Tears of the Sun

Night and Day, Dark and Light, Summer and Winter, have always battled each other; sometimes like siblings, elbowing and nudging; sometimes like warriors slyly plotting. Every once in a great while they clash in a battle that makes the human heart quail.

And so it was that one year, the dark grew so bold that the sun could not banish it. There was no summer that year and the sun wept for the people below who could not grow their crops. Some of the tears caught in the boughs of a young fir tree that grew at the center of a certain village making it shine as if gilded with silver and gold. Others fell on the dark like water on flame. And though it left the sun weak and pale, it left the dark even weaker. The sun was able, finally, to chase the dark back for another year. But bitter tears of the dark dropped to earth, as well. They slipped into the deepest shadows to bide their time until they were once more strong enough to challenge the sun.

The village of Treehaven had fallen on hard times. The harvest was poor that year, as it had been for several years now, and the shadow of hunger touched every family. But there were other shadows more troubling still.

This winter had not waited patiently for the leaves on the trees to paint the forests and meadows with their farewell. This year the dark and cold of winter pounced full force, freezing the pumpkins in the fields and the apples on the trees. The cold grew fingers that scrabbled at buttons and collars working their way down to the skin. No, this was not like the cold of any other winter. The people barred their shutters against the attack, but the insidious cold slithered through the cracks in the walls and beneath the doors. And with it came hungry shadows so dense you could feel them lurking just out of reach of the light: shadows that laughed at candlelight, at lamplight, and now, even at the sun itself: the sun who had all but abandoned them. The short cloudy days did little to dispel the gathering gloom. The night grew bolder, bullying the retreating day. And the days grew ever weaker.

The woodcutter and his two sons noticed it first, though they were loath to admit it. The dark of the forest where they cut their wood had grown thick and dense. They could not push past it.

“We must tell the village that there will be no more wood for this winter,” said Eljin, the youngest. His brother shook his head. “We cannot tell them. They will think us cowards, too afraid of the dark to do our job.”

“But it is not our fear that keeps us at bay,” Eljin argued. “We must tell them that the dark has thrown a wall between us and the forest.”

“And who would believe such a thing?” the woodcutter asked. “I scarcely believe it myself. No, we must keep it to ourselves until we find a way around it.”

It happened one day, not long after, that Taela, the beekeeper’s daughter, set out to trade some honey for cheese with Old Vebrett who kept goats on the very edge of the forest. Taela had dallied along the way and was beginning to regret it. Evening was drawing near and the shadows grew long and dense. But the lateness of the hour did not explain the mound of darkness that covered the old man’s cottage. It was like nothing Taela had ever seen before. She stared in amazement then turned and ran home.

“Mother! Come quickly! The dark has swallowed Old Vebrett’s cottage!” The idea was so absurd that she feared her mother would laugh at her. But her mother did not laugh or scold her for making up stories. “Bolt the door and shutter the windows, Taela. I will build up the fire so that the dark will not come for us. The morning will surely beat back the shadows.”

“But what of Old Vebrett? Should we not try to help him?” Her mother hesitated. She sneaked a peek out the door and shook her head. “It is too late for that. We must look to ourselves first.”

And for just a moment, Taela thought she heard the sound of laughter, low, as if far away. The morning arrived timidly with barely enough light to tell it from the dark. Taela and her mother made the trek to the old man’s cottage. The once neat cottage was now but a ruin. Much of the thatch was gone from the roof, carried away by the bitter wind. One window shutter lay upon the ground. The door hung from a single rusted hinge. They found Vebrett shivering inside beside the cold ashes of his hearth. He held a small box in his hands. It was empty, but for a few chunks of ash. His lips moved, but his voice was so weak the girl had to lean in close to make out the words.

“My tears were not enough. I could not fight it alone.” And then he died.

Taela turned to her mother. “What did he mean?” Her mother said nothing, but cried tears of her own.

A great evergreen tree stood at the heart of Treehaven, ancient beyond words, beyond memory. It was so old that none living had ever seen its crown though some claimed to see a glow at the top. The tree had survived droughts, floods, and fires to give the village not only its name, but a gathering place as well. After news of Old Vebrett spread, the villagers gathered beneath its branches where villagers had gathered for as long as there had been a village.

The mayor, a man of many words, asked in a roundabout way, for the beekeeper to describe what she had found. Her words caused a gasp and then a moment of stunned silence. One old woman in the crowd mumbled to herself.

“Well speak up then,” said the pompous, impatient man.

The old woman raised her head. Her eyes, sharp and bright, seemed out of place on one so old. “I said, ‘Perhaps Vebrett meant the Tears of the Sun.’”

“Tears of the Sun!” the mayor scoffed. “What nonsense! I thought only children still believed that story! Vebrett was an old man who let his fire die and himself along with it. Tears of the Sun, indeed.” And the villager’s laughed uneasily. Before the laughter had died away a sharp cry went up from another villager.

“Look! Up in the tree! There are shadows!”

Taela’s mother huffed. “There have always been shadows among the branches. There are shadows everywhere! Not all shadows are evil.”

Still the villagers edged away from the tree and most found an excuse to leave. The woodcutter and his sons lingered for a moment while the father studied the tree. Finally he turned to his sons and smiled as if some decision had been made.

Eljin walked home beside his father in silence. He knew better than to ask about the Tears. His mother had warned him when he was very young that his father did not believe the story of the Tears of the Sun.

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