The Lantern Keeper's Apprentice

On a hill above the sea there was a village where the houses were white and the doors were blue and the lanes were so steep that the cats walked sideways.

And above every door hung a lantern.

They were old lanterns, made of brass and glass, and they were lit every evening when the sky turned the colour of a mussel shell. But these were not ordinary lanterns. When the people in the houses fell asleep, their dreams floated up the chimneys, along the gutters and down into the lanterns by their doors. And there they glowed all night, tiny and bright, like pictures in a snow globe.

In the baker's lantern, you might see a cake as tall as a lighthouse. In the fisherman's lantern, a silver fish as big as a boat. In the lantern of the twins at number nine, two kites that never came down.

From the sea, the whole village twinkled like a necklace.

And every single night, somebody had to make sure that not one of those lanterns went out.

That somebody was Old Amara, the Lantern Keeper.

She had a long silver plait, round spectacles and a teal coat that reached her ankles. For sixty years she had walked the lanes each evening with her lantern pole and her polishing cloth, and for sixty years not a single dream in the village had gone dark.

But lately her knees had begun to creak on the steep bits. Creak, creak, went her knees. Tap, tap, went her stick.

"I need an apprentice," she told the village one evening. "Someone with steady hands and a careful heart."

Teo had watched Old Amara from his bedroom window every night since he was tiny. He knew which lantern she lit first (the baker's) and which she lit last (her own). He knew the little tune she hummed. He knew that she always, always stopped to look inside.

So he knocked on her blue door the very next morning, with his hair brushed and his boots polished.

"I'd like to be your apprentice, please," he said.

Old Amara looked at him over her spectacles for a long moment. Then she smiled, and held out a soft cloth.

The first lesson was polishing.

"Slow circles," said Old Amara. "Never fast. A dream can tell when you're rushing."

Teo rubbed the cloth round and round on the lantern glass. Round and round, round and round. At first his circles were wobbly and quick. But Amara put her warm, wrinkled hand over his and slowed it down, and slowly the glass began to shine like water.

"Now the wick," she said. She showed him how to trim the little black tip with silver scissors, snip, so the flame would stand up straight and tall.

And while they worked, she taught him the keeper's rhyme. She said it was older than the village, older than the lighthouse, maybe older than the sea:

"Polish the glass and trim the light,
keep every dream safe through the night."

Teo said it under his breath as he worked. By the tenth lantern he didn't need to think about the words. They had found their own way into his hands.

When the lanterns were lit and the village was sleeping, Old Amara let Teo look inside.

"Just a peek," she said. "Dreams are private, like letters. But a keeper must know they're safe."

The baker's lantern held a cake with eleven layers and a cherry on top as big as a moon. The fisherman's lantern held a whale who was singing. Old Mr Pettigrew's lantern held a garden full of roses, the very same garden he used to have when he was a boy.

And in the smallest lantern, the one above the narrow house at the very end of the lane, there was a white horse.

It was galloping along a beach made of light. Its mane flew out like sea foam. Its hooves left little sparkles in the sand.

"Whose is that?" whispered Teo.

"That's Mia's," said Old Amara softly. "She's five. She dreams that horse every night. It's her favourite dream in the whole world."

Teo watched the tiny horse run and run, and he felt something warm swell up inside his chest, like the feeling of holding a baby bird.

The second lesson was the pole.

The keeper's pole was long and smooth and made of ash wood, with a brass hook at the top. You used it to lift the lanterns down for polishing and to hang them back up again, high above the doors where no one would bump them.

It was much harder than it looked.

The first time Teo tried, the lantern swung like a pendulum, swing, swing, swing, and nearly knocked on the baker's window. The second time, the hook missed the bracket altogether. The third time, Teo got so wobbly that he had to sit down on the step.

"I'm no good at this," he said.

"Nobody is good at anything the first time," said Old Amara. "Not even the sea was good at waves when it started."

She stood behind him and put her hands next to his on the pole. "Breathe out as you lift," she said. "Let the lantern float."

Teo breathed out. He lifted. And the lantern floated up, steady as the moon, and settled onto its hook with a soft click.

Night after night, Teo walked the lanes with Old Amara.

