Little Spark (a tale)

 The night was perishing, giving way to the Sun that was now rising above the land, stretching out its rays to reach and greet everyone who was awaking from their slumber…

 Far below, on the glittering snow, with its flame-like face turned to the sky, was Little Spark, waiting for the Sun to speak to him.

 – My land is still covered in ice and snow. But the sky is clear. When those, – the Sun moved its ray towards the small villages and towns, scattered across the snow desert – those, when they couldn’t see me, when they thought I was absent, did you light their candles?

– You know, my lord, I did. You know everything. Thousands, millions of candles.

– And the fire? Did you light it in their houses to warm them up?

– Yes, I did. It is still burning in the fireplaces where dry logs had been uselessly lying.

– Now, do you see the house over there? The glass of its windows is packed in thick ice and white with snow: my rays cannot get through them into the room, filled with darkness. The room is inhabited with those who used to be people, who are now but shadows. Their faces are pale, their glances are colder than ice, their gestures – convulsive, their words – flatter than a letter on the paper. They keep moving, they keep speaking and they keep not seeing me.

– Yes, – says Little Spark. – The house of which you speak I know. Countless days and nights have I spent by the closed door, in the hope that one day it may open from within. I stood there crying and pleading to let me in. But they wouldn’t open the door. Nor would they let me in. Isn’t it in your power to melt the ice, or break the window, or burn the door? I know it is. If so, then do it! I beg you, do it!

– Oh yes, I can order the winds to break the windows, and the lightning – to burn the door. But I shall not do it. I do not want to blind with my light those who are blind already. It is you, part of my own self, whom I sent into this world to do the work. You will have to suffer and die. And then you will return to me.

So the spark goes to the house again. ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ – he cries. No-one answers.

‘Let me in! Let me in!’

Silence, mere silence.

The silence has no voice.

The silence has no hearing. It can be the end – the end before the beginning.

But in the beginning there is always the word. It leads the way in the beginning.

Little Spark jumps on the window and leans against the wall of ice.

Little Spark, what are these on your flame-like face? Tears?

No, it is simply that: the ice is melting, turning into water. And the water is quenching the flame of life in Little Spark, quenching the flame on his face. The moment is filled with an excruciating pain. It seems longer than eternity.

But what is this? How could it happen? A ray, a golden ray pierces through the glass. Someone in the pierced darkness starts and turns his head to the window…

There is no-one on the glass any more. Little Spark has vanished, having  joined the ray of the Sun.

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