The lights were bright, low. About level with my knees.
I could see them coming towards me, silent. Wind rustled the trees; in the distance I could hear a mopoke calling. Bats randomly came into my view. I stood my ground.
The lights came towards me, silent. I could see them wavering, flickering, as they were being carried. Shuffling… I could make out shuffling from behind the lights. I reached for the metal bar, barely a gaf, bent in one end, it didn’t matter. If the superstition was right, iron would see me right.
The lights stopped at a polite distance from me. Behind them I could see faces, the faces of little people, and behind them the vague outlines of semi-regimented soldiers. Most of the shuffling had stopped, away from the Light Tenders, I could hear scraps and scrapes.
Between the two columns a figure approached, paused between them, held something to its face and blew a trumpet. The creature stepped to the side allowing a regal figure a free path to me.
“Whats you do… to stops… my processions?” asked a broken voice with a hard accent, it hadn’t spoken my language in decades.
“I want my child back,” I replied.
About the author: Bernard Quince, jack of all trades master of none, photographer, artist, writer and performer. Best known online as Tinker of Tinker’s Tales on Youtube (Poetry reading), Redbubble (clothing and merch) and Patreon(everything). https://www.patreon.com/tinkerstales