He learned that the lantern on the corner flickered when the wind came from the sea, and needed a little shield of tin. He learned that the cat at number twelve liked to sleep under the lantern for its warmth, and must be stepped round, not shooed. He learned that the lanterns at the top of the hill needed lighting first, because their people went to bed early, and the lanterns near the harbour last, because sailors are night owls.

Most of all, he learned the rules. Old Amara told them to him on the steepest lane, while she got her breath back.

"Never rush a dream," she said. "Never leave a lantern for later. And if a light ever goes out," she looked at him over her spectacles, "you come and tell me. Straight away. No matter what."

"Has a light ever gone out?" asked Teo.

"Once or twice, in sixty years," said Amara. "It happens. It's what you do afterwards that counts."

Teo nodded. He couldn't imagine ever letting a dream go dark.

Then one evening, when the sea was purple and the first stars were coming out, Teo knocked on Old Amara's door and found her wrapped in a blanket by the fire, with a red nose and a cup of lemon tea.

"I've caught a cold," she sniffed. "Achoo! My knees say no stairs tonight, and my nose says no sea air."

She looked at Teo for a long time. Then she held out the keeper's pole.

"You'll have to do the round alone," she said.

Teo's heart went bump. Alone? Every lantern in the whole village?

"Do you think I can?" he asked.

"I know you can," said Old Amara. "You have steady hands and a careful heart. Just remember the rules."

Teo took the pole. It felt heavier than usual, and also lighter, the way things feel when someone trusts you with them.

"Polish the glass and trim the light," he said.

"Keep every dream safe through the night," said Old Amara, and she blew her nose like a trumpet.

Teo set off up the hill.

The village was very quiet. Windows went dark one by one as people went to bed, and one by one, the dreams came floating down into the lanterns.

Teo lit the baker's lantern first, just as Amara did. He polished it in slow circles. Inside, the eleven-layer cake began to glow.

He lit the lantern on the corner and put up its little tin shield. He stepped carefully round the cat at number twelve. He trimmed the twins' wick, snip, and two kites went sailing across their glass.

Lane by lane he went, and lantern by lantern, humming the keeper's rhyme under his breath.

"Polish the glass and trim the light,
keep every dream safe through the night."

It was hard work. His arms ached from lifting the pole. But each time a lantern began to glow, Teo felt a little prouder, as if he were growing an inch taller.

Before long, he had done every lantern at the top of the hill and was halfway down toward the sea. There were only a few lanes left.

And that was when he heard his friends calling.

"Teo! TEO!"

Down by the harbour, sitting on the sea wall, were his friends: Bea and Rafi and little Sol. They were waving their arms like windmills.

"Come quick!" shouted Bea. "It's the night of the shooting stars! They're falling into the sea!"

Teo looked up. And there, across the dark sky, a star went zipping, long and silver, and vanished behind the lighthouse. Then another. Then two at once.

"Come ON!" shouted Rafi. "You'll miss them!"

Teo looked at the lanterns he still had to do. There were only a few left. And there, at the very end of the narrow lane, was the smallest lantern of all. Mia's lantern. Its wick was getting long and its flame was getting low.

"It'll be fine for a little while," Teo told himself. "I'll do it later. Just one shooting star. Then I'll come straight back."

He knew, really, that it was against the rules. A little voice inside him said so. But the shooting stars were so bright, and his friends were so loud, and the little voice was so quiet.

So Teo ran down to the sea.

The shooting stars were wonderful.

They fell and fell, silver and gold, into the dark sea, and each time one fell, all the friends said, "Ooooh," together, as if they had practised it.

Bea made a wish on every single one. Rafi tried to count them and lost count at twenty-three. Little Sol fell asleep with his head on Teo's shoulder, still holding a biscuit.

Teo meant to go back after one star. Then after two. Then after just one more.

"Later," he kept thinking. "I'll do it later."

But later is a slippery thing. It hides behind now, and then behind the next now, and then behind the one after that, until you look up and the moon has moved all the way across the sky.

At last the stars stopped falling. Bea yawned. Rafi carried little Sol home. And Teo picked up the keeper's pole, which had been leaning against the wall the whole time, and remembered.

Mia's lantern.

His tummy went cold. He ran.

