Broken Angels

96

Moon is bleeding. He makes his way to the entrance to StoryBook River, winding his way through the darkness. He cannot see very well, but he knows every turn of the canals, every stone, every display. His breathing is wet and labored, his pace is slow.

He stops for a moment, reaches into his pocket, retrieves his matches. He remembers the story of the little match seller. Barefoot, and with no coat, she found herself alone on New Year's Eve. It was very cold. As the evening grew late, the little girl struck match after match for warmth.

In each flare she saw a vision.

Moon lights a match. In the flame he envisions the beautiful swans, shimmering in the springtime sun. He strikes another. This time he sees Thumbelina, her tiny form on the lily pad. The third match is the nightingale. He remembers her song. The next is Karen, graceful in her red shoes. Then Anne Lisbeth. Match after match glows brightly in the night. Moon sees each face, recalls each story.

He has just a few matches left.

Perhaps, like the little match seller, he will light them all at once. When the girl in the story did that, her grandmother came down and lifted her to heaven.

Moon hears a sound, turns. There is a man standing by the bank of the main canal, just a few feet away. He is not a big man, but he is broad-shouldered, strong looking. He throws a length of rope over the crossbeam of the huge trellis spanning the 0sttunnelen canal.

Moon knows the story is ending.

He strikes the matches, begins to recite.

"Here are maidens, young and fair."

One by one the match heads ignite.

"Dancing in the summer air."

A warm radiance fills the world.

"Like two spinning wheels at play."

Moon drops the matches to the ground. The man steps forward, ties Moon's hands behind him. Moments later Moon feels the soft rope coil around his neck, sees the gleaming knife in the man's hand.

"Pretty maidens dance away."

Moon is swept from his feet, high into the air, moving skyward, heavenward. Below him he sees the beaming faces of the swans, of Anne Lisbeth, of Thumbelina, of Karen, of all the others. He sees the canals, the displays, the wonder that is StoryBook River.

The man disappears into the forest.

On the ground the matchlight flares brightly, burns for a moment, then grows dim.

For Moon, there is now only darkness.