In those days of ebbing winter, as the spring gained strength in thawing earth, the lamp hugged all with cotton-wool light. A sunny hue from base to shade, it was as a dandelion in ambient meadow. In otherwise humble form, its maker sought not to make a statement, not to create a piece to steal the eye, yet to complement any room. And, so in this cozy crowd, it was as at home as it would be in any minimalist expanse. On a side table, or centre stage, it glowed as and when our need arose.
Come the eventide the lamp shone as night-sky and star made one. Come the morrow’s shine it was mountain-heather gay. That day, the door opened wide, spring air flowed with a generous bouquet of birdsong. Change had come. Out there, where land meets sky, where mountains and oceans chatter, awaited something nobody has ever seen before. Then, lamp no more, yet a metallic pocket flashlight, it awaited my hand. I reached for it, feeling its warmth radiate from skin to bone marrow. Magic. The days of magic had returned. Grass wands were wands once more. Winter was finally over.
Dregs of dying light cast the meanest of raindrop shadows onto the lampshade. The projections, as ghosts, lingered before crying down both pane and shade. Dust motes swirled, mobbing its broken bulb and gnawed wire. Dirty webs, long abandoned, drooped in stale air. To Ariah’s fingers it was cold, midwinter cold, as if it shunned the meagre solar gain of daytime. In the dim it was grey, perhaps when the dawn returned it would be sky blue. Blues. Greys. Dust and insect corpses. Staying here would be foolish, going out would be worse. Tap. Taperty, tap, tap, lamented the slowing percussion of rain, changing the self-erasing twilight-kaleidoscope.
Shrouded in ghoulish cloth, sat the lamp. Its light was not light, yet a seeping ooze more similar bat colony barrage. Eyes open, eyes closed, ‘twas the same. I reached for it, lashing out to strike, to smash, to end it. No avail. Yet it laughed without a sound. With an electrical tingle the room washed grimier. There it was. Tentacles. Tentacles forged of ghostly sludge wrapped around the heads of all. Blind seers. Deaf hearers. In a blink it was chintz, floral and sweet, tentacles fading from view. Music resumed. All was so right it was wrong. Then as a static, as a scratchy rustling creep, the ghoul lamp strobed in and out of view.
The lamp that had been in the attic, sat boldly on the landing on Sunday. Come Monday it was on the stairs. Come Tuesday it perched next to the frontmost door. No hand had moved it. Then to its base the outline of birds appeared, wings outstretched, beaks open in song. Ariah tapped it. Tip, tippy, tap, tap. With each tap they fluttered to a new space and paused. Magic. It had to be magic. Without any wind at all, the doorway opened wide and out the birds flew, calling to her to follow, to dance a welcome to the new day.
Long-dry raindrop-trails, a web on a twilight pane, whispers louder in the sallow lamplight. Shadows sigh both in curtain creases and unattended laundry heaps. The slow-motion shadows of advancing daylight become locked and still, frozen until dawn. And, all the while, a percussion of unseen traffic drones its melancholy lament. Ariah, touching the lamp's ceramic base, retracts her fingers. Cold can burn. As she cradles them her eyes find her own fingerprints, created as brittle glaze-dandruff, fell.
Skipping light sprung from the lamp, gaily dancing upon the kitchen table. It was the same bonny yellow as the cooking dishes, sunny and warm. Ariah reached for it, dialing it brighter. The room’s hues sang brighter, as a sweet and bonny choir. The nearest curves of chairs and tables glowed in warmest reflection, as their far sides made the most gentle of shadows. After the glare of fluorescent tubes, it soothed as well as an optimistic orchestra, bows bouncing, keys fluttering. If she were to ever move, to make a new place her home, the lamp would move with her.
Into the crepuscular dim edged the lamplight. Tip toeing. Breath held. It was the most strained of beams. Were it a sound, it would be a strangled whisper. Was it a scent, it would be a fading bleach tincture. Ariah crouched, her eyes on it. How long had it been this way, a lone light in ever-grim? To its base insects scurried. To its surround of paper, cobwebs hung. Dust motes paraded in languished twisting drafts. Then her eyes saw the plug, resting on the floor. No power. Her breath caught in her lungs. Cold sweat lay slick on her paling skin. Then what was it? What was this spectral glow?