The Lamp That Lit Only the Soul (Οι Εννέα Σκαλίτσες)

-From the Meletic Tales.

Mytilene was a small village perched on the slopes above the azure Aegean Sea off the island of Lesbos—a place of whitewashed walls, drifting bougainvillaea, and the song of the cicadas in the high olive trees. At the edge of Mytilene stood the old workshop of Lykios, the craftsman-inventor whose hands were famed across those islands for turning brass and bronze into sudden things of wondrous shape and purpose.

None of his inventions—or at least, none that he would admit to—were quite as wondrous as the lamp he concealed in an alcove behind a dusty wooden screen. To the villagers, he’d produced yet another model of pulley or silversmith’s tongs or twirling music box. Behind the screen, he was fashioning something utterly different in its nature.

Lykios was a lean man, with silvering hair and eyes the colour of polished olive pits. He kept odd hours, working through the small hours when the moon bleached the marble courtyard to ghostly brilliance. At first, it was rumoured that he’d taken up with the local scholars who studied ancient papyri; no doubt he was trying to reinvent Eukleides' astrolabe or the Archimedean screw. Those persons who glimpsed his contraption said it looked nothing like any classical instrument. One evening, a curious apprentice, Kleitos, pressed against the screen and saw—hanging from a curving bronze arm—a lamp of the darkest obsidian. No filament inside glowed; no flame leapt. When the apprentice stole a glance, he felt… aware—aware of something within that was unique.

That was the spark. When Lykios asked Kleitos to fetch him a drop of jasmine oil, he moved as if slightly dazed. He saw not just the oil for the lamp—but felt its gentle sweetness hovering in the back of his throat. A faint remembering of his mother’s garden, of childhood afternoons. Yes—there was something uncanny there.

Curiosity gnawed. Kleitos waited until midday, when the sun was high and the workshop quiet. Then he pulled aside the screen.

'Master', he murmured.

He lifted head, gloved hands resting on the worktable. 'You wished?'

He swallowed. 'The lamp... What does it do?'

He stretched out a hand but did not invite him closer.

'This lamp is not to light the world around you. That is too easy: torches, lanterns, braziers—everyone has those. I wished to make a lamp that lights the soul', he professed.

Kleitos frowned. 'What does that mean?'

He closed his eyes. 'Most light—even sunlight—shows the world: the stones, the trees, the sea, the faces, but the lamp I fashion… it reveals shadows within, the interior contours of one’s own body. It cannot be seen', he tapped the lamp’s polished surface, 'yet it shines inwards too'.

She breathed in. 'You speak in riddles that hide its mystery'.

Lykios shook his head. 'No riddle. I have achieved a light invisible to the eye but clear to the mind. When one holds it, one sees… oneself'.

That afternoon, he described how he’d come upon the idea. In his youth he’d witnessed a man blinded by a lantern’s glare—so dazzled that he trod off a nearby cliff. That same lantern revealed stars beyond. He pondered: light is double-edged. Outer illumination can blind inner vision. Could one invert that? Create light that trains the inner sight whilst leaving the outer dark?

He recalled reading the words of Platon in his dialogues, in particular: 'Know thyself'. What if there were a light for that? A genuine lamp that strews the mind with self-knowledge?

Lykios worked for months, until one evening he announced it was ready. Kleitos and two trusted villagers—Maia the seamstress, and Panthetes the fisherman—were summoned. The street lamps had been dimmed; twilight pooled in the courtyard. Lykios emerged from behind the screen, holding the smooth, obsidian lamp.

'No one but the holder may perceive its light, but its actual glow lives within'. His voice strengthened with the gravity of the moment. 'Hold it in your hand. Do not speak until granted insight', he said.

Kleitos took it, with a shallow breath. Hands gripping the cool metal… silence, and then—a slow warmth in his chest. Memories long buried: a childhood accident, the day he’d run away and never confessed to his father; the lost friendship with a classmate, the pain he’d carried unspoken.

He gasped. The inside of his mind was illuminated—no shame, no darkness held their shape back; all lay bare.

Maia held it next. She saw the secret resentment she harboured towards her sister, the unspoken jealousy when she compared her garden’s lavender to Maia’s meagre daisies. She felt the bitterness swirl, and then—release.

Panthetes shook. He conjured the recollection of a time at sea when he’d abandoned a drowning passenger to save himself. He hadn’t told anyone. There it was—raw guilt that was manifest.

