The Light Holder of Outpost #82

Liquid silence reflected the mute stirring of leaves.

A humid blanket of moisture laid itself heavily against every wind that might venture upon the threshold. Not even the footfall of the rotating guard down below disturbed the thick, voiceless throb of time.

Allie leaned out of the window, placing a hand on the small lantern residing on the ledge. The stonework framed her thin face like the golden edifices surrounding several paintings far below. Only this picture presented a much simpler view to an onlooker. In fact, there was nothing much in it to see–according to most.

The frame was as gray and quiet as appearance of the subject. Her brown hair was woven skillfully into a simple bun. And her face, while pale and gentle, was not one that would turn a painter’s eye and inspire a painter’s brush.

At least, that’s what the people of Hillsdale often thought.

That said, Allie could have very likely passed for one of the solemn statues that framed the gateway into the village. What might be said to the disinterest of her features, there was a set of the jaw and a strong light in the eye that was much like the firm emblem and immovability of stone, well cut, well planned and well executed.

Hillsdale itself was small in circumference, but strong in its inner bonds. “Small, but well-established” was a fitting title for the softly ascending hill covered in an amusing array of cottages, with a large stonework castle at one end. A wall of moss-burdened stone surrounded the place, the height showing that it was more of a decoration than a defense.

Yet along the wall at several places were towers. High and well-built, one could easily scan the near landscape for any upcoming visitors. Such a place was Allie’s constant care. Why exactly they were called “outposts” when surrounding the village, had been erased into history. It was what the towers were called and so the name stayed.

Like the early sound of a bird seeking its morning branch to sing its morning song, Allie departed from her cottage every day–before the sun had sliced into the gray remnants of night. Before the town crier had uttered the next chiming of the hour. Before even the cows had begun to alert their owners to the duties of a new day.

And every morning, as the sun slipped past cloud and mist, Allie’s gray eyes looked out from the narrow window of Outpost #82. Small lanterns were set along the thin ledge of each window, always and continually lit by careful hands. The outpost was named eighty-two as it was one of many, scattered across other towns and villages. This particular village held the outposts of eighty to eight-six.

The only times Allie relived her post was to get something to eat or to take a rest. Some days she stayed all night.

There were just several in the village who truly understood her faithfulness: they were those who watched in the other Outpost towers of Hillsdale.

As for the rest of the villagers, most seemed to live in oblivion to the strong edifices rising up here and there along the wall. They easily departed and arrived from the circle of homes, often laughing and enjoying the beautiful scenery and good friendship among one another.

Occasionally, a villager would speak to one of the outpost watchers and whenever they did, the villager would leave with a slightly more grave and thoughtful face.

But it was on a humid day in the middle of a brilliant summer when something changed.

Allie pressed the curtain to the side of the window and looked down on the slow guard that often circled the walls. He held no weapon, but rather the force of habit brought his feet thither each day. No one had attacked the small village for near a century and it was the bore and disgust of most to consider the monotonous circle around the low village wall. This guard had been only appointed by the force of personal necessity to himself, as the landowner and possessor of the castle had offered a good price for the slow, seemingly protective walk. But the landowner’s move on his part, was one for respectability.

Something wasn’t right.

Everything looked the same …

But.

Slipping to a side window where she could look out to another tower, Allie caught her breath.

Outpost #83’s light was out. Concerned, she ran down the stairs and into the village. She knew her lanterns were still burning and it wouldn’t be but a moment.

Ascending the inner stairs of Outpost #83, she reached the small room at the top and stopped in dismay. No one was there, and the lights had run out. She knew already that there was no way she could keep both set of lights running reasonably. Her own outpost was the most responsibility she must bear of that kind. To encourage or offer assistance was her desire, and that is what she could give, but to cover an entire outpost’s responsibilities was more than she could do besides her own.

Looking distressed and wondering what had happened to cause this state of affairs, Allie descended back out into the village. Shading her eyes to get a better view she quickly scanned the other outposts. Her heart stopped as she saw that only one held burning lanterns in the windows.

Her own.

Not today? Not now?

The general bustle and hum of a village awakening spoke neither of danger or distress. In fact, everything looked …well, normal. If not usual.

But why this sudden desertion of the the posts?

At that moment, Allie recalled her position and swiftly went back to her place. Her own lanterns must not burn out no matter how it might rest with the others.

Just as she was about to enter her outpost tower, an old friend stopped her.

“Allie, what are you in such haste about?” It was an elderly man, his white hair blowing slightly in the breeze that had now risen. The voices of the crowd nearby were loud, and Allie had to lean forward to hear.

