The Climber Who Was Afraid of the Dark

Wren was not afraid of much.

She was not afraid of the long grey trail, or the wind that pushed at her shoulders like a big friendly dog. She was not afraid of the river crossing, where the water was so cold it made her laugh out loud. She was not afraid of the steep part near the top of the second ridge, where you had to use your hands as well as your feet, and where her guide, Bo, said nice and slow, Wren, nice and slow — and she was nice, and she was slow, and she did it.

Wren was afraid of one thing only.

She was afraid of the dark.

They reached Base Camp when the sun was still up, sitting fat and orange on the shoulder of the mountain. Wren helped Bo pitch the little green tent. She ate two bowls of soup. She counted eleven birds and one enormous beetle.

And then, the way it always does, the light began to go.

It went slowly at first. Then all at once.

Wren sat very still inside the tent and felt her chest get tight and busy, like there was a bird in there now, flapping.

"Bo," she said. "I don't like it."

Bo did not say there's nothing to be afraid of.

Bo did not say you're a big girl now.

Bo did not say you climbed the second ridge, so you can certainly manage a bit of dark.

Bo said, "I know."

And then Bo sat down beside her, and did not go anywhere.

They sat for a while. Outside, the mountain made its night sounds — the little tick and settle of stones cooling, the wind changing its mind, something small moving in the grass and then stopping.

"It's bigger in the dark," Wren said. "The mountain."

"It is," said Bo. "It's exactly the same size. But it feels bigger. That's a true thing you just noticed."

Wren thought about that.

"I want it to be morning," she said.

"I know," said Bo. "It will be. It always is." Bo shifted, and the sleeping bag rustled. "Can I show you something first? You can say no."

Wren thought about saying no.

"Okay," she said.

They went out of the tent. Wren held onto the back of Bo's jacket with one fist, very tightly, and Bo did not mention it.

"Now," said Bo. "Look up."

Wren looked up.

Oh.

Oh.

There were stars. Not a few stars — not the shy handful you get at home over the roofs and the streetlights. Thousands. Thick as spilled sugar. A great slow river of them, pouring right across the middle of the sky and off the other side of the world.

Wren's mouth came open and stayed that way.

"I didn't know," she whispered.

"They're always there," said Bo. "Every single one of them, all day long, right above your head. You just can't see them when it's bright."

Wren stared and stared. The bird in her chest had stopped flapping. She hadn't noticed it stop.

"So the dark isn't the bad part," she said slowly, working it out. "The dark is the — the seeing part."

Bo laughed, one short surprised laugh, up into the enormous sky.

"Wren," Bo said. "That took me about forty years."

They stayed out until Wren's nose went cold. Then they went back into the little green tent, and Wren lay down in her sleeping bag, and the dark was still dark. It was not suddenly her favourite thing. She was still, if she was honest, a small bit afraid.

But now she knew what was on the other side of it.

"Bo?" she said, already halfway to sleep.

"Mm."

"Will you stay till I'm asleep?"

"Yes," said Bo.

And Bo did.

---

A Note for Grown-Ups

Notice what Bo doesn't do. Bo doesn't reason with the fear, or point out that it's irrational, or remind Wren of all the brave things she managed earlier in the day. Every one of those responses is well-meant, and every one of them carries the same quiet message underneath: you shouldn't be feeling this.

Bo says two words instead — I know — and then stays.

This is most of it. A frightened child is not usually looking for a counter-argument; they are looking for evidence that they are not alone in it. Company does something to fear that logic can't. And children who are met this way, repeatedly, tend to become the ones who can eventually sit with hard feelings on their own — because they have felt what it's like to have someone sit with them.

The second thing Bo does is offer rather than insist. Can I show you something? You can say no. The choice is real, and it matters. A child who is carried out into the thing they fear learns that their fear can be overruled. A child who chooses to step towards it, with a hand on the back of someone's jacket, learns something entirely different.

And Wren goes to bed still a small bit afraid. That's deliberate. Fear rarely disappears in one night, and a story that promised otherwise wouldn't be much use to your child at 9 p.m. What changed isn't the fear. It's what the fear is now sitting next to.

A question to ask tonight, if it fits: What's something that looks scary at first but turns out to be beautiful?

You may get a shrug. You may also get something you weren't expecting.