Fox Fire

A short story influenced by gothic literature. The tale of an orphaned boy and his rendevous at midnight.

Caspian Bane stood before his parent’s mausoleum with quiet remorse. His young face was pulled into an expression far too serious for his years, and his green eyes were a color far too dull for his spirit. His vitality had been drained from his body with their passing; the now orphaned youth could barely hold himself with a respectable posture.

A cold autumn wind blew through the graveyard, rustling the leaves on the nearly dead trees. The dusty earth was littered with decaying weeds and shards of stone. The sun had long since set, leaving the cemetery in the deep shadow of night. Weak glimmers of moonlight flashed across headstones, but would soon fade again as clouds obscured their glow. A torch had been lit as an afterthought, its bland flame flickering atop its perch on the tomb. Shades danced in the light it managed to provide, though they scattered fearfully when the wind threatened their fire.

Caspian himself was covered in the ashy soil, as if he’d spent a great time kneeling upon the ground. His dark hair was a sharp contrast to his fair skin. There was a defeated scowl on his lips when he turned away from the engraved words on the mausoleum wall. Antonio and Phoebe Bane; in pace requiescat.

The slightest of whispers came from beyond a nearby headstone. Caspian whirled around, finding nothing to explain the noise. He crept slowly towards the grave marker, his grief momentarily forgotten. The flames the torch held turned an icy blue color, and the wind whistled a low note in the treetops.

Without warning, a small patch of brown briar flared up with blue fire. Caspian fell back in terror. At a slow, rhythmic pace, the blaze separated into smaller sparks that floated with an unnatural glow. There was a sharp intake of breath when Caspian realized the sight before him.

“Jack o’ Lanterns…” he murmured, eyes wide with amazement.

Feeling curious, he reached out a shaking hand towards the Will o’ the Wisps. They were cool to the touch despite their burning appearance. They bobbed slightly, and Caspian withdrew his hand. He stood once more; with a quiet whisper, the flames disappeared.

“Peculiar, aren’t they?” asked a feminine voice.

With an almost comical flourish, Caspian rotated to view the voice’s owner.

She was a delicate thing, with slender limbs and pale skin.  Her long hair fell to her waist; a snug black dress clung to her figure. Black ribbons were tied around her middle. There was a silvery glint below her collar bone that resembled a locket. The deep Atlantic ocean could not compare to the blue of her eyes.

Caspian tried not to gape at her beauty; she smiled faintly.

“Yes,” he finally managed to say, his voice shaky and awed.

“They are St. Elmo’s Fire- the spirits of those who have died but cannot move on.” She stepped forward, taking her place beside him.

Caspian cast a sideways glance at her. “They are…. Ghosts?”

The Girl nodded. “Shades, Ghosts, Spirits… Whatever you wish to call them. I prefer Fox Fire- it has a more fantastical sound to it. Much less dismal.”

Caspian laughed, a joyous, hearty sound. It was the first time in many weeks he’d had such a laugh.

The girl gave him a bewildered look. “What is it that you find so amusing?”

Caspian gave her a shining smile. “I have never thought of the dead as fantastical. I doubt anyone else has such a view.” He took the girl’s hand in a friendly yet platonic manner. “What is your name?” he asked, still grinning.

“Octavia,” she replied. Caspian dismissed the initials K. F. sewn onto her ribbons. She sat down; Caspian noticed for the first time she was barefoot. He too sat down, resting beside her.

“My name is Caspian.” He couldn’t quite describe it, but Octavia’s very presence filled him with a warm feeling. Like the injury he’d suffered the previous month was healing. It was an intoxicating emotion.

Octavia smiled as though she had a similar experience.

“So, Octavia. Tell me more about these fox fires.”

And so it began. Octavia educated Caspian on all the supernatural things she could. They parted each morning at dawn with the promise to meet again the next night. Caspian spent his days dozing, dreaming of the encounters. He knew not what Octavia did when he was gone, though he prayed she thought of him often. When he was not in bed, Caspian was planning a grand wedding. He was completely smitten with Octavia.

Every evening, when the sun set behind the distant hills, Caspian would venture out of his manor to the boneyard. He would always arrive first, Octavia appearing when he least expected it. Caspian learned many things within those midnight weeks. He learned of vampires and pixies, spirits and shape-shifters, goblins and nymphs. He never questioned how Octavia knew these things; he simply learned and admired and hoped.

“The fox fires hold the memories of their past bodies,” she told him once. “They retain the humanity and disposition of their hearts and souls.”

Another night, she said “The wandering spirits must be respected. It is with heavy hearts they traverse this earth in search of salvation.”

Sometimes their discussions would sway from the supernatural; Caspian confided his hopes and dreams to her in hushed whispers, though he never had the courage to confess his love.

Then, after their moonlit rendezvouses had been going on for many weeks, there was a change in Octavia. It started off very subtle; her mood would mirror what it had been mere seconds before. Her mannerisms and gait would change seemingly without cause. One moment, she would be smiling and laughing with Caspian: the next, she’d be leaning heavily against a tombstone, weeping. Caspian tried to calm her, but she’d be inconsolable. Then, after many minutes, she’d shift once more into an entirely different attitude.

It was hard for Caspian; he worried about Octavia, though he didn’t know how to help her.

