The Twilightlies

It was said that the Twighlightlies, the restless folk (you may know them as fairies), were far fierce and far impolite in the village of Goddsbringen. Worst were they in the woods about the village, and on Mount Elcun near at hand, dangerous were those regions to travel at night. Many tradesmen and hunstmen went missing if they walked abroad and alone. But even Goddsbringen herself was much plagued by the twilightlies. Wells would dry up on the hottest summer days. Roofs would cave in, especially at houses of undeserving families, those who were most fair and kind to their neighbors. The Twilightlies seemed to reward the bad-tempered people. The smith John Ribbin, a cheat and a maker of brittle workmanship, was wealthy and old, and ruled the town in unofficial authority. His sons took wives who did not love them. It was believed that John Ribbin made toys and weapons for the Twilightlies of his best steel, and put these in locked boxes in the woods for the imps to receive as gifts. That was why he prospered. For the well-meaning folk who did not lie or ever even feign violence toward another, it was they whose dog got the mange, whose children were born with crooked heels, whose fires burned low and cold.

The worst that the villagers of Goddsbringen suffered were in their beds. When they laid down to sleep, often they would dream the most terrible of dreams. Thankless, eternal visions that robbed them of peace and gnawed at them as though they were sick with fever. The villagers spoke of their dreams with one another daily, as most people complain about ongoing bad weather.

“Did you last night dream of—?”

“Oh yes, fifth night in a row. I’m weary as an old goat.”

“As I am. They’re up to their bitter games with us.”

The dreams were usually of war. The dreamer found himself in a broken field, mottled of pits and ravines, dead trees and freezing wind. The earth was black and the sky grey, no sun or moon or stars, only empty sorrow above. The Twighlightlies mockingly would place a weapon in the hand of the dreamer, a glittering sword or axe with which to make battle, and then from the pits and ravines they’d send awful phantasms in ceaseless rows to threaten their sleeping slave. So all night long the dreamer was made to fight, to swing, to hack, to defend, as ghostly devils marched against them. These concocted enemies were feebly imagined by the dream-makers, and that was how the villagers knew they all dreamed the same dream, coming from the same source. Most often they wearily faced horned soldiers who beset them with their claws and teeth. Occasionally giant roaches which breathed flame. Or four-legged birds with feathers of tar that would stick to the dreamer and weigh him down to the earth. To be eaten in the dream made no difference, for that would only begin the vision anew, rather than wake the sleeper. Thus most dropped their weapon and tried to run away, tried to leave the dream, or would content themselves to be eaten and burned and tarred until morning.

One man, a simple basket weaver, by the name of Rob Umble, was the Twilightlies’ favorite to torture. He had not dreamed of anything but that hellish field of battle since he was a boy. For whatever reason, none know why, he made a plan one night to put an end to the torment. Some say he’d had the fortune to sup at John Ribbin the Smith’s table the night before, for the smith and his sons liked to make the fool of him, and yet in their house he was given the opportunity to eat a fine meal of fatty mutton and strong mead, and thus gained some strength and keener wits. Others say he’d only had enough, as many folk will tell you of their own lives, that they found some nuisance or burden too much, and at last dug in their heels and set their jaws to conquer what plagued them.

Wherever he got his vigor matters little. It was enough that he had it. And as he dreamed, he was attacked again and again by horned soldiers, and flagrant roaches, and four-legged birds of pitch. He looked at the glittering sword in his hand and saw it as a gift, rather than a tool of taunting, and pledged to wield it well, and to not die. So as each villain fell upon him, he put all strength into his blow, and beheaded each foe. He did not fret, he did not think of waking, of escape, but only of victory. So Rob Umble battled. After midnight, he found the ranks set against him were thinning. Fewer horned-warriors approached. The roaches were gone entirely. The birds flew at a distance, only watching. After three o’ clock, the enemies seemed to cease. Rob Umble was ever imprisoned in the nightmare, but there was no conflict left to busy him. He reasoned that the Twighlightly fiend who spun his dream was tiring. So he sojourned forth on that ghostly plain. He stepped over any pit in his path, or went around any ravine before him. Once or twice another enemy would limp out of the mist, but these were melting, crumbling rivals, as easy to slay with a thump from his boot.

Finally he found he reached the edge of the field, where a far sea of haze stretched out before him. But the droplets of the haze were runny, like ink on a wet parchment. The man thought he could glimpse a twisted face further off, two red eyes glaring at him.

He held out his glittering sword. “I’m coming for ye!” called Rob Umble. “And I’m bringing this with me!” He gripped the hilt of his sword so firmly that his hand ached, pledging never to let it free, then trudged out into the haze, swinging his blade at the dribbling mist before him. The red eyes shut. He heard a snuffly cry, like a baby startled by a bee.

Then Rob Umble awoke. Sitting on his breast was a little man dressed in deer-hide, with red eyes and a twisted face. The Twighlightly was slipping about and reaching his arms above his own head, as if grasping for some ladder that wasn’t there. Rob Umble pulled his aching hand where he had gripped the glittering dream-sword from under his blanket, and, merry! The sword remained in his hand, brought forth from the dream. He launched the blade at the Twilightly’s head and split the dreammaker’s brow a-half. The spirit screamed and fell on the floor, changing shape into a puddle of red wax. It lays there to this day, no matter how much chipping or prying one might assail it with.

As for Rob Umble, he went from his door in the morning hours from house to house, stabbing and cutting every Twighlightly he found perched on the breasts of his slumbering neighbors. Red beads or puddles of wax lay even now on the walls and bedposts and floors of those cottages. Some few escaped as he drew near, climbing into the air and disappearing into their enchanted hatches from where they descended.

Lastly good Rob Umble went to the house of John Ribbin. He chopped down the smith’s door and found him roasting bacon for a gang of Twilightlies seated at his breakfast table. One was slain and splattered where it fell, while the others made retreat. John Ribbin stood blathering at the sight of Rob Umble and the enchanted sword.

“I banish thee, John Ribbin, for feeding and favoring these tyrants of thy neighbors,” said Rob Umble. “Begone from Goddsbringen, thou and thy sons!”

The smith and his heirs made gone that very day. And while the woods and Mount Elcun near at Goddsbringen’s borders are yet treacherous to go a wayfaring, the village has quite calmed since. And the people there sleep now rather pleasantly, seeing not again that wretched battle plain as they dream.