Lykios took the lamp last, and he too saw layers: the child he’d been, left fatherless by plague; the time he’d closed his eyes, became an orphan in that whitewashed room; the first turning of bronze as he’d created his earliest works.

At dawn, the four of them sat in the courtyard. The sea shimmered. Olive trees stood like silent sentinels. No one dared to speak a word. There was absolute silence amongst them.

'Shall all who hold it be broken?' Kleitos asked at last.

Lykios shook his head. 'The lamp does not judge. It merely shows. As such, it can break illusions, but mend them also—if one lets the truth in from beyond'.

Maia fiddled with her skirt. 'Suppose someone refuses the insight? They claim to hold it, but we cannot tell. What then?'

He paused. 'The lamp reveals the soul’s structure. It gives clarity—but only if the soul is willing. If one resists, one sees one’s defences. The lamp uncovers the guard, and where it lies then'.

Panthetes glanced at the sea. 'What of those people who fear that truth? Would it not ruin them in the end?'

'Indeed. It is better to live with truth than with unknowing. To dwell in self-deception is a slow death', uttered Lykios.

The villagers murmured. The world stirred awakened. The sun rose fully. Word of the lamp spread. Visitors arrived: travellers, seekers, wandering monks, merchants in fur and gold. Lykios received them in the courtyard. Only if they were curious, only if they saw the lamp, only if they chose to hold it.

Some seekers were afraid. One nobleman, all cloak and jewellery, refused outright: 'I have no darkness within', he declared. Lykios dipped his head. 'Then the lamp will confirm it—or undo it'.

He held the lamp. His chest tightened so violently he staggered back. Moments passed. Then his face bled pale. 'It is true. I fear I do', he murmured, as he fell to his knees. Some watchers gasped. Lykios bent and offered water.

Another came, which was a poet heavy with lines of sorrow. He looked at the lamp and smiled, eager. The glow loosened long-buried grief: lost love, poems left unwritten. He fell silent, tears filling his eyes. When he rose, he thanked Lykios and expressed, 'Now I can write again. I can reclaim my soul'.

In this manner, month after month, the lamp’s fame grew. Not without controversy. Some said Lykios was a mere charlatan; others whispered he meddled with souls beyond mortal ken. For sure, there were cases of upset and agony: men who saw filial guilt they’d sheltered; widows who realised love unlived; doctors who glimpsed failures abandoned. A few of them could not bear the weight of seeing themselves.

One evening, a figure arrived that would test the lamp’s meaning. She was called Kyria: a widow of slender frame, with eyes like dark violets and hair silvering. She carried a deep sadness: she’d lost her husband to a distant war, then her son to fever. Town whispered that she’d lost her faith in the gods.

She was brought to the lamp by her family. They hoped the lamp would console her soul. Lykios offered it to her. She took it without comment. They arranged seats; the village held its breath. She closed her eyes, lifted the lamp to her heart, and a subtle warmth shivered across her breast. Moments passed. No tears, no motion. Then she opened her eyes. They were calm.

'I see. I see my dreadful despair, but my resilience also—the kindnesses I’ve given in secret to others'. Her voice held clarity. 'I have been lost amongst my regrets, but I realise now they do not define me at all', she said.

Lykios nodded. 'The light can guide—but only when one lets it'.

She nodded. 'I shall hold it firmly with my gratitude expressed'.

Word spread again. Some people saw the widow as proof: the lamp parsed sorrow and gave it purpose. Others murmured: but is this worth the time?

The lamp continued its work through the hot Greek summer and into autumn’s honeyed haze. Lykios made only a few of the lamps: each was individually calibrated to its holder, wrought with secret filaments and brass wires and oils and gears no one else could replicate. He refused money; insisted on voluntary offerings, or acts of goodwill in the village: planting olive trees, teaching children reading, mending elder’s roofs. He would not have the lamp used to enrich his livelihood. He was a Meletic in practice. He would tell the people that the light was the light that emanated from To Ena, the One.

Gradually, the wear of bearing the lamp took its toll. The workshop grew silent. Lykios, once laughsome, now moved more slowly, as though each gesture cost weight. In the stillness of night he would stand amidst his tools, lamp in hand, and seem to look inwards, posture bent.

Kleitos, anxious, one night tapped at his shoulder. 'Master, why do you look so weary?'

He sighed. 'The lamp takes a toll on the holder. Over time, even the holder heals. Light balances itself. What I fear…' He lowered head. 'I fear what I hold, will one day be mistaken for the ego and not the soul'.

