Long ago,
Before we knew how to write,
Our stories swirled in the winds.
Every blue moon and,
Sometimes sooner,
The winds would collide.
Stories long forgotten slid to the earth and slipped into the dreams of the sleepers below.
And for a moment,
They were remembered once more.
The day that was ever dark sends chills through anyone who remembers it.
There are few stories as shameful and humbling.
The light first disappeared from the crop fields and the village that worked the earth.
Among the villagers was a woman named Havoda.
She was not a crop worker or a planter.
Instead,
She took the unused plant stocks to make shoes for the villagers.
Havoda lived in poverty.
Even though almost everyone had a pair of her shoes,
She was never paid for them.
Havoda was honored that the people would wear her shoes and find them useful.
Her contributions made her feel like she was part of the village.
The islanders,
Who mostly ignored Havoda,
Nonetheless knew what she was.
If a villager needed something done,
Or handled,
They could make Havoda do it.
Havoda saw herself as useful,
But so did the islanders.
Havoda was chopping up dry stocks one morning when several villagers came to her at once.
A planter wanted to spend the night at the beach and left her four children with Havoda.
She didn't even greet her.
The children,
Too,
Had learned that Havoda could be used and treated her terribly.
The crop overseer needed tiny seeds cleaned and counted,
And left pounds of them in a basket at her door.
He did not pay her,
But did say she needed to be finished by dawn.
A villager with visiting relatives needed five pairs of shoes that Havoda did not have.
He stood and waited while she made them,
While the children destroyed her home,
And the youngest ate the seeds.
Throughout the evening,
Havoda's posture sank forward,
And her whole body started to come down.
Toward dawn,
She was no longer casting a shadow.
She was wrapped in it,
Smothered by a dense black cloud.
The children had retreated to the back of her home,
Afraid of the churning darkness in the morning light,
But Havoda did not seem to notice.
She had finally understood her role in the village,
And the light inside her,
However small it might have been,
Was dying.
When the mother returned along with the crop overseer,
The darkness had solidified into blocks of un-light,
And had taken over Havoda's home and several others nearby.
Everyone tried to flee the darkness,
Except Havoda,
Who had sunk to her knees.
She never had been part of the village.
She had been something the village used.
She was a person of worth only when she did things for free,
When it was convenient,
And when no one had to know her,
And when she was alone.
She was a person of worth only when she did things for free,
When it was convenient,
And when no one had to know her or talk to her.
Havoda reasoned then that she had no real worth of her own.
When she dropped her head completely,
Resting her face on the floor,
The island went lightless,
And the day of Everdark began.
The villagers panicked,
Blamed everyone they could,
And finally converged on Havoda.
They stomped outside of her home and ordered that she return the sun.
Havoda sat in the darkness for hours,
Finally raising her head only after the villagers had left.
Out of the darkness came a sudden,
Blinding light,
And then a voice.
Olysse,
The spirit of the sun,
Stood in front of her.
I live in everyone,
Havoda,
The spirit spoke.
I have been fighting in you for years,
Just to keep burning,
But you extinguished me today.
I'm so very sorry,
Olysse,
Said Havoda.
What can I do for you?
You should think,
Havoda,
Of the last time you met someone and thought about what they could do for you.
Happiness does not come from parceling yourself away.
Olysse paused,
Looked her in the eye,
And said quite steadily,
You do not need to pay for your existence.
I choose to work for them,
Said Havoda,
Summoning up a proud feeling of self-sacrifice.
Havoda,
What you do is not work.
It is self-destruction.
You have taught others that you do not need to have a light of your own.
I will keep the darkness on the island until you find a way to treat yourself less cruelly.
Olysse then blinked out,
And Havoda's eyes could see nothing.
Havoda was defensive.
She had incredible value on the island.
Without her they would be barefoot,
And have no one to watch their children.
She angrily picked up the plant stalks to make shoes in the dark.
She found it impossible,
So she searched for something else to do for the villagers,
Ransacking her home for ideas,
And making herself frantic.
She ran out of her home into even more darkness,
And sped through the village,
Looking for something to do.
She ended on the beach,
Stomping and fist clenching out of frustration.
If she had no value to the village,
She had no value.
And as long as the sun was gone,
She could do nothing.
The dark side of the moon,
Almost completely blacked out,
Spoke to her from the top of the sky.
You used to sing,
It said,
When you were a little girl.
Do you remember?
You did it because it made you happy.
You lit up from within,
And you loved what you were.
Sing,
Havoda.
There's no one here.
Havoda was so frustrated and angry she only wanted to shout,
But she remembered a song her grandmother had taught her.
About finding happiness,
Even if the sky was falling in sheets of blue.
She was humming it before she could stop herself,
And then singing straight up to the moon.
Some of the villagers came out of their homes to stare at Havoda in utter shock as she sang.
Some of the villagers came out of their homes to stare at Havoda in utter shock as she sang.
But Havoda stopped abruptly when she saw who was approaching.
The mother with four children brought them out and set them at Havoda's feet.
Then she turned and walked away.
The beauty of fire is what can grow from the smallest spark.
Havoda remembered,
Maybe only a tiny bit,
What she used to feel when she was little.
With the most confidence she had ever had,
She opened her mouth once more.
No.
This was all Olysses needed,
And the day of Everdark ended as he shot to the top of the sky,
Almost bumping the moon on his way.
The mother seemed to notice none of this.
Havoda never said no,
And she would do what she was told.
But Havoda spoke again.
I will not watch your children.
If you do not come back for them,
You will have to trust that someone else in the village will care for them.
For free.
With that,
Havoda herself turned and walked away,
From the mother,
The villagers,
And the idea that she only had value when she devalued herself.
Havoda found a new life,
Making choices that made her happy.
The crop overseer,
While nervously crumpling his hat and shuffling his feet,
Asked her to come and sing on harvest days.
Havoda carefully said yes,
And stated her wage,
Which the overseer agreed to immediately.
Not every day was happy,
And some days she forgot what was best.
But her own spark,
Beginning to kindle,
Reminded her that ever dark is all that remains if you sacrifice the sun.
