Will‑o’‑the‑Wisp

Richard Thompson held a letter from the university in his hand – his acceptance notice. The news put him in an excellent mood. He shared it with his girlfriend, who told him they simply had to celebrate. „Bring Collie,” she said, „and come as fast as you can!”

…Richard hugged his four‑legged companion, and in that bright mood they left the house.

The weather was dreadful – typical Scottish rain. Clouds blocked every ray of sunlight, deepening the illusion of endless night.
Driving in such weather, he didn’t notice the deer standing in the middle of the road. He swerved sharply, and the car rolled over. Avoiding the deer, he plunged straight into the lake.

The car began to sink slowly.
Richard, his leg trapped, struggled in vain until he gave up. All he could do was wait for the car to disappear completely into the dark water.

„Collie-go, get help.”
Collie leapt out of the car and ran down Carsphairn Lane into the complete darkness, though the rain had already stopped.

The will‑o’‑the‑wisp wandered across the moors that night. In its roaming it met a barking dog that circled around it, whining and turning until the will‑o’‑the‑wisp began to listen-truly listen-to what the creature was trying to say.

The dog then dashed off again, racing toward a house visible in the distance.

The will‑o’‑the‑wisp drifted on, along Carsphairn Lane, into a land of fog.
There, upon the heather fields, it encountered a man in a kilt, lost in the mist…

…and the fog was thick as the fabric of an old dream that refuses to end.
The man in the kilt walked slowly, with the easy gait of someone who knows every hill and every sound – yet this light, he did not know.
He stopped, watching the pale spark of the will‑o’‑the‑wisp tremble at the border between darkness and air.
He thought it was a spark from his clan’s fire, and so he followed it.

The little flame moved lazily, each flicker casting brief gleams upon the peat.
The Celt could hear the swamp – wet, bubbling murmurs – but he kept walking. When he realized the ground was pulling him down, it was already too late. His final memory was the chill of the water and the soft glow of the light, which did not go out but seemed to invite him inside.

He fell – and instead of darkness, he saw an ocean of words.
Not a bog, not an abyss, but a world without soil or sky, full of trembling meanings, scraps of history, and echoes of human voices.
When he stepped forward, the light spread over him like a wave. Then he heard – not his own tongue, but a sound with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

Barking.

He called out, and an echo answered – a man’s voice, faint, softened by water. He followed the voice and saw the glimmer of a lantern reflected in the window of a metal carriage. Inside – a man trapped, his hands rising helplessly amid bubbles of air.

The Celt felt it was the moment for a single gesture – as though a bridge had formed between the breath of the future and a long‑silent song of the past.
He plunged his hands in, cut the belt, and pulled Richard to the surface.

The air carried the scent of heather; dampness settled on their shoulders, circling time itself.

The will‑o’‑the‑wisp danced once more at the border of the road and the bog – then vanished.
Only the light of morning remained, and the distant roar of a sea a thousand years away.

The man in the kilt reached his home and told his wife of the strange monster that had emerged from the fog – glowing with eerie eyes, shining upon everything with its beam.

„This creature,” he said, „had trapped a man inside itself, dragging him into the depths!
I pressed against the invisible wall that held him, and it shattered into pieces. Then I freed the poor soul from the creature’s grasp before it sank entirely beneath the waters.
The young man leapt out, overjoyed-he spoke in a tongue I could not understand, yet I knew he was glad. We clasped hands in farewell, and I returned to you, my dear wife-my beloved Mrs Thompson.”

She sat on his knees, looked into his eyes, stroked his cheek, and said softly:
„May our children have imaginations as vivid as yours, my love.”
Then she poured her affection into a kiss.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and the house filled with the scent of peat and heather.
He smiled shyly, still holding in his mind the flash of light and the cold touch of the mist-uncertain whether it had been dream or memory.

„Perhaps you’re right, Mrs Thompson,” he murmured, wrapping his arm around her gently.
„But let our children never lose that shade of wonder that leads people into the unknown.”

Outside, the wind moaned softly, and somewhere beyond the moors a small light flickered-
as if an eye watched quietly through the darkness-
and then it went out.

No one ever spoke of it again.
Yet sometimes, when the night grew too dark, the man could feel on his skin the faint chill of water and taste the air of another world.
He was not afraid of that memory-
for deep within he knew that every human being carries their own little flame, guiding them through the fog, as long as they can still look with wonder.

Collie rejoiced at the sight of Richard, their joy boundless.
When the excitement settled, it was time to act. Richard pulled his phone from his pocket to call for help.
He never noticed that the letter had fallen out and landed in a puddle.
Mud covered most of the page, smudging the ink-
only one blurred word remained visible: Thomson.