The Heron Lantern and the Oar

It is the last afternoon before the Festival of Lights. Ximena's workshop is full of paper, glue and thin bamboo. Many lanterns hang from the roof. They glow in blue and gold and green.

In the middle of the room stands the biggest lantern of all. It is a heron, taller than two people. Its wings are white silk. Its eyes are two small round lamps.

Ximena makes one great lantern every year. Tonight, the town will see it.

Egon walks in with a long wooden shape on his shoulder. It is an oar. The blade is pale and worn. One side has a deep scratch.

"I found it behind the boat shed," he says. "It is the only spare oar left."

"Why an oar?" asks Ximena.

"You need something. The heron has no pole, and no steering stick."

She looks at the heron. He is right. The lantern has a place for a pole under its feet. The old pole broke last week. The wood for a new one is not dry.

"So the oar must be the pole," she says.

"Or the oar must be an oar," says Egon.

Ximena frowns. "What do you mean?"

"The festival has two ways to end," says Egon. "Some people march the great lantern through the streets. Some people float it down the river in a boat. We have to choose one."

Ximena knows this already. Each way is good. Neither way is wrong. She has only one oar. She can prepare only one of them.

"If we march," she says, "the oar becomes the pole. Four people carry the heron on the pole. Everyone in town can see it."

"If we float," says Egon, "the oar steers the boat. The heron shines on the water. The river carries the light away."

"Which do you like?"

"I like the streets," says Egon. "I want to hear the children shout when it passes."

"I like the river," says Ximena. "But I do not know why."

They both go quiet. The lanterns move above them.

Then Ximena has an idea. She lifts the oar. She carries it to the washing trough at the back. It is a long tub of water for her brushes.

"What are you doing?" asks Egon.

"A test," says Ximena. "A small test with a big answer."

She puts the blade of the oar into the water. For a moment nothing happens. Then a soft light begins at the end of the wood. It is a faint silver glow, like the moon on a pond.

Egon steps closer. The glow runs up the oar to Ximena's hands. It does not hurt. It feels cool and quick, like a fish.

"It knows the water," Ximena whispers.

"It is an oar," says Egon. "Of course it knows the water."

"No. Look."

Ximena lifts the oar out of the trough. The glow fades at once. She puts a bamboo pole in the tub instead. Nothing happens. The pole is only a pole.

"The oar likes the river," says Egon slowly.

"And the heron likes it too." Ximena points to the lantern. Its wing lamps blink, one by one. They shine brighter when the oar is near the water.

"But the streets," says Egon. He sounds sad. "The children will miss it."

"I know," says Ximena. "A new pole needs a week. We do not have a week."

"Then the oar must choose," says Egon.

"It did," she says. "The oar is special. I cannot use it as a stick."

Egon laughs. He puts the oar down on the table and sits beside it.

"All right," he says. "The river. But I have one wish."

"Tell me."

"Four friends carry the heron down one street. It is a short walk. The children can still see it."

Ximena thinks about it. This is a good idea. It is not both choices, but it is a kind plan. The heron will pass the school, the market and the old gate. Then it will reach the water.

"One street," she says. "Not the whole town."

"One street is enough."

They shake hands over the oar. It is heavy and smooth. The light inside it glows once, like a heartbeat.

They work until the sun goes down. Egon fixes the heron's wings with new thread. Ximena paints a thin line of gold along the oar's blade. She covers the scratch with silver paint. When she finishes, the oar looks like a piece of the river.

At dusk, the first drums sound outside. The town begins to gather. Voices rise in the street, and children laugh.

Ximena holds the oar in both hands. Egon and three friends lift the heron by its base. The wings catch the light of every lantern on the wall.

At the workshop door, Ximena stops. The river waits at the end of the road. It is dark and quiet and wide. She feels the oar warm in her palms.

"Egon," she says. "Do you want to steer, or do I?"