YOUR NARRATOR:

Hello.

You are very kind. To listen to me. To keep listening. To have found me and to keep finding me every week.

I'm here. I'm always here. And I won't leave. Nations may come and go. Time may pass and stop and pass again. But I shall be here for you always.

Does that fill you with joy? Does it fill you with fear?

I must say, that's how I feel. Not about myself. But about the creature who shares my company nightly.

What do we know?

We know that he's lethal.

We know that he's hungry.

We know that he's ageless.

We know he will never be sated.

Here's something I know that you may not, now. I know that he is biding his time. He doesn't think I realize this. He thinks I am blissfully going about my own business. And I am. But I know that he will not be subservient to one such as I. Or to anyone, for that matter.

I anticipate a battle.

I anticipate a never-ending battle that will destroy at least one of us.

This doesn't frighten me. In fact it makes me...happy. Excited. There is, after all, something to look forward to. Something to work toward. Something.

When there is nothing...ah, that is despair. Isn't it, my friends?

So. I hope I can rely on you, if and when the time comes.

There may be no winner. Perhaps we might come to an agreement. Perhaps we will perish in each other's arms.

Have I told you that I'm afraid of death?

Is that ironic? What am I, after all? I suppose I don't know. I have no clue.

Strange. I have met so many who are dead. And yet I fear that I have stolen so much time already that, if my time comes, it shall be the end of me. Real, total, and final.

So we mustn't let that happen.

As I said, you found me, and you keep finding me every week, and that is magic, in and of itself.

I have a story about some more magic.

And someone who needed to be found.

[Sung a cappella is a happy little song, first on its own, then the second verse under the spoken text. The lyrics are: 

There was an old man who lived in an old town, and the old town was steadily beginning to forget about him.

You see, long ago, they knew him and knew him well, for they owed much to him. He was the Sheriff, a long, long time ago, and he was a good one. He lived on the edge of town in a little house; he had no wife, no children, no family; everything he had inside of him, he gave to being the best Sheriff he could possibly be. He saw to it that everyone in town was safe, and that everyone within the town followed the law and lived in peace and harmony.

But, peace and harmony does not create lasting memories, necessarily. It is drama, conflict, and strife that people write stories about. It is the heroes who save everyone from certain doom that are remembered, not the heroes who prevent that doom from even happening in the first place.

And so, this good man who did good work and cared very much about keeping drama, conflict and strife out of the town did not go remembered.

The townsfolk did not tell their children about him, and their children's children did not know who he was, other than the strange, solitary man at the edge of town who lived in the same little house his whole life.

He had enough money to live on, but he was not wealthy. And so, in his old age, this also gave the townsfolk reason to forget him. He would not be leaving anything behind except for a tiny home and an old badge.

I've been thinking about this. Sometimes, people are simply forgotten. This does not mean that they didn't live a good life, or that they didn't help people - or hurt people, for that matter. We often say that immortality is only achieved through what the living world remembers of this. Of course, I must be the first to disagree, out of the sheer virtue of what I am. Immortal, but with no memory of myself living in this world. I must also disagree, because I have met creatures who exist past their own death, and past their own remembrance, in some kind of immortality, whether they enjoy it or not. Must a person be remembered, in order to live past their own death? Is life after death only a possibility for the popular? We remember extreme evil. Tyrants, murderers. We remember them, much longer than we remember good, simple people who lived good, simple lives. You cannot tell me, therefore, that evil is immortalized more readily -

[In a hushed, sharp voice]

Stop.

Don't say it.

Don't even think it.

I know what I am, and I don't need you to remind me.

Anyway.

This good, old man walked one evening through his town. His legs ached and his steps were slow. His breath came quickly and his vision was dark. But he walked.

He looked around at the town he once knew. It was so different from when he was a young man. There were more people, and they were colder than he remembered them ever being. Instead of smiles and hellos, he was met with downcast eyes. Things were different. He was not bitter about it, though. This was the way things went. He found a kind of peace with this, too. True men of peace seek the peaceful way whenever possible. They do not seek out negativity.

He was on his way home, and he came upon one of his favourite spots. There was a stone pathway that led towards a lonesome road on the way out of town, and the stone pathway circled around an old well. The town didn't rely on it for water anymore, but they enjoyed occasionally tossing coins inside and making wishes.

The old man stood by the well, and looked up at the sliver of moon that shone above him. He may have been alone, and the world may have been a little colder, but he still had the moon.

Then, it all happened so quickly.

A man surprised him from behind. He had a pistol. He demanded the old man give him his money, watch, anything else he may have of worth.

