A rushlight was a poor person’s light on a dark night. It was made from the pith at the center of the stiff green rushes that grew, and still grow, near marshy ground. The green outside was peeled away to leave the white pith, which was dipped in wax or tallow and then allowed to dry. A good rushlight might burn for half an hour or more.
They are easy to make. I have made them now and then myself for fun. You need to leave a green strip on the pith to stiffen it, and if you allow it to dry for a few hours before dipping it in your wax, then you get a longer-lasting light. But you can never tell with a rushlight. Some burn long, and some burn short.
I have seven rushlights to tell my story by.
This story has been told so many times. So many voices, so many memories, that the facts have been lost in the telling. How many brothers were there? Was it nettles or starflowers that were woven, and what was the name of the girl? Was it swans, or crows? And how many days, or was it years?
Well, I was there, and this is my chance to write down the truth. With a swan-feather quill and seven rushlights to lighten the darkness.
There were seven brothers.
Nettles were woven.
Her name was Elsa.
Swans.
It took seven years.
There were seven brothers, and they were princes of a small kingdom, mostly forest, mostly happy. The princes were born in pairs: Jacob and Joseph; Lucas and Mark; Timon and Toby, and then me. I was the youngest. I was Will.
Will, Sweet William, Billy-O.
Jacob and Joseph, they were our leaders, born, said our mother, at the moment the sun sprang into the sky. Jacob and Joseph were seldom to be found within the castle walls. Always, from little boys, they were away along the forest rides or out among the villages. Tireless and merry and everyone’s friends. If there was a field to be reaped, a fire to be tamed, a child wandered away needing to be found, a flood to be forged, a horse to be ridden, then Jacob and Joseph were there. The villagers loved them, but not more than we did. When they returned to the castle, you’d know it was because there was nothing left to do. They’d stagger sometimes as they led their horses across the courtyard, and they’d be soaked from a river or red-eyed from fire and they’d fall asleep in their supper bowls. They were good boys.