Malcolm - Tradition

Malcolm was a homebody at heart. If asked, he would go anywhere, holding out a helping hand. This was the man who went to loud places with loved ones, willing to sit in the corner and smile while, whoever he was with, partook in the festivities. But ultimately, he was his most relaxed at home. Music playing softly in the background, the lights dimmed low, and normally, a wrought iron tea kettle bubbling on the stove.  Tonight, however, he was the one to suggest we go somewhere different. Into the world for something other than a necessity. So, out of curiosity, I had gotten dressed and followed him out into the cold, casting him little sidelong looks as we wandered through unfamiliar alleys towards our destination.

“You can stop looking at me like that at any time,” he said, a smile quirking at the edge of his lips.

My gaze ticked away. “Looking at you like what?”

“Like someone has replaced me. Like I’m a Malcolm shaped doll.”

I laughed. “I don’t think anyone could ever capture your likeness quite right.” He seemed pleased at the response and continued walking forward, his steps confident but unrushed. “I’m just not used to seeing you like this.”

“Walking?”

Reaching out, I flicked his arm. Tonight was one of his obstinate nights. I liked those, just as much as I liked any of the others. It signaled he was in a good mood. “No,” I answered.  “Gung ho about actually going somewhere.”

“Didn’t realize I was gung hoing it. I thought that was reserved for people with more than three expressions.”

“Hush,” I admonished. It had been a joke between us lately that he didn’t emote. Not loudly, at least. Not like Hazel. “You normally like to stay home.”

“I do.” Looking upwards, he let out a puff of air, watching as his breath fogged above him before skittering away. “But tonight is special. It’s the one night of the year I look forward to.”

“You only look forward to one night of the year?”

“Yup. All the others are dismal.” He snatched at my hand, holding it in his and squeezing it teasingly. “What I mean to say is that I know this night. It is unchanging. And may be one of the few traditions I have despite finding a deep comfort in having traditions.”

I looked around the alleyway, trying to understand what tradition we were supposed to be partaking in. I hadn’t heard him even speak of any sort of upcoming event. Malcolm had just gone through the last few days like he normally did; nonchalant and predominantly silent.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I told him. “What exactly are we doing tonight?”

“It took you longer than I thought,” he grinned. “I thought you’d be asking questions the second I told you to get your coat on.” I wanted to protest that I wasn't that impatient, but the fact was that I occasionally could make impatience into an art form. “We are going to go make lanterns,” he said.

I gazed up at the ones above us, flickering with the threat of snow.

“Not those lanterns. Little ones that we put on the ground.”

“Okay,” I started slowly. I had questions, but I found that they were exacerbated as we rounded the corner. The world rained glitter, trickling down in shimmering dew drops into big vats of glue, while large reams of brown papers rolled forward like a fabric walkways. Satin ribbons lay curled like sleeping snakes. Bits and baubles bounced through the cracks in the cobblestone. And the air smelled heavily of pulp and candle wax. I stopped at the entrance of the alley, watching as adults and children alike were mingling between the different tables that were set up, gathering art supplies before sitting on the ground and beginning to craft small square lanterns.  Among them, individuals were walking around with enchanted candles to put inside the lanterns when they were done.

“Every year,” Malcolm began, “people have gathered to make lanterns. Some make it in honor of the Night Market itself, wanting to remember the light that the market has given to us. Others are remembering their own traditions back in their home realms. One of the more common stories is to create a light to guide weary travelers on the longest night of the year.”

I tore my gaze away from the group of small children, all coloring on their papers bags with a little light shining inside. “What is your tradition?” I asked.

“I like making them for the weary travelers,” he told me. “It’s not a cultural thing for me, but I do know what it’s like to be lost in the dark. So, I like making them and setting them at the edge of the market. The enchantments usually last all winter.”

There were hundreds of lanterns being made. All in varying states of glitter and glue.  Some of them were typical ones, put together by small children with the attention span of a shooting star. While others were methodically crafted, looking far more like pieces of art than little things to just put off to the side at night.

“Would you like to make one with me?” he asked.

I didn’t think I had ever done anything artistic in my life. Compared to Malcolm’s, I was sure my lantern was going to look like a bag that had been thrown up on. But he looked so hopeful. There was a shy sense of question in his eyes. Like he wasn’t sure this was something I would enjoy. Sharing an intricate part of one's self always did have an edge of fear to it.

“I would love to,” I told him firmly.

The two of us wandered for a good while, gathering ribbons and paper. Paints and pots of pigment. I took a large mug and dipped it into a glittered vat of glue, smiling as a little girl dipped her own hands in so she could peel off the excess once it dried. And then the two of us got to work. Malcolm explained to me that he had been doing this since he was a teen. Having stumbled across it one night after running from Lucinda’s house. He had made twelve of them that evening. Placing them all over the market. Sometimes, he hid, just to see people smile as they passed them by.

“And this year?” I asked. “Are we putting ours on the outskirts still?”

“Anywhere you want, really. I just like to put them in places that feel like they could use a bit more hope. There is something about soft light that soothes the soul.”

I smiled at him, watching the way his long fingers expertly worked. Malcolm’s lantern was going to fall into the category of masterpiece. Mine fell into the category of somewhat adequate. But as I finished up my piece, and placed a candle inside, I knew it didn’t matter. Because a few people were ooing and awing over my little glowing light. Malcolm was right, soft light and good intention did go a long way to bring joy to someone's evening.

“I have an idea of where I want to put them,” I said.

Malcolm didn’t ask. Instead, he gathered his own lantern, and followed me into the dark. 

There were a few alleyways that led to Artisan Alley. All of them without the overhead lanterns that were strewn within the market proper. These alleys connected towards the graveyard and the Outlands and ended up being small passage ways that inspired fear in most. The lights within Artisan Alley and the warm smell of baked goods that bled from Kimber’s bakery never seemed to meet the desolate corners. Contained inside their own district, they left the alleyways there cold and the joy beyond a hidden secret. It was there that I wanted to place light. To give safe passage to those who needed to find someplace they were welcome.

“I like that,” Malcolm whispered. “Find solace in the place where misfits gather.”

His arms were around me now as I leaned back against his chest. Our lanterns were two small beacons in the dark before us. “Is that what I am? A misfit?”

“Think we all are a little bit of a misfit,” he confessed. “Some of us just reject it more than others.”

“Do you?”

“Not anymore.” He rested his chin on my shoulder, the heat of his breath tingling across the shell of my ear. “Besides, I’d rather be a misfit with you than conform to whatever is considered the norm here.”

“I don't think there is such a thing,” I laughed. That, I could at least be sure of. Even the ones that acted ‘normal’ were far from it. Instead prescribing to a term that had little to no meaning.  “I like that we did this,” I told him. “I want to come with you next year.”

“You will,” he told me.

I craned my neck back to look at him. “So sure of yourself, huh?”

Malcolm merely placed a kiss at the corner of my mouth. “With you, Lamplight? I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”