The old man raised his hands. He didn't have any money or goods on him, but he didn't tell the bandit that. He would not cower before a thief. That was never his way. He took a step towards the other man, who brandished his weapon more frantically, his hands shaking. The old man was steady. He knew criminals, and he knew that they were, often, afraid. He tried to approach him with calmness and peace.

But he was right, the young thief was afraid. So afraid, that he pulled the trigger.

The old man stumbled backwards, and his knees buckled as he came into contact with the well. Toppling over and into it, he fell down the long tunnel headfirst. He saw nothing. But he felt the splash of cold water, and he felt it all around him. The water was deep, but the space was narrow. He wasn't sure that he remembered turning himself around right-side-up, but he gasped as he surfaced and managed to catch his breath. He looked up and saw a bright, full moon.

He started crying out for help. For anyone to come and help him.

He didn't feel any pain. Perhaps the bullet missed him and he'd just fallen out of the shock of the gun firing.

Within not even a minute, he saw - all the way above him - the image of a head peeking itself into the well.

"Goodness!" cried a voice that belonged to that head. "Just you wait a moment, mister."

Not even a minute later, a long rope was thrown to him. He looped it around his waist. He heard more voices up above him, and the sound of a group of people shouting "heave! ho! heave! ho!", and they began to pull him up.

Once he was at the top, at least three pairs of arms reached around him to help him out. Another pair came to him quickly with a warm, fleece blanket, and wrapped it around his shoulders. Another pair reached out to him with a cup of hot cocoa.

Oddly enough, he wasn't that cold. Perhaps it was the shock.

He looked around at the group around him, and he didn't recognize a single one of them. This wasn't unusual, since he didn't know many people who lived in his town now. But these people were especially unrecognizable to him.

He was shaking, and his hands frantically moved over his chest, stomach, and head, trying to find a gunshot wound. He didn't find any. Relieved, but still in shock, his eyelids fluttered, and he passed out.

"Mister...are you all right?"

He heard a small voice beside him. He opened his eyes, and realized that he was in a soft, warm bed. He was wearing dry, soft clothes, and the room was bathed in candlelight. A soft, gentle candlelight that he hadn't seen in a long time...he realized that the room was only lit with candles. There were no electric lights on, and his eyes and his spirit were grateful for it.

It was a little girl. She wore a white dress; quite formal, he thought to himself, and a little white veil over her face. He thought to himself that she looked like she just came from her First Communion, or some other church occasion. But he kept that thought to himself.

She took his hand and led him out of the bedroom he was in and downstairs. He realized that he was, indeed, in a church. Not just any church, but his church. The one from his town. But it seemed different. It had long ago been updated with electric light fixtures, new heating systems, state of the art locks on the doors...but something about the candlelight throughout the place made it look the way it must have looked when it was first built. Likely a trick of the eyes.

Once downstairs, she led him towards the kitchen. A lady stood at the stove, stirring a delicious-smelling soup in a large pot. She tended to a large platter of fish in the oven. She had a half-iced cake waiting on the other side.

"You must be hungry," she said, not turning around, but knowing the girl had brought the old man down to her. The woman wore a lovely dress, covered in pink floral print. White lace gloves, and a large bonnet. She continued to address him. "I'm sorry, this isn't for right now. This is for the gathering tonight. So you'll be wise to keep your appetite for then."

"Is there a party at the church tonight?" he asked, confused as to how he hadn't heard about it before.

"Why, of course!" The woman said, laughing brightly. "It isn't every day we see a new face here!"

The man protested that he wasn't new. He had lived here his whole life. But the woman wouldn't hear anything of the sort. Had he grown so out-of-touch with his beloved town that they truly didn't even know he lived there anymore?

"Now, darling," the woman said, addressing the little girl now. "Why don't you show our friend around?"

The little girl happily did. She took his hand again, pulling him and running a little more quickly than he was accustomed to moving, but somehow his legs felt lighter and didn't seem to hurt so much. She led him first to the church nave, where a little old priest was lighting candles.

He greeted the man without turning around to look at him. "You're awake! And just in time for the gathering tonight. I'm so glad!" He hummed a little hymn to himself, happy in his work.

"I'm sorry, I'm not, uhh...I don't know if I should be attending," the old man said. He didn't want to say that he had never been a church-going man, but the truth was, he wasn't sure if he would be welcome. Especially if it was a religious gathering.

"Nonsense," the priest said. "Everyone is welcome. You, most of all. You are our guest of honour!" He said, laughing.

Then, the little girl led him outside. The streets had that same warm glow. The lanterns - for lanterns they were, and not electric streetlamps anymore - were lit, and they were well lit. The man noticed a few people walking down the street, and they all seemed to wear their fine Sunday clothes, though some seemed a little more dated than others. They all stopped and waved at him, and said hello, all of their smiles large and bright, from what he could make out of these people.

