In darkness, before birdsong, before even brightening, Old Lady would rise, and we peersons rose with her. From sleeping space in kitchen walls, we’d hear her slippered footfalls, feel blooming warmth as wood cookstove kindled beneath practiced hands. Soon, stove would crackle and sweet porridge smells waft through walls, rumbling our tiny tummies.

Always, Old Lady would set three bowls. One for Old Lady, one for Old Gentleman, and one (before shrine in cupboard) for us peeple. Not that she knew of peersons precisely. On cracking knees she would kneel, placing porridge (or, at darkening, stew), mumbling sacred words, beseeching protection from those watching over Old Lady and Old Gentleman.

And who watched over but us? Smallish, timid-like, peering through crumb crack before darkening as broom swept tidbits below, peeping discretely from attic rafters as Old Gentleman and Old Lady played candlelit cards. Always skittish, always hidden, but always watching.

Generations of peersons reckoned our lives by Their to-ings and fro-ings. Knew the coming of spring in sweet maple syrup at Old Lady’s shrine, the blossoming of summer in honey, the hungry tide of winter in shrinking portions of porridge.

All life was music and They were its rhythm.

When new peerson would arrive, first task was holding their tiny form to crack to reveal majesty of Old Lady and Old Gentleman. When peersons would age, cease speaking, become motionless, in fact become things of wood or stone, we’d set them (after darkening) upon kitchen table for Old Lady to find come brightening.

Old Lady would ask Old Gentleman to carve companions for such wooden peersons, such as mice on wee leashes, or creatures Old Lady named Pixies or Dwarves, which we peeple had never seen. Sometimes, she would ask Old Gentleman to make companion named Gnome, Old Lady’s word for peersons. Old Gentleman would carve them and Old Lady would paint them, then set them with wooden peerson in shrine, or (for most blessed peersons) in Garden.

We peeple spent whole lives in Home, measuring days, seasons, even lives, by Their graceful movements.

But, there has been change.

Ancient patterns shattered.

One day, Old Lady’s pre-porridge footfalls did not come. After brightening, Old Gentleman yelled, carrying Old Lady from house. After eleven darkenings and brightenings, old man returned, only alone. We saw, from rafters, his bleary, bloodshot eyes, in his wrinkled hand, Old Lady’s sparkly ring.

Old rhythms went unrung. No pre-brightening slippered footfalls. No warming fire. No porridge in shrine-bowl. No crumbs swept to waiting hands.

Outside, in Garden, wooden cross appeared, looking almost as if Old Lady, arms welcoming embrace, had herself ceased speaking, become motionless, become a thing, in fact, of wood. And Old Gentleman knelt before cross, speaking sacred words, asking why invisible watching powers had not protected Old Lady.

We peersons did not know what to do.

Life’s rhythm had changed. Its usual patterns shattered. And Home, always joyous, was solemn. We peeple crave cadence. Feeling helpless, we filled absence with its right rhythm.

Peersons bellowsed the drowsy morning fire to life, swept floors after darkening, made bed as Old Lady had done. We did Old Gentleman’s laundry while he slept, sneaked it folded back in cupboards. Peeple made porridge, made Old Gentleman’s favourite stew, setting them on doorstep for him to discover.

But Old Gentleman scarcely ate, grew thin. Old Lady, could she speak, would have fussed over him, would have made him eat. But she was not there, and after darkening, from sleeping space, we heard the patter of Old Gentleman’s teardrops on kitchen floorboards.

Feeling helpless, we redoubled our efforts, cleaning and cooking and laying fresh flowers at base of Old Lady’s wooden cross. Emerging, it seemed, from stupor, Old Gentleman noticed our doings. Finding food, he would look around, as if for us. At shrine, he left windfall apples, pleaded for protection. But at Old Lady’s wooden cross, he spoke sacredly, begging to reunite with her.

Despite peersons’ efforts, Home remained despondent.

And so, after darkening, when peersons heard Old Gentleman’s tears falling as raindrops on floor, we became, bravely, needfully, unpeersonlike: unhidden.

From shrine-cupboard, we emerged, entering circle of Old Gentleman’s candlelight.

At first startled, then closing eyes, kneeling to floor, steepling fingers and speaking sacred words, he allowed us to embrace his feet and legs, his arms and hands. His weeping grew only louder but our embrace grew only stronger and we crouched in candlelight, peersons and Old Gentleman as if as one.

Perhaps we cannot not shine brightness upon him.

But we will sit with him in the dark.

* * *

Ⓒ Christopher Blake