(Student Submission)
Artist Statement:
My short story, “In Times of Darkness, Light Prevails,” is a creative reflection on the complex emotions I felt throughout the beginning, duration, and latest phases of the COVID-19 pandemic. At the start of it all, I was a gap year student, sent home from my dream job as a professional performer. I went from extreme freedom to extreme isolation within one short day, and upon arriving home, the world seemed to have gone crazy: death rates rocketed, grocery stores filled with frenzied mobs, and the streets were barren like never before. Mentally, I was trapped within a boarded-up manor of my own making. It wasn’t until recently that my hope for the world slowly began to return. With everything tentatively reopening, I’m once again able to see the familiar smiles of friends and family – I can return to some of my favorite places and feel that slight tinge of everyday normality. While I cannot speak for everyone, my story encapsulates each moment of the pandemic through my own eyes, narrated symbolically in the dusty old manor of my mind.
In Times of Darkness, Light Prevails
by Shayna Smith
I distinctly remember the day we shuttered the manor’s doors.
It was a hazy March morning, the dreary sky choked with thick grey clouds. The sun, in all her might, was lost amidst the forlorn air, shining softly in spurts of brief, short-lived glory.
Normally, I’d have risen to the shrill cry of the rooster at dawn, but today was different: the rooster’s cry never came. Instead, my ears were struck with the piercing shriek of the crow. Three raspy calls. No more, no less.
There was no way of knowing. That is, unless you believe in omens. Had I known what was coming, perhaps I would have taken more notice of the crow’s three cries. Perhaps I would have been more concerned by the old grandfather clock, whose once-ticking hands were now stuck at 3:12am, lifeless and still. I swear, even my opals looked dimmer that morning, and yet I still brushed it off. How could I have known?
I dressed into my day clothes and readied myself for the afternoon to come. Tights, petticoats, skirt, and bodice. I even applied rouge – we had company coming. The manor was soon to be a bustling sight, a lively festival for the folk of the town. There was conversation to be had, music to be danced to, lanterns to be lit, and food to be consumed. In the midst of my daydreaming, fantasizing about the jubilee, I nearly missed the arrival of our first guests.
I raced outside to meet my family on the steps of the courtyard, greeted with some particularly glaring looks. Tardiness is never a flattering demeanor. Quickly, carriages appeared in hordes. From each stepped out finely clad gentlemen and elegantly dressed ladies, playful children and even a few in their teen years. The crowd was astounding in its size, mixed with an assortment of people from all walks of life and all parts of the town.
The afternoon began with such high spirits: the music soared, the manor’s ballroom was a spectacle of delight. The children were dancing with fervor from all the cake they’d been eating, and the adults swooned in a wine-induced bliss. The flickering flames of lanterns sparkled in the lowlight, their delicate shine multiplied in crystal chandeliers. The world was beautiful. Jubilant.
It’s hard to imagine that now.
It was hardly yet evening when Christopher dropped dead. I was in the parlor, discussing gardening with a lovely couple who worked on a local farm, when I heard his sister’s wail. It was bone-chilling; enough to cause a shiver, even in the humidity of the crowd. The farmers and I, along with all the other stragglers, bolted to the ballroom. Confusion and chaos shrouded the room like a dark, harrowing veil. The grandfather clock still read 3:12am.
I shoved my way through the dense pack of partygoers like a jungle explorer, pushing through limbs with jabbing elbows, stumbling over shoes and skirts. Upon reaching the center of this labyrinth, I was faced with a minotaur unlike anything I’d expected.
Poor Christoper.
The doctors couldn’t have done any more to help him. He was dead on site. No one, not even the best medicine workers in the town, could figure out what had happened to him. One moment he was alive, joyful in the golden candlelight, dancing and drinking with those whom he loved. Next, he was dead. Cold and dead. It was as unexpected as the cry of the crow. His body was as motionless as the old clock. His eyes shone dim like my opals.
