s so tired. So many nights have been spent like this in the cold, the dark, the fear. He knows that he’s almost tired enough to fall asleep.

The light that comes to him is small and faint, but bursting with possibility like a candle flame with a wealth of available wick. It slides under the blankets and rests on one white knuckle as gentle as a moth. The flame grows until it just touches the boy’s eyes.

“Courage, lad,” it whispers to him.

The boy opens his eyes now. He stares into the flame and finds some courage there. At least enough to unwrap one hand from his knee and touch the flame resting on his other hand. It warms him past his skin and deep into his soul. He unclenches the other hand from his knee and turns it over so the flame is resting in his palm. It’s bigger now, a ball of fire that fits his hand.

It whispers to him again. “Courage. They have not won.”

The boy hesitates for a long moment. Then he pushes the blankets off and puts his feet on the cold floor. The darkness under the bed gibbers and reaches for him, but the flame has grown now into a sword. Its edge is sharp and his aim is true. With a screech of pain the reaching fingers retreat back under the bed. The boy is shaking so hard that he almost drops his flaming sword, but he makes himself go to the closet door. And open it.

The darkness inside roars, a cold blast of wind that slams into the boy and eats at his courage. The sword in his hand blazes in response, dark against light, cold against heat. The boy stands before the open door. He’s so small, almost fragile. The darkness within the closet is all the frightening things that haunt our nights and our sleep. It’s a thousand years of savagery and terror. A giant, swirling ball of fear that towers over the boy standing against it.

Tears are running down his face, but he doesn’t turn away or yield. The boy knows who stands with him.

The sword made of fire grows until it is a column wrapping around the boy, between him and the evil. It blazes until every corner of the room is flooded with fire and light. The evil in the closet screams in fear, anger, pain. A voice thunders from the fire. “GO! NOW!” The beast in the closet tries to fight, but it lost this battle as soon as it picked this boy to terrorize. All the cold and darkness melts from the closet until none is left.

The blazing fire shrinks again until it is a small candle flame in the boy’s hand. He closes the closet door and gets back into bed. The flame floats up to rest on the headboard and watches the boy sleep the whole night through.