Archibald - et utkast

Yes, shimmering candles were indeed a source of comfort to Archibald. Whenever he needed to wind down, he went into his study, and lit his candles.

There was nothing wrong with his lights of course, it was just that, well - candles.

And so it happened that Archibald one night found himself asleep in his study, head resting atop his desk. That is to say, Archibald of course wasn’t aware that he was asleep, being as he was, asleep. He was, however, aware of dreaming, and thus drew the conclusion of being asleep.

But that is not the point.

The point is, that Archibald had fallen asleep while writing in the light of his comforting candles.

This is not, as you might think, a story about the candles burning down and setting the study on fire. In that case, Archibald would have been suffocated by the smoke long before he would have had the time to wake up, and that would be the end of the story. Or rather, the end of the story would have been the dirt being put back on top of his coffin lid, a story which I think you would find altogether too short, and perhaps a bit morbid.

So instead, we are going to make this a story about how Archibald, completely unknowingly, created a whole new world.

You see, Archibald had dreamt his whole life about writing stories. He had tried several times, but always failed to finish. He would build up his characters and his story to almost unimaginable heights (If they’d been completely unimaginable, they wouldn’t have made for very audience-friendly reading, now, would they?), and then all of a sudden tear the pages apart (Of course, he always used paper for his writing) in a fit of rage.

«Why do you always do that?» his friends down at the pub would ask, time and again. But Archibald would never give them a straight answer. And so, they kept on toasting, while Archibald huddled in his corner, fuming with unrelieved ambition.

This was all about to change; for while Archibald slept the hours away, dreaming of deep forests packed with beautiful witches and magical creatures, unsung heroes and radiant feasts, a thunderstorm crept in over the town. It seemed, to those who know about these things - to be a perfectly good thunderstorm. But then, at midnight, a lightning bolt struck the large oak outside Archibald’s study window.

Now, this didn’t bother Archibald overly much, as he was a very sound sleeper. He merely twitched half an inch, maybe fluttered an eyelid, and kept on snoring.

At first, it seemed the bolt hadn’t done any damage. Then, the trunk of the old oak started groaning sadly. All of a sudden, it snapped with a massive boom, sounding almost exactly like the thunder seconds before. And with that, the old bugger kicked the bucket standing by the little shed in the yard. Luckily, the shed made it, as there were a few ducks living inside, whom where quite startled, and made for the door squabbling like, well - startled ducks.

Archibald heard none of this above his snoring. Not that he could tell, at least, for some of the noise made it into his dream and fused with it, but Archibald could never have told you in what way.

Now, here is the turn of this story: Of course, a huge, old oak falling to the ground outside your house isn’t an everyday-event. Neither is it when the previously mentioned oak starts glowing pale blue-white.

That is exactly what happened next. The glow started amidst the oak’s branches, and crept slowly along the trunk until it hit the roots. And then - it crept along the roots, into the ground.

Now, to you and me, dear reader, this seems utterly astonishing. Which, of course it would have been, had anyone been there to witness it.