One day, while Pip was walking around the great meadow during the Mead-feast, engaging in idle conversation about the weather, or the new flavor of berry cake at the bakery, or so-and-so and such-and-such, his eyes spotted an anomaly. He stopped mid-sentence and walked quickly to the other side of the mead. One of the lanterns was dark. While it does happen, from time to time, that a faerieflame will go back to sleep, it does not happen very often, and usually decries a problem. His mind instantly remembered one summer when a magic sickness spread among the lanterns and many went dim. As he got closer, his worry increased. This lantern was not just dim, it was dark. Even before he coaxes them to light at dusk, a faerieflame has a faint shimmer. He touched the bottom of the lantern, and it was cold. He lifted the lantern from its post and placed it on a nearby table. A twist and a flick, and the lid was off, the panes clinking on the tabletop. Inside the small round opening to the bottom well, instead of a shimmering, glowing, flowing wisp of magic, he found a dark, sticky, oily goo.

A shriek of sorrowful pain unlike any heard along the lane broke through the chattering air. Heads turned, cups dropped, and every person ran toward Pip.

"He's dead! How!" he cried. "How!"

It wasn't a question. There were very few ways to kill a faerieflame. Almost all of them had to be done intentionally. Pip bolted away from the table and began checking many of the other lanterns. Some of them dimmed slightly as they reacted to his emotions. As he returned to the table and the cold lantern, he looked at the crowd of people he knew as family and friends. It could not have been any one of them — no one would have a reason or desire to; everyone loved the lanterns and the work he had spent so many years learning to coax them to light brightly. "Could it have been a brownie? A goblin perhaps?" He sat down, and tears trickled along his cheeks.

Adelaide, his neighbor, handed him a handkerchief. Thom Logan, the woodcutter, put his hand on his shoulder. Then Roa knelt in front of him. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

"The lantern is dead," Pip sniffed. "I don't know how. But it's not the sickness from before. All the others are fine."

"Let's try to figure it out, then," Roa spoke softly. "I know a faerieflame can live almost forever if cared for. Could it have been age, or natural?"

"No, I don't think so," said Pip. "Every one of these flames is less than a hundred years old. I think Aldric has the oldest one on the lane — it's still bright as ever, and it's at least five hundred." He paused. "I think someone had to have done it on purpose."

A low voice came down from above him. "That's a bold thing to say, Pip." It was Thom. His large, calloused hand was still on Pip's shoulder. "Why would any of us do such a thing?"

"I... I don't know."

It was Roa who spoke again. "Let's take care of the lantern there, and we can talk to some of the folk in a bit. Is there anything we can do for it?"

"No. It needs to be buried. No faerieflame will ever live in it again. Somehow they can tell." Pip paused again. "This doesn't happen very often. I think it scares them."

A tiny voice came up from behind Pip. "Are they... actually alive?"

Pip and everyone else looked toward the boy. It was Perch, the youngest of the Fisherman family from Bramblebrook Hollow.

"Yes. Well... sort of," said Pip carefully. "They are a magic creature. The Faeries create them from moonlight and glowbug essence." His mood calmed as he spoke about the creatures he spent so much time with. "The method is secret, of course. Faeries love their secrets." He smiled. "Every new flame has to learn how to dance from a real candle flame. And when I light them, I'm actually waking them up, in a sense. As I do it, I hum a little tune to them. They can't hear it, but they react to the emotion."

"They dance?" Perch asked.

"Yup. And they glow brighter and dance more when we do."

"But we're sad? And they are not bright?" Perch's words made Pip look at the other lanterns. They indeed were dimmer.

Roa looked at the boy with soft eyes. "Something sad has happened," she said.

"That lantern won't dance no more?"

"No. Not anymore." Roa held his hand.

"I'm sorry." The little boy began to sob.

"It's ok, Perch," Pip and Roa both said in unison. Then Roa continued, "It's not your fault. You didn't do it. Sometimes..."

"But I did," the boy interrupted.

"What?" Roa asked.

"I did," Perch repeated through deepening sniffles.

"What do you mean?" Pip asked, sternly.

"I just wanted light to play by in the treewoods. It was getting dark. I used a chair."

By that time, Oscar, Perch's father, was also kneeling next to him. "It's ok. You could have asked, but it's ok. Did you break it?" Oscar wasn't quite sure what had happened.