“Why, Mr. David, I’m so glad to see you. What has happened to the outposts? Do you need some light from my lanterns to re-light yours? I’d be glad to–”

He waved a hand. “No, no. It’s time to move on.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re working in the wrong field. There’s more important battles to be fought. Have you heard of the knight needing re-enforcement’s down by the stone river?”

Allie frowned and spoke with respect. “I hope he finds them, but sir, this is our post!”

The man shook his head gravely. “If that battle isn’t stopped, it’ll reach here before we’re able to do anything.”

“Is it that close?” Her voice faltered then.

Giving a slow nod, he turned. “Time to leave, Miss Allie. Time to meet the battle where it is.”

“But the people here?” Allie’s call was weak. “What about them?”

No answer was given, and Allie slowly ascended the stairs once again. She barely glanced at the gold-framed paintings that were dedicated to past outpost-watchers. But the painter’s skill had been great, and as though they were yet alive, Allie could imagine them as a cloud of witnesses to this moment.

Could she leave?

Should she leave?

What the man had said seemed terribly true. Ever since she had taken this post everything had been as quiet as a summer’s day. Not even once had she seen a sight of the enemy. Not even once had she been rewarded with the certainty that her work was not in vain. All she had was the promise.

The promise of a work given to the King.

But now?

The man’s words certainly seemed verified by all that she saw. Perhaps, just perhaps …she was wasting her time in this place?

Feeling disturbed, Allie briefly checked each lantern in her tower and leaned on the wall next to one of the windows. It was fulfilling work. She knew that if she wasn’t caring for them, the lanterns wouldn’t be lit. She knew that others had for a long time kept up this silent watch.

Light footsteps echoed up the tall casement and Allie turned to see a young woman appear.

“Allie!” The girl’s words were warm, her eyes flashing slightly with a laugh. “What are you doing here?”

“What I’ve always told you, Lynn,” Allie replied with gravity, “working where I’m called.”

Lynn looked discomfited for a second and returned to her light bantering tone.

“But Allie, don’t you see? I saw you talking to that man down there. He’s right.” She looked firm. “It’s time to move on.”

Without responding, Allie turned and adjusted one of the lanterns, taking a quick survey upon the land. The sky had broken into cloudy fragments and a crystal blue was shining through. Sunlight spilled golden splashes of brilliant color upon the descending mountainside.

Lynn grabbed her elbow. “Allie, I’m serious. I may not agree with the others going off to the battlefront instead, but they are certainly wise in giving up this silly work.”

“Silly?” Allie repeated. “Lynn, the King has commanded.”

Looking a bit injured, Lynn frowned.

A sigh escaped Allie as she moved to the next lantern, doing all she could to keep the wick trimmed and light flaming boldly.

“But Allie,” Lynn followed her, “I’m tired of always having to find you here. There’s so much else to enjoy! There’s no big battles going on. We can take it easy sometimes.”

“But I do enjoy this.” Allie smiled. “I find great meaning in it.”

Silence for a moment.

“Well,” Lynn sighed, “what you’re doing seems an awful lot like fruitless work.”

Pressing her lips together, Allie turned her face to hide a distressed expression. Doubts suddenly rose up that had been set aside earlier. Gathering herself together, Allie placed a firm mental hand on every rising doubt and spoke clearly.

“The King has given us much to enjoy, and I enjoy this. But Lynn, this world isn’t our home. We’re servants involved in a greater purpose. I must remain at my post.” Turning around to face the young woman, Allie finished with firm, bold words. “Someone may be lost if I leave my post. Even one soul could wander further away because I chose to give up. Because I chose to believe that this was meaningless, fruitless work. I cannot leave what He has given me to do, can I? He sees all, I see this. It is not to be wondered if my viewpoint is limited. But that limitation must not be the foundation of my choices. His Word is my choice. Not my sight.”

Lynn’s face had become thoughtful, somewhat grave. She said no more and disappeared down the stairway.

That night, Allie stayed through the dark hours at Outpost #82. 

It was the first night …alone.

She often rotated around from one window to the next, gazing out into the darkness, straining for even one lantern light in another tower. But not one outpost blinked back at her. All had a mournful, death-like stillness.

It was so chilling that Allie occasionally covered her face with her hands and willed the tears back.

Did no one understand? Did no see? There was a battle here as well as there.

Silent battles can be the most deadly.

Invisible foes may be the most cunning.

Quiet landscapes may sometimes hide an uncover advance.

The morning dawned and Allie quietly retreated to her home for refreshment before returning to her post. Everything was as usual. Not even the sound of probable distant battle reached her ears.

Everything continued on with the well-oiled wheels of normalcy.

Why didn’t the people see?! Couldn’t they know that every moment counted? That every day was one to meet the battle at the gate, whether unseen or seen?

Who would fill these gaps?

