Sunlight in a Jar by Stephanie Schofield

There was once a man who caught sunlight in a jar. He had spent seventy years hunting the sun, chasing it from one side of the world to the other. As a young man, he had journeyed by boat, sailing westwards across great seas and oceans, always trying to go faster, to catch the sun before it sunk below the horizon, just out of reach. Sometimes he was sure he came close, his fingertips burnt, his eyes temporarily blinded.

For a while he stopped, tempted from his quest by a stronger lure. He had been sailing amongst islands, small specks of green in the sea/sky kaleidoscope. Life was easy. The fish bit whenever he cast a line and day passed into night and back into day unchallenged. A gentle wind blew behind him, nudging him onwards towards the sun, stroking his hair with silken fingers, a wind so seductively soft and sweet. It sung across the distant reefs, calling to him. And he no longer saw the sun, no longer felt its warmth on his upturned face. He wanted only the wind.

So he set about catching the wind. He wove himself a net and cast it wide, cast it into the softest breeze, cast it into the wildest gale. Again he travelled, climbed the highest mountains to stand face to face with the North Wind, trekked across scorched seas of sand to burn in the South Wind. To the West he chased water spouts, to the East whirlwinds. And time after time, he returned home triumphant, his net tightly sealed, a trophy for his Collection Shelf.
He had a jar ready. Carefully, with a gentle hand, he loosened the cord of the net. With the accuracy of a surgeon, he poured the wind into the jar. And was plunged into despair. The wind was gone, flown far from him, its breath snatched away.

For many years, he sought the wind, replaying the same tune, spinning his pattern over and over. Then one day he awoke and it was night. The sea gleamed inky black beyond cold, silver sheets of moonlight. He was lost, a tiny, invisible dot in the Milky Way. There was no wind, just a heavy, thick silence, no sun, just black, impenetrable infinity. The man strained to see beyond the sea in which he floated, strained to hear beyond the steady pulse of the waves. Nothing. He waited. More nothing. Fear began to grip him. A cloud passed over the moon and his world shrank. Smaller, tighter,closer. A hard, little kernel formed inside him. He was so small, the universe so big.

The cloud passed and he blinked. There before him lay a silver disk reflected upon the water below. He leant forward towards the pale, glowing orb. The sun was forgotten, the wind a mere trifle. He was jubilant. This was real. His goal lay before him, within reach.
Each day he slept. The light, sharp world of the sun held no interest for him. Day was for the young and shallow, those callow fools chasing impossible dreams. He knew better. He had seen all that day had to offer in his pursuit of the sun and the wind, recognized wind’s blustering delusion, sun’s dazzling glamour.

At night he woke, his mind sharp, focused, determined. He spoke to no one of his quest. The moon was for him alone. He studied her many aspects, recognized her reflective nature and felt wise in his knowledge. So he set sail once again, armed with his net and his jar.
Night hung heavily over the Earth, her body tired. The man felt suddenly old. He had sailed this sea many times before, knew well the reefs and distant islands, knew where kind currents could carry him, where cruel ones could toss his tiny boat upon savage rocks. A familiar wind stroked his cheek and was gone. The man cast his net wide upon the deep sea, far out over the pale silvery scales rippling below and fished out the moon. He took his jar and poured in the mercurial liquid. Then, fearful lest he should once again lose the light, he sealed the jar in an oak cask, strong, secure, solid.

He went home happy that night, filled with the light of his own success. Taking up a thick black pen, he wrote the word SUNLIGHT in bold capitals on the side of the cask, then placed it carefully in the centre of his Collection Shelf. The next day was a sunny Sunday. The sun beamed down upon him with approval, celebrating with him his achievement. Seventy years of chase complete.

He had caught sunlight in a jar.

Each day he gazed upon his oak cask on the Collection Shelf and was filled anew with a sense of wholeness. His life was validated. Yet by night his light began to wane. Doubts and suspicions plagued him. Was reflected sunlight real sunlight? Did he truly have sunlight in his jar?

One night he came downstairs. His knee was stiff, but his dressing gown was soft and warm, his slippers supple and expensive. He walked slowly to the Collection Shelf and took down the oak cask. It was strong, secure, solid. He smiled. All was well. He had no need to look inside. His sunlight was safe.

But all was not well. The next day was damp and cloudy and his bones ached. Breakfast tasted bitter. The sun was nowhere to be seen and the wind blew chill against his face. That night he descended the stairs again to the Collection Shelf and with shaking hands and ragged breath broke open the strong, secure, solid cask. The jar lay safe inside-black, empty. A hollow void opened inside the old man as he looked upon his life’s work. A cloud passed in front of the moon and the darkness swallowed him. His Shelf stood bare, no sunlight, no wind.

The old man stood alone in the depths of his night. Seventy years had passed, night into day and back to night. Seventy years to catch an illusion. He sighed and heard his life exhaled. Then taking up a white candle to light his way, he turned to go. Yet as the wick flared to life, he was drawn back. A candle and a match. And in one moment the old man had created light in the darkness, a light which by day was but a little flame on a wick, but in the black of night spread wide opening a window in the darkness. The old man understood. He took the empty jar from the oak cask, opened it and turned it upside down over the flame and there it was. It had always been here, always been as easy as lighting a candle in the night.
Sunlight in a jar.