He ran up the steep lane, the pole bumping on his shoulder, the cats leaping out of his way.

Up past the corner lantern. Up past the twins' kites. Up the narrow lane to the very end.

And there was Mia's lantern, hanging above her door.

It was dark.

The flame had burned down to nothing. The glass was grey and cold. And inside, where the white horse had galloped along its beach of light, there was nothing at all. Only a little curl of smoke, and then not even that.

Every other lantern in the village was glowing. Only this one was dark. It looked like a missing tooth.

Teo stood very still. His heart thumped so hard he could hear it in his ears.

From inside the narrow house came a sound. A small sound. The sound of someone turning over in bed, and then turning over again, and sighing. Someone who couldn't find their dream.

Teo's eyes went hot and prickly.

"Oh no," he whispered. "Oh no, oh no."

Teo sat down on Mia's step and put his head in his hands.

He felt as if he had swallowed a stone, and the stone was sinking slowly down, down, down into his tummy.

A small, sneaky thought crept into his head.

"Nobody saw," said the sneaky thought. "You could just light it again now. Nobody would ever know. Old Amara is asleep. Mia is asleep. You could pretend it never happened."

Teo looked up at the lantern. He could light it, couldn't he? He had matches. He had the pole.

He lifted the lantern down. He trimmed the wick. He struck a match and lit it.

The flame came back, small and yellow. But the inside of the glass stayed empty. No beach. No horse. No sparkles in the sand.

A lantern can be lit again with a match. But a dream that has gone out needs something more.

Teo hung the lantern back on its hook. Its light was thin and plain, just an ordinary lantern now.

And Teo knew, deep down in the stone in his tummy, that he couldn't pretend. He had to go and tell.

Old Amara's window was dark. Teo knocked anyway. Knock, knock, knock, very softly.

After a long time, the door opened, and there was Amara in her nightcap, with her blanket round her shoulders and her nose still pink.

"Teo?" she said. "What is it?"

Teo's words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other like the shooting stars.

"I left Mia's lantern for later and I went to see the shooting stars and I stayed too long and when I came back it had gone out and the horse is gone and I tried to light it again but the dream didn't come back and it's all my fault."

He stopped. He waited for her to be cross.

Old Amara didn't say anything for a moment. She took his cold hands in her warm ones. Then she led him to the fire and sat him down.

"Thank you for telling me," she said quietly. "That was a brave thing to do. Braver than any rule."

"But Mia's dream," said Teo, and a tear rolled down his nose.

"Yes," said Amara gently. "Let's think about Mia's dream."

"When a dream goes out," said Old Amara, "a match won't bring it back. You found that out yourself."

Teo nodded miserably.

"But a dream can be lit again," Amara went on, "with something much warmer than a match." She held up one finger. "First, you say what you did. Not a little bit of it. All of it."

She held up a second finger. "Second, you say you're sorry, and you mean it all the way down."

She held up a third finger. "And third, you help to make it right. You give back some of what was lost."

"How can I give back a dream?" asked Teo.

Old Amara smiled. "Dreams are made of stories," she said. "You've watched Mia's horse every night for weeks. You know it better than anyone. Perhaps you could give it back to her."

Teo looked into the fire for a long time.

Then he wiped his nose on his sleeve, stood up and picked up the keeper's pole.

"I need to talk to Mia," he said.

Teo stood under Mia's window and tapped on the glass with the very tip of the pole. Tap, tap.

After a moment, the curtain twitched, and a small face appeared. Mia had copper curls that stuck up on one side, and she was rubbing her eyes.

She opened the window. "I can't sleep," she said in a wobbly voice. "My horse didn't come tonight. I waited and waited, but he didn't come."

Teo took a deep breath. His heart was thumping again, but he made himself stand up straight.

"Mia," he said, "your horse didn't come because of me. I'm the new lantern keeper. I was supposed to look after your lantern tonight, but I went to watch the shooting stars and I left it for later, and it went out."

Mia's bottom lip trembled.

"I'm sorry," said Teo. "I'm really, truly sorry. It was my job, and I didn't do it. And I want to help get your horse back. Will you let me try?"

Mia looked at him for a long, long moment. Then she sniffed, and nodded, very slowly.

