The Light in the Furrows

“If we’re home before the dew, your shoes might survive,” Oliver told Rose.

She was already three rows ahead of him, slipping between the bean poles with her skirt gathered in one fist. “My shoes are braver than yours.”

“They’re smaller. Less to soak.”

Rose glanced back with a grin. Behind her, the fields ran dark to the low ridge. No moon hung above them. The stars had seemed faint all evening, and the village lamps were pinpricks at their backs. Their mother had said to be home before the dew settled thick. Oliver had agreed because the walk was short and because Rose had begged to see whether the late beans had flowered.

Then Rose stopped.

Oliver took two more steps before noticing. “What?”

She was looking past the last bean row, where the land dipped toward the old boundary stones. Something glimmered there, low among the stalks.

“Could be glass,” he said. He took the little lantern from his belt and shielded its flame with one hand. “Stay there.”

Rose ducked under the bean vines.

“Rose.”

“I’m staying where I am.” She kept going.

Oliver followed, placing his feet carefully between the roots. The glimmer held steady, too pale for a shard of glass and too bright for any lantern. As they drew near, the field’s small night sounds thinned. No crickets called from the ditch. The bean leaves barely stirred though the breeze still moved against Oliver’s cheek.

The light came from a child sitting in the furrow.

It was about Rose’s height, with pale hair clinging to its head and a plain, light-colored tunic. Its skin shone faintly, silver without the hard glare of metal. Its knees were drawn up, its arms wrapped around them. It stared at the ground.

Oliver stopped. “Are you hurt?”

The child did not answer.

Rose crouched a few feet away, her hands open on her knees. “Hello. We’re from the village.”

“Don’t get close yet,” Oliver said.

Rose tilted her head, studying the child’s bare feet. “You must be cold.”

The child lifted its face. Its eyes were gray and bright, catching the lantern light. It looked at Rose for a long moment, then slowly unfolded its arms.

Oliver stepped between them. “We should get someone.”

“Who?” Rose asked. “It’s a child.”

“It came from somewhere.”