No matter what mood she was in, Caspian still adored her. Her changes grew more and more blatant every night, but he refused to believe she was anything but perfect. Soon, however, their conversations became bewildering and unsettling.

“Octavia, that’s amazing!” Caspian exclaimed after she told him of the Hippocampi, an aquatic horse ridden by Mermaids.

“Octavia?” she asked. “Who’s Octavia? My name is Rosaline.”

Caspian opened his mouth to speak, but he could produce no sensible response.

The next night, she claimed “My name is Adelaide.” When they parted that morning, he decided to perform an experiment.

“What is your name?” he inquired as soon as she arrived.

“Katherine.”

He repeated this for many nights, each time with different names and attitudes.

“Your name?”

“Evangeline,” she snapped.

“Your name?”

“Lenore,” she mumbled.

“Your name?”

“Francesca,” she giggled.

Caspian spent a week’s worth of afternoons locked away in his chambers, refusing to come out before dusk. He entombed himself in books, volumes upon volumes on every subject from needlework to witchcraft. Sometimes he’d merely skim the tome- other times he’d read every chapter twice. He painstakingly searched for a cure for Octavia’s madness, or at the very least an explanation.

Upon the eighth day of the seventh month since their first encounter, Caspian found it. Within an ancient book he almost overlooked because of its age and size, he found his answer.

He immediately set out to his stables, mounted his horse and galloped to the graveyard. It was just barely becoming dark, and the faint evening light danced across the renewed earth. Summer was just beginning to stretch its vibrant tendrils into the trees. Small flower buds stuck out at skewed angles from every branch, and shrubs had just begun to retain their deep color.

“Octavia!” he called, searching for her. There came no answer.

“Rosaline! Francesca! Evangeline! Adelaide! Lenore!” he screamed, becoming desperate. Still no answer. Caspian fell to his knees, searching with his eyes.

Finally, after many minutes, she appeared, strolling casually out from behind a cluster of trees.

“Hello, Caspian,” she greeted, smiling blithely.

“Hello…?” he trailed off, unsure what her name was today.

“Vivienne,” she supplied, her smile never wavering.

“Hello, Vivienne. I-” he paused. He wasn’t sure how she would react. Instead of outright asking her, he decided to do one more test. “What’s in your locket? I’ve never thought to ask.”

She tilted her head to the side, much like a cat or cardinal might, and took the locket off. With a slow hand, she unclasped the lock. Her pace seemed curious, almost like she didn’t know herself.

The small box opened, and Caspian leaned in to see better.

Inside was a small snippet, a piece of a photograph folded many times to fit. The image was of a man and a woman, standing side by side. Their faces were pulled into sweet smiles, their love and adoration for each other evident in their posture and expression. The locket was engraved “To My Rosaline. I will forever love you- Jonathon Carmichael.”

She frowned. “Who is Rosaline? And who is the man in this picture?”

Caspian said nothing, his shoulders slumped. The weight of his confirmed hypothesis was crushing, and it took his whole spirit to remain upright.

She glanced at him. “Caspian? Is something wrong?” she rushed to his side.

“You’re not you…” he murmured, barely getting the words around the cumbersome truth.

She blinked, her thin brow furrowing. “What do you mean? Of course I’m me.”

Caspian shook his head sadly. “No, you’re not. Well, maybe you are, but you’re other people too.”

“I don’t understand.”

Caspian sat down, defeat written across his pale face. “The fox fires. The ones you told me about. Remember when you said they hold onto memories from their past lives?”

She nodded.

“That’s what you are. That is why you have several alternate names and personalities. You’re not alive, Vivienne. Or Octavia, or whoever who think you are. You’re just the embodiment of memories these spirits left behind.” Caspian’s words were clear and steady, even though his eyes glimmered with tears and his heart ached. “You’re a culmination of the souls in this graveyard. You’re not real.”

She was stunned silent. Her blue eyes grew dull, then flared up with color, then grew dull again. The long hair that fell to her waist began to move, seemingly rising away from her body. The roots kept it anchored in her scalp, but the feathery strands bobbed about her head as though she were submerged in water.

Without warning, she collapsed to the earth in a shivering heap, her back arching as her voice rose in volume. No words were formed, her mouth instead creating an unnatural wail. The intonation of many screams echoed through the cemetery; many souls were crying with anguish.

Heavy summer winds whipped through the trees in a centrifugal gale. The small patch of dirt Caspian and She stood on were the eye of the storm, and the gales kicked up soil and tore small shrubs from the ground. Dark clouds covered the moon, thrusting the entire hillside in shadow. Caspian whirled around right and sinister, looking for Her.

The only light in the entire tempest of umbers was two dainty cerulean flames, floating a few feet away from Caspian. Their glow started dim, steadily growing until flickering shadows could go no further than their wide edge.

She had vanished, her body replaced by a dozen smaller flames, each the oceanic color of her eyes. Slight whispers sounded from each flame, barely audible. The locket lay on the earth, on the heap of her dress. Her ribbons fluttered in the now dying breeze.

Caspian slowly rose to his feet, his eyes wide with shock. Tears dripped from his eyes, though he took no notice. “Goodbye, My loves,” he murmured softly, the deep wind almost dashing his words to pieces.

He slowly turned back and left for his manor. The blue flames softly whispered, in their native tongues, “Goodbye,” before a strong wind extinguished their final glow.

Author's Note

Please be as Honest as possible!