Teo sat down on the step below the window. He held the lantern in his lap, its plain little flame flickering.

"Once upon a time," he began, "there was a white horse who lived on a beach made of light."

Mia rested her chin on the windowsill.

"His mane was like sea foam," said Teo, "and when he ran, his hooves left sparkles in the sand. Every night he waited at the edge of the waves for a girl with copper curls to come and ride him."

Something happened inside the lantern. A faint shimmer, like moonlight on water.

"And every night," Teo went on, his voice growing steadier, "she climbed on his back, and they galloped along the shore, faster than the wind, past the lighthouse and the sleeping boats, all the way to where the sky meets the sea."

The shimmer grew brighter. A beach appeared, pale and glowing.

"And one night," said Teo softly, "the horse waited and the girl didn't come. But he didn't give up. He kept waiting. Because he knew she would always come back."

Inside the lantern, very small and very bright, a white horse lifted its head.

The white horse shook its foamy mane. It stamped one sparkling hoof. And then it began to run.

Along the beach of light it galloped, round and round inside the glass, leaving trails of glitter in the sand. It was even brighter than before. It seemed to have stars in its tail now, little silver ones, like the shooting stars Teo had watched that night.

"He came back!" whispered Mia. Her whole face glowed in the lantern-light. "And look, he's got stars!"

Teo let out a breath that he felt he had been holding for hours.

He stood up, and breathed out as he lifted, the way Old Amara had taught him, and the lantern floated up to its hook above Mia's door and settled there with a soft click.

"Thank you for saying sorry," said Mia. She yawned an enormous yawn. "And thank you for my horse."

"Thank you for letting me fix it," said Teo.

Mia waved a sleepy wave and closed the window. A minute later, the lantern glowed even brighter. She had fallen asleep, and her horse was galloping to meet her.

Teo did not go straight home.

He walked the whole village again, every lane and every corner, and he checked every single lantern a second time. He polished the ones that needed polishing. He trimmed the wicks that needed trimming. He looked inside each one, just a peek, to make sure every dream was safe.

The baker's cake. The fisherman's whale. Old Mr Pettigrew's roses. The twins' kites. All glowing.

"Polish the glass and trim the light,
keep every dream safe through the night."

When he said the rhyme now, it sounded different. It wasn't just words any more. It was a promise.

"I'll never leave a lantern for later again," Teo said to the sleeping village. "Not for shooting stars. Not for anything."

The sea whispered against the harbour wall, as if it were saying, "We know."

By the time he had finished, the sky over the water was turning from black to the deepest, softest blue. The lanterns glowed against it like a necklace of tiny moons.

When Teo came back down the hill, Old Amara was standing in her doorway in her teal coat, watching the dawn.

"Mia's horse is back," said Teo. "It has stars in its tail now."

"I know," said Amara. "I could see it from here." Her eyes crinkled behind her spectacles. "You did the hardest part of being a keeper tonight, Teo. Harder than polishing. Harder than the pole."

"Letting it go out?" said Teo, puzzled.

"No," said Old Amara. "Coming to tell me. And then making it right."

She reached behind the door and brought out something small and shining. It was a lantern, a little brass one with a teal glass door, just the right size for a boy's window.

"Every keeper has one," she said. "For their own dreams."

Teo held it in both hands. It was warm, though it wasn't lit.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Thank you, apprentice," said Old Amara. "Now go home and sleep. Even keepers need to dream."

Teo climbed the stairs to his little room at the top of the house.

He hung his new lantern on the hook by his window. He polished the glass in slow, slow circles. He trimmed the wick, snip, and lit it.

Then he climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up to his ears.

Outside, the village was turning pale with morning. Down by the harbour, the boats were waking. But here, in Teo's room, it was still soft and dim and quiet.

His eyes grew heavy. His breathing grew slow.

And then, very gently, a dream came floating out of his head, across the pillow, and into the little brass lantern by the window.

In it, a whole village of lanterns twinkled on a hill above the sea. And along the beach below, a white horse with stars in its tail was galloping, galloping, all the way to where the sky meets the sea.

Polish the glass,
and trim the light.
Every dream is safe tonight.

Goodnight, Teo.