"Was it scary? Falling in the well?" The little girl asked.

"A bit, but I'm all right," the old man said, smiling down at her. He could barely make out her smiling back from under her veil. "Was it your First Communion today?" He asked her.

She paused, seemingly a little confused. "Today?" She thought for a long moment, then continued. "It was going to be. But now, it's just the Gathering." She said happily with a small shrug.

He shrugged back, and they kept walking.

He noticed a few other things. The stars were so much more bright than usual, and there seemed to be so many more of them. The sound of crickets in the night seemed so much more loud and musical than ever before. People walked the street at night without fear, which he hadn't seen since he was Sheriff, so long ago. The grass was longer and greener. In fact, the paved roads had disappeared, and seemed to be replaced with simple dirt roads; although no carriages seemed to pass. There were only people, walking around in their fine clothes, greeting one another. They walked out in the nighttime as though it were a bright Sunday afternoon; without fear, and in peace and joy.

"It's time. Let's go!" The little girl urged.

She took him back to the church, but this time around the back, to the wide plot of land that led out into the cemetery. He was astonished at the sheer size of it - had there always been this much grass, so many beautiful gardens and flowers, extending out behind the church?

Set out were several long tables, and in the centre, a clearing of grass. A group of strings players played joyful, imperfect, lovely music, and some young folks danced to it. Set out on the tables, and still being set out by those who were helping, were trays and trays of the most delicious-smelling food. There was enough to feed the whole town. Strung up above these tables were paper lanterns, twinkling like stars.

When he entered, suddenly, everybody stopped and looked to the old man. The little girl ran and sat down, too, leaving him alone, facing the crowd. Only now did he realize that, somehow, he hadn't seen anyone's eyes yet. Only friendly smiles and gentle waves with gloved hands.

They all looked up at him, and started to applaud and cheer.

No one had ever applauded him before. He realized that the party was, indeed, for him. No one had ever thrown him a party before. But he didn't know why.

His obvious confusion and apprehension showed on his face, and the priest he'd seen earlier stood up and went to him. In the light, facing him fully now, the old man saw the priest's face.

His skin was almost grey in colour. His cheeks were sunken. His eyes were opaque and faded.

The priest was dead, the old man realized with terror all of the sudden. He recoiled a little at the sight of him.

But the old priest gently put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Don't be afraid," he said gently. "You are so welcome here, friend."

The old man  shook his head, and asked, "Who are you?"

The priest smiled. "Just a man who lived and died and did no harm."

He felt more arms coming to embrace him, and they removed their veils and their bonnets, showing him their pale eyes as well. They were so excited just to share a meal with a friend; to dance; to tell stories. To enjoy the fruits of the land. To celebrate, simply, being.

"I don't understand..." the old man said, as someone held a cake in front of him with the word "Welcome" on it. "Where am I?" he asked.

The priest smiled sadly. "We found you in the well. You came from the well."

"Yes," the old man begun. "Yes, I was attacked. I was shot at. I fell down. But then you all pulled me back up."

The priest shook his head. "We didn't pull you up. You came through from the other side."

"The other side of the well," the little girl said now, gently pulling on the old man's shirt sleeves. She too was grey and corpse-like, and his heart broke a little for her. She raised a shining silver tray to him, so that he could see his reflection. To his surprise, he realized that he had the very same eyes. Dead eyes.

He realized with a heavy heart that he had been shot, after all.  

But immediately, the embrace of these people came to comfort him.

"Are you at least with your family?" he asked the little girl.

She shrugged. "These are all my family."

The priest nodded. "Yours, too."

"And mine!" The woman who prepared the feast shouted gleefully from her table.

["O Away" from before is sung, with a counterpoint harmony underneath it, more lively and fun]

The old man looked around and realized it, finally. There were no kings or queens here, no famous writers, no tyrants, no saints. These were the forgotten. The unremarkable. The people of the land, and nowhere else.

Just like him.

And so, he sat down and ate. And he smiled.

I see them, sometimes. The people of the land and nowhere else who died and stayed. The people who loved their land so much that they never wanted to leave it, neither in life nor in death.

I would like that. I would like to live simply, in a place that I love, and not be concerned whatsoever about the notion of greatness.

I wish I'd never even heard of 'greatness'. I think 'greatness' is the curse of our time.

Maybe we can go back.

What do you think?

Goodnight, my dear friend.

[Eerie theme music plays]

[Speaking out of character, as Kristen:]

Hi everyone - this is Kristen here, just dropping by to say thank you so much for listening to Episode 43 of On a Dark, Cold Night. I hope you're doing well. This episode was released late this week so it's pretty much December, which is bonkers to me. Oh well.