Picture a man who is simple and mellow. A family man, a fine fellow. In desperate need to provide and protect for his wife and babes. Burlow reluctantly took up a trade. Quite dangerous indeed, suggested by Arrwan. Whom he met lingering in the shadows of the pub. Guzzling, syphoning and chugging honey mead made in a dead man’s tub. Through hot and boisterous flatulence he began to speak 

‘The task is simple and I strongly advise.’ ‘You follow my directions to the letter, to avoid a terrible surprise.'

A question burned in Burlow’s mind he longed to know:  “Could he die?” Burlow knew too well Arrwan would refrain from speaking the truth. Burlow, tempted by generous and handsome pay of coin the earnings would provide the juiciest of fruit. They, Burlow and his family have been hungry and yearned. Full bullies filled with sickly sweet honey, warm crusty bread slathered with creamy churned butter and apples golden delicious not yet turned. The dream of it danced around and inside of Burlow’s mind, over and over and so much so, that Arrwan snapped his grubby fingers. 

‘Pay attention boy there is much to learn, consume this knowledge and then you may go. Should you succeed your family will never go without. Never know hunger, disease or a destitute house. On this route you must deliver my honey mead to a man known only as the Giver. He requires this offering to ward off the evils in the darkness that linger. Come now,  lean in,  for I fear to speak of such evils.'

Arrwan’s voice now an airy whisper, he clutches Burlow’s sweaty palm 

‘Heavenly father, my words are more like prayers to keep the evils that live in the darkness calm. Burlow I cannot stress enough, keep to the road! That road is anointed and protected by the Giver’s spell. It will never go dark and you’ll never see hell. Though the darkness is cunning,  a master of tricks and deceit. Submit to the illusions and you shall be submitting  to your defeat.’ 

Burlow’s flesh like an apparition, felt his legs go weak. The curiousty no longer a steady fire consumed within a hearth but, more like an unruly fire during a high wind in a grain field, why was he so meek!

“Arrwan why can I not just travel by day?"

Arrwan now with frustration weighing heavy on his face. 

‘Burlow you know such things are forbidden and impossible for me to say! I am bound to severe discretion, divulging anymore can cost my soul.

The words vibrated within the memories of Burlow’s mind. He wondered how and why Arrwan’s soul would be held in such a bind.

‘Burlow my dearest would you be coming down to at least eat some spruce bread?’

Startled from what seemed like a dream but really in his mind reliving the memory of that night. Burlow snapped back to what seemed like a present moment but still hazy. He heard the gentle yet strong voice of his beloved rosehead. She was everything, she was his reason to wake even when mornings were dreary and unsure. His rosehead was tantalizing, exciting and when together never bored. Without her and the small world they called their life, he was nothing but a mere mortal walking aimlessly filled with strife.

“Sweet rosehead I’ll take mine to go for the journey will be long. Your spruce bread shall give me much strength to carry on.”

‘Do you hear that children, your father is in a merry mood at last!’

Eadlin and Nerian do their best to refrain but cannot hide their smiles. Stifled laughter soon breaks out into a symphony of giggles and cackles. Burlow kneels down arms open bracing himself for the stampede of hugs. 

Eadlin and Nerian like gusts of fury hop into their father’s arms, Nerian grabbing his collar lovingly tugs. 

‘Papa you hate spruce bread!’

“I do not gentle Nerian what a thing to say! Your mother’s spruce bread is absolutely delicious I cannot keep my salivating at bay."

Nerian was right though and his beloved rosehead knew. The last thing Burlow wanted was another hunk of dry and stale spruce bread. Spruce bread is a vile invention of milled spruce, wheat, barley and spices,  it is a poor substitute for food his rosehead concocted to keep the family from hunger and dread. 

The memory within memories are abruptly fragmented as Burlow heard a kah-thump and the horses began to neigh. He had not been paying attention due to the night before with Arrwan and the morning with his family plaguing his thoughts and the carriage struck a divot in the road. 

“Always wandering in your memories Burlow, if you have smashed the mead with your foolishness, Arrwan would never forgive, the Giver may have your head and of course You'd have to pay for this load!" 

“Please, please keep your head on straight!"

Burlow hopped down and off the rider's seat, marched on and over fearing the worst under blankets in the crates beneath. He peeled back layers of a gossamer blanket weaved of cotton and silk. Every layer undone his hands quivered, his heart beat with such tumultuous force and he prayed aggressively, his words, his spit splashing around the carriage like spilled milk. 

Burlow could not bear to look as he hesitated to open the crate head. 

“Just do it Burlow take a peek!"

He reluctantly pried open his left eye first and with surmounting anxiousness he opened the right. His eyes focused on the mead that laid there alright. Surprisingly unharmed the bottles were intact, nothing broken or spilled over. A sigh of relief washed over Burlow and he relaxed his shoulders. 

‘Burrrlow.' The whisper almost like the buzzing of a mosquito came directly from behind. Burlow swiped at his ear and instinctively turned towards the sound, ready to find. A man, a woman, even a child but no there was only an everlasting and encroaching vortex of darkness that struck fear into his very core. 

‘Papa you hate spruce bread.' The words now caressing the left side of his ears and neck. 

“Aye me what the heck!"

From his peripheral sight he could make out a dim glow. His gaze followed the light, and the vellus hairs were at full attention as he noticed a lump about the size of a small child. Burlow's heart sank and he stood and he stared for a while.  This could not be, he knew Nerian was at home warm and safe. Morbid thoughts began to overflow as Burlow knew that Nerian had a time or two snuck into his loads to brave the adventures with his papa.

“Could this be, my sweet Nerian answer me! Answer your papa if you have snuck into my load, if you are he!"

The lump did not answer but let out a sigh. Burlow now waited desperately for a reply. 

‘Aye papa it is Nerian your sweet boy. I was hoisted out of the load when the carriage came to an abrupt stop. I cannot breathe papa can you help me up?'

No hesitation in his stride, Burlow dashed over and kneeled at Nerian's side. However when Burlow pulled back the hood of wool, there was no child, there was no Nerian.

“What magic is this? What was his mind playing at or had he been made a fool?"

It was then that his recollections of Arrwan's stories about the darkness had become clear. A looming figure stood on the side at the very edge of the road, Burlow could do nothing but glance in sheer and utter fear.