The Night Watchman had seen everything in his tenure. He'd seen children off to bed, men and women going on about their lives, and birds take flight at the break of dawn to hunt. But even in his time, he'd never seen anything as strange as the trio that shuffled into town, clutching each other's hands and their knees.
It is not easy for him to wonder what he saw in this darkness. If he spoke of his strange findings, he'd be a laughingstock. Few would have believed him, but none said a word against the Night Watchman. He served the Mayor well and if that means he will sit in the dark and see what he wishes, so be it.
The trio stayed a day in town before they went out. The Night Watchman kept alert of their movements, but they were just like everyone else. They walked along the path to the south, their feet making sounds with every step they took. He listened as they talked about things he did not understand. When they came to the bridge that spanned the river, their voices turned to whispers, something he never knew them to do.
He was too far back and so could not hear much of what they said. But what he could hear, he could not take back. It was a strange trio that gathered at the bridge. The oldest was he. He looked much older than the others; he was wearing a leather tunic and a cheap pair of leather shoes with holes. The oldest looked to be about twenty or thirty. He kept his hands together, as if he was cold. The middle youngest was about half his brother's age. She was very skinny and wore a white nightgown, which fit loosely at her joints. Her red hair was cut so short her scalp showed through. Even in the dark, he could see the whiteness of her teeth. Her eyes were huge and piercing, staring at something he couldn't see.
The latest arrival was small. He was very thin, as well. But as thin as he was, the Night Watchman could tell he was still a boy. He wore a long cape that covered most of his slight body. He never moved. He stood there and held on to his knee, as tired as his father and sister. Their hands held together and they talked in hushed words, too soft for the Night Watchman to understand.
If it were not for the fact the children watched him standing in the distance, he would have thought nothing of it. But these three were different.
The children stayed in the cottage on the bank. The daughter studied the Book of lore, with her mother telling her about its enchanted pages. The boy chopped wood for their fire, and the youngest read from the Book of lore as well. From the book, he learned the secrets of magic and how to use them. He practiced, with all three giving him tips. The way they said it seemed fearful at first, but they were proud of him.
Typically, when the children went out, it was together as a group. But one day, the daughter went out by herself. The Night Watchman saw the daughter in the distance. He was about to walk up to her, when she did a strange thing. She found a spot in the grass and sat down. Then her head sank between her knees.
She sat there for hours. When it was dark, he walked to her and tapped her shoulder.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She looked up at him and her eyes were black.
"What . . . " he started.
Then the daughter's eyes returned to normal. She stood up, brushed off her linen skirt and smiled.
"I'm sorry, Night Watchman," she said. "My mother told me not to go out." Then she smiled again. "But I lost track of time so it was hard to know what time it was."
She held her arms, as if hugging the book tightly. Thinking she was possessed, he looked at her book of lore. She had obviously been reading from it, watching a map. But as he watched her read, he saw a maroon circle flip over to show the next place. It was on the coast.
After the Night Watchman concluded what he saw, he looked out at the sea. It was looking wild, something he had never seen. He looked back at the children and the Book of lore. The illustrations in the book made the coast seem peaceful; there were no storms or whirlpools. But it was as the night watchedman looked at those children, he understood.
It was summer and this meant the sea was calm. But he remembered a cold winter where the storms were endless in the seas and at their cottage. He remembered those days as if they were the night. He also remembered a boy. A boy with wild black hair that matched his sister's eyes. He was trapped in a whirlpool, as if he were in a net. He was struggling, but he didn't move. There was nothing he could do.
But in this case, the night watchman could do something. The black haired boy had taken the Book of lore. If the boy needed help, he might have to rescue him from the sea.
The Watchman knew what the children did not know. He warned them. But although they were younger, he had to forgive them.
The daughter was the leader of the group. If the others did not go with him, he would go alone. So he looked again at the Book of lore. It was a record of old days. He remembered them, and it was at those times when the villagers would send him for an answer.
He saw the children's words, but the words they were saying did not seem to be right. They seemed distorted. Maybe it was the elder brother. He was the oldest and by the sound of his voice he gave the words of power.
They started to disappear and then he saw a glimpse of the whirlpool.
The youngest told him to share the Book of lore. No one was able to free the boy, but maybe all three children could. The elder brother asked him to come with them. The Night Watchman agreed, but he did not know why. He knew it was not his time. He thought about all people and if they were to be judged. They were asking for help. He offered his arm to the two younger brothers.
The elder brother made a hand gesture and he felt himself moving at speeds he did not know. His old bones made carrying the boys burdensome. But he felt a strength he had not felt before. He jumped out of the river, pushing the younger children on the bank. He fell unconscious.
