Light Of The Living

Vedran Sečen

Marek could spot a storm while she was just a hatchling sleeping over the wide ocean. He, a shriveled old man, stood tall on the edge of a cliff and ran his fingers through his long gray beard. The sea sizzled and foamed below him. A gust of wind hit him and judging by it, the storm would bring just a whistling wind for an hour, two at the most. The next gust slapped him with a thick smell of salt and forced him to step back from the cliff.
His stomach grumbled so loud he could have mistaken it for thunder. He last ate while the Sun was coming out. A weird restlessness caught him unaware and burst through his veins as if his blood was trying to force a way out of him. Marek turned away from the sea.
The white lighthouse atop the expanse of jagged rocks rose so high that the heavy clouds scraped its shiny glass tower. A wild storm could trap him in for days. And while he could survive on the little food he had, fire knew nothing about restraint. He had enough wood for tonight's pyre and maybe some scraps would remain for tomorrow.
The night hurried to him from the east. He gave the day an hour to live and the storm could end it even sooner.
His mother words, her mantra, the thing she preached about every evening of her life even after she lost her mind crawled through his head: "Light the fire, Mar, never welcome a night without it, for he can come ashore then..." Tears rolled down her cheeks, her mouth twisted, her body trembled and it stopped only when she saw a fire in the tower. "Marek, never, never be in the dark."
He took a deep breath and studied the storm. The clouds swirled over the sea. The cold wind pierced his coat and prickled his skin. He was wrong about storms before. But he could bring in some wood before the night came: a minute to the old white shed, twenty to get the wood, ten to haul it inside.
The sky was getting darker, he had to act quickly.
Light the fire. 
Get more firewood.