The terrible sight sent the crowd into panic. Glasses shattered, guests stampeded like wild bulls, and children cried for their mothers. It was absolutely frightening, an ocean of deep black fear, rampaging under a storm of irrational winds. Never did I think I would see my townsfolk turn against each other so quickly; and yet, it was happening before my very eyes. Shouts of blame, spurs of violence, thievery and utmost chaos overtook the manor. It was Pandemonium, the capital of Hell itself, filled with the demons each guest could no longer conquer. The stress of fear takes a lot from our bodies; and when we are weak, we delegate our strengths.
Unfortunately, the repression of our inner evils is not a force of survival.
My family and I did our very best to escort the guests home. It was at least an hour before the manor was once again empty, and oh, how empty it was. It was indescribable, frankly. It had the cryptid bleakness of a ghost town, the anguish of a warzone, and the familiarity of a lifeless home, long abandoned and left in shambles. Upturned tables, broken glassware, and hauntingly, a child’s toy left behind. The manor had been ravaged, abused, and now reeked with the lingering stench of bitterness. We cleaned, scrubbed and swept late into the night but somehow, that stench remained.
The next morning, I awoke not to the cry of the rooster, nor that of the crow, but to the indignant banging of a hammer. I rubbed my eyes wearily and slid out of bed, sluggishly following the root of that mind-splitting sound. I found my mother in the foyer by the courtyard, nailing large wooden planks across the front door. My eyes swept the room to find each window dealt with in the same manner. I stared at her with an unspoken understanding, thousands of words unsaid between us in silence.
***
It’s been months since I’ve left the manor.
Today I visited the east wing for the first time since Christopher’s death. As I walked the length of the corridor, memories of the mayhem flooded back to me. I paused, a silhouette in the boundless hallway, reflecting on that night which cast my life astray. The world grew loud, my breath choppy, face flushed – I took a deep breath and gathered my bearings. The ballroom was down the hall. I dare not enter there right now. To my left was a portrait of some distant relative.
To the right was the entrance to the manor’s cathedral. I peered inside: the cavernous interior was cloaked in darkness and hauntingly empty. My eyes traced the figures of the pews, the altar, and the organ’s towering pipes. The slots in the organ’s gilded pipes seemed to form eyes which looked down on me, staring at me. In that very instant, the church bells tolled, and the thunderous tones shot lightning down my spine. I jumped, startled, and glanced up to the organ. The pipes had summoned me, and of that, I was certain.
I walked into the dusty cathedral, the church bells continuing to ring as I floated gently past each pew. My hands drifted behind me, forging fresh trails in the dust that had settled upon each bench. Without thinking, I turned into the third row and took a seat, the chime of the bells ceasing as I shifted off my feet. There was no sound, just an overwhelming silence, and the gentle creak of the bench beneath me.
I began to think.
Months and months, I’ve felt trapped, a lost little girl tirelessly roaming a miserable manor, shut-in and alone. Months and months of running in circles, chasing white rabbits, wild geese, and the answers to unasked questions. The bitterness and anger within me grew, festering, while my thoughts fed on their ugly forms like a colony of termites feasting on wood. And for what? To whom do I owe this spite?
In that very instant, a loose wooden panel crashed down from one of the windows, collapsing entirely. A ray of light burst into the room, a sole golden beam amidst a realm of darkness. The beam shone directly on me – not an inch further, not an inch closer. I was illuminated in its path, awestruck, squinting as my eyes adjusted to this new glowing world. I rose slowly, and tiptoed to the windowsill, the light melting into a puddle on the bench behind me. Upon reaching the sill, I cast it open, particles of dust suspended like lightning bugs in the sunlight. Outside, birds were singing, the sun danced amongst the clouds, and the distant giggle of children playing was carried in the sweet summer air.
For the first time since that horrible night, I saw the outside world. The months of gloom and loneliness, the months of yearning for something more – at last, they felt like a memory. I inhaled, breathing in the fresh air, exhaling dust. I sat here until sundown, watching as my sunbeam grew redder, dimmer, and eventually evaporated into the mere promise of tomorrow. Perhaps it’s time to open some more windows: In times of darkness, light prevails.