But this one thing Allie knew. She must keep her post. The enemy must not be allowed entrance because she was not there.

The days and weeks moved on then.

Slowly, quietly, much as before.

It wore on Allie sometimes.

Sometimes the silence shouted so loudly in her ears she almost crumpled under its weight, the lies she heard everyday adding their weight to her burden:

“Nothing’s changing. You’re being too reactionary.”

“Slow down a bit. No one else seems to be as worried.”

“I’m sorry, Allie, but are you sure you’re okay? You can just fight that battle each morning and then re-light the lanterns in the evening. It’s called life.”

Wearily at times, Allie would ascend and descend the tall tower and see to her calling. Trimming her lanterns and gazing out into the fields. Other days she would stop and look at the old paintings in the lower part of the tower and remember those who had gone on before. They had fought the seen or unseen battle too. She paused often by one of an elderly woman. The lady’s gentle smile was painted well and always seemed to encourage her. Allie knew the story. She was the one here just before Allie had taken up the work. Never, in all that lady’s life, had she seen one enemy encroach. Never, had she witnessed the sound of visual battle. It had been a very quiet post for her.

Allie wondered to herself if the woman had experienced just such trials as her own? Would this silence be unbroken like it had been for this woman?

“I must keep my post. The King knows why I am here and that is enough.” Bravely finishing the stairs, Allie moved forward once again to her lanterns.

Occasionally, Allie would see villagers approaching the small town from her vantage point. Other times, she witnessed travelers upon the road. She took some comfort that perhaps her small lights were a welcome sight to their long travels, but she never knew for sure.

But enemies? Not even one.

A year passed.

Every morning Allie was faithfully at her post. Every evening saw her always re-trimming the lanterns.

The slow-moving rotational guard had quit his work some time ago having found–to him–better employment. Allie had ceased to watch for his slow movements from her tower. Now, she often gazed off into the wide landscape before her and sometimes wondered, sometimes sang softly to herself and other times wrote long letters to the King.

Life continued on much as usual.

It was one such usual day that Allie received an unexpected guest. A small boy ascended her tower and knocked on the door.

Opening it, she smiled. “Hello. I believe I don’t know you?”

The young boy bowed slightly with a returning smile and silently placed a piece of paper in her hand. Then, he turned and left.

Allie thought for a moment about calling him back and asking his name, but then decided against it. Shutting the door, she moved back into the tower, gave her lanterns a quick glance and opened the paper.

It held a large drawing. A map of some kind.

Perhaps this was some game the village children were desiring to play with her?

Sitting down on a small bench where she could still look out once in awhile, Allie spread the map before her. She bent over it and gave it the full benefit of her focus.

There were several mountainous regions marked and small names next to each. Tracing these with her finger, she passed over one and another feeling perplexed as she did not recognize the names. Moving down slightly she jumped to one closer on the right.

At that, she paused. The name was familiar.

It was the mountain stretch just across the village, out beyond Outpost #86.

Slowing her study, she narrowed in on this part of the map. Yes, there was a marking for their village and its name. But as she saw no other interesting markings, she moved on slowly from that point. Canvassing the map several times she sat in some perplexity. What did she need this for?

She was about to set it aside, when her eye landed again on a marking she couldn’t understand. There were lots of them scattered about the map and she had at first assumed them to be a means of decoration by the artist. Some were clustered, others more spread out. But as she studied them, she realized they didn’t correspond well with the mountains and valleys or really make any sense one direction or another.

Maybe there was a reference key somewhere? Turning over the paper, she noted a small line near the top, an “X” sat next to it. The explanatory words were simple: enemy victory.

As she read this, her hand began to shake. Wait …it couldn’t be?

Looking back at the map, she wanted to weep. So much victory …for all that was wrong! What was happening to her land …their land …the land? And all those people! Where was the battle? Who was fighting? What about those that left? What had happened?

Questions and tears blurred her sight for a moment and she bowed her head.

“O my King, where are You?”

Tremblingly lifting the paper, Allie hastily wiped her tears as fast as they came and mournfully gazed at all the terrible marks.

When suddenly …she saw it.

Saw it in a flash that was so strong in its realization that her hand dropped the map and she stood up instantly.

Could it be?

Steadying one hand on the wall, she gazed out of the tower. The quiet land greeted her as it had so often for years, sunshine covering its coat of green emeralds like a nobleman dressed for a feast.

She could hardly breathe.

She couldn’t speak.

But the tears came.

And the lanterns flickered on.

And on the ground, the map told its quiet assurance of one faithful watcher. One faithful light holder. One faithful servant meeting the battle–unseen or seen–at the gate in which she had been placed.

A quiet, unseen battle …that was not once in vain.