Perch nodded. "I spilled my berry juice on it. It fluttered and spit at me."

"That... wouldn't have hurt it," Pip said, confused. "It probably was startled and tried to hide."

"Did something else happen?" Roa pressed.

Perch pursed his lips. "I shouldn't say."

"It's ok," Oscar said again.

Perch looked up. "Wally took it. He cleaned it with his shirt. He... he said a bad word."

Pip slouched and sighed. Oscar looked over his shoulder and yelled for his middle son. "Walleye Fisherman!!"

"Perch... was Wally angry when he was cleaning it?" Pip held his head with his hand.

"Mm-hmm," Perch intoned. "He couldn't open it and he smacked it and the bottom fell off and the stuff spilled out and he put it back and it went out and and and..."

Thom followed Oscar's eyes to a very scared-looking teenager in the middle of the mead. Roa stood up and took Oscar's arm. The crowd visibly shifted. The lanterns were dim.

Pip spoke up. "It's alright. I understand now. I'm... I'm not mad. Not anymore."

Pip stood and motioned with his arm for Wally to join them. Wally put his arms out, pleading. "I — I didn't know they were alive... I thought you could re-light it..."

"I know," Pip said quietly. "Come here, with your brother." Pip knelt next to Perch and gave him a hug. "You didn't break it, Perch. It's not your fault, or Wally's. It's mine. I think I just assumed everyone knew about them."

Oscar looked down at Pip and knelt next to him. Perch went to his father and snuggled into his arms. "Are you sure?" Oscar asked Pip.

"Yes. I think I have an idea."

Wally stood next to them. "Am... am I in trouble?"

Pip stood up and gave him a hug too. It was a bit more awkward, as Wally was not expecting it.

"No. But you will help me bury the lantern behind my house. And tomorrow, we will have a little adventure — if it's alright with Oscar."

Oscar nodded, though a little unsure of what Pip meant. Pip explained his thought to Oscar and the others, and Oscar smiled. "I like that idea." Some other people nodded too.

The next afternoon, after an early Mead-feast, Oscar arrived at Pip's house, along with his wife Fern, as well as Perch and Wally, and two of their other sons and their youngest daughter. Several other lanefolk also arrived, with their children, as did Roa and Aldric. "I think this is going to be a wonderful lesson to teach at school," Roa smiled.

After some gathering of supplies, some words of education — and some caution — and after getting all of the children to put their boots on, everyone set out for the silver birch forest of Whispering Thicket. About an hour later, they arrived at the end of the path, and Pip went to have a conversation with the faeries. Such a large group approaching had already caused a stir in the forest, and he wanted to assure their Queen, Tyaina, that they meant no harm. She was, of course, already fully aware of his plan.

Faeries flittered and wooshed about in great numbers, more than anyone had ever seen in their whole lives. They played tiny flutes and danced with the children, who had, of course, all taken their boots off. Several adults also joined them. The faeries began setting out low tables and tiny dishes, and pitchers of tea. A little while later Pip returned, and motioned for everyone to join him, walking single-file-ish down a thin path to a small pond, surrounded by reeds, lit by faerie light and glow bugs. By now the moon was reflecting on the surface of the pond, and the faeries got to work. They gathered the moonlight and glow bugs, and other ingredients.

Pip spoke softly: "Her Majesty would like us all to close and cover our eyes for just a moment. And no peeking — they will know!" A faerie flew in front of each person's face, to check for peeking, and to distract the youngest children. A moment later, Pip said, "Ok," and everyone uncovered their eyes.

Several teams of faeries carried a dozen small bowls filled with swirling light to the group. The first bowl was handed to Wally. "Thank you?" Wally asked. The faeries made an excited chuckle. The rest of the bowls were handed to Pip, Oscar, and Roa and Aldric, and the other adults.

"When we get back home, I'll teach each of you how to teach your new faerieflames how to dance," Pip offered. Everyone walked back the thin path to where the tiny tables were waiting, set with tea and fruit cakes, and everyone danced.

Around midnight, everyone gathered their faerieflames and their boots, and fathers carried sleeping children, guided by faerie light and a pair of helpful brownies, barely visible in the darkness, and set out for home. It was a long adventure, but one that will be remembered by all those who were there, and taught in school to those who weren't.

Over the next few months, Wally returned to Pip's house regularly, and was a very good student learning the art of faerieflame lighting.