He shook his head. 'But you made it.'

He looked at him. 'Yes—but I did not make the soul I see. Each night, I hold the lamp. I see my darkness grow. It is manageable once… but tonight, I could not bear it. Perhaps it is my soul that has grown weary'.

Kleitos frowned. 'You must rest then'.

He leaned back. 'I shall indeed. I shall set it aside, until I am whole again'.

People came less often. Lykios shut the shop window one day and left the lamp between a cushion and desk, hidden in cloth. He announced: he would cease offering it, until he fully recovered. The village mourned.

In the hush, Kleitos gathered scattered notes—diagrams, formulas, his notes on silvery filigree, words on perception and consciousness. He resolved: he would help him prepare the lamp, ease its daily burden. Night after night, he worked—studying physics in a crackling oil-lamp glow, replicating his sketches.

One evening he heard the soft creak of the door. Lykios stood in the workshop, pipe glowing orange in the dark. He regarded the young man at work. He did not speak. He held out the lamp, which was blank and invisible.

Kleitos looked up. 'Master, I… thought—'

He put the lamp next to his notes. 'I’ve come to ask if you will hold it'. His voice was gentle.

'I have in mind a modification. A way to retard the inwards glare. To sharpen only compassion, forgiveness… to ease guilt’s sting'.

He nodded. 'You may test it to prove your idea'.

He picked up the lamp. Fingers cool on warm metal. A hum under his palm. Rather than the flood of memories he’d seen before, he detected certain textures: a soft shimmer of empathy, a gentle unfolding. Not overwhelming. Not jarring. A warm guiding presence.

He looked up at Lykios. 'It works'.

He exhaled. 'Now we must let others see for themselves'.

They revived the courtyard. They called for one volunteer: old Periphetes, the beggar, laughed at in corners. When he held the lamp, he gasped, half staggered—and then his bloodshot eyes softened. He saw no shame but sorrow, tears he’d never shed. He leaned forth, head bowed. When he released it, he spoke the words: 'I… I’m sorry for the bad things that I have done unto others. For that, I have been reduced to being a beggar'.

Villagers watched, unmoved by earthly miracle—but moved by human contrition.

One by one, they held the modified lamp. Truth came—not to punish, but to free. The nobleman returned and found humility. The villager found empathy. The seamstress found something of inner music she’d lost. The fisherman found peace to forgive himself.

In time, the lamp was no longer hidden. It sat on a low plinth each dawn, with a line of people. Those people who entered the courtyard came not to be dazzled by bronze or flame—but to face themselves, to wish for insight. The lamp, whilst never seen by the crowd, glowed inwardly, illuminating one soul at a time.

Then one morning, as the sky was turning pale gold, a great storm came in from the sea. Lightning tore across the sky; thunder rolled. The courtyard roof shook. Lykios stood at the door, watching rain lash the windows. A gust thundered through the plinth, toppling the lamp. It clattered. He rushed; but the storm’s howl almost swallowed it. He picked it up—safe, but in that moment he knew: the lamp must be shared.

That very evening, he held a public gathering. The moon was full, lanterns dimmed. The crowd edged in afterwards. He stood on the plinth, holding both lamp and worked parchment.

'Friends, I have feared its power. I feared that it would diminish me, yet this night, I see that a lamp’s light is meant to be passed. Held by many, not guarded by one', he spoke.

He paused, voice soft. 'I shall train others to guide the lamp. To bear its true purpose'. The villagers murmured; Kleitos stepped forth. He placed the lamp in his hand. He looked resolute.

'Use it, but use it wisely', he said.

By candlelight, the villagers cheered the gesture expressed.

The weeks turned into months. Lykios' workshop became a school of quiet remembrance, where people were gently guided through holding the lamp. Guides were trained to stand alongside the holder: to support, to comfort, to bear what truths came out from the soul.

And Lykios? He found his burden lightened. He did hold the lamp each dawn, but together with Kleitos and the others—each taking turn, each holding water or soothing balm or simply shared silence. The inner glow no longer crushed him; it illuminated him, too.

In time sadly, Lykios passed—quietly, in his sleep by olive wood beams. The news shook Mytilene. At his funeral, the lamp was placed in his hands. As the last hour tolled, those people with trained sight said it glimmered—the faintest inner glow, held steady between his palms.

Then, his guides stepped ahead: Kleitos, Maia, the fisherman Panthetes, old Kyria, the nobleman… each removed the lamp from his grip and together carried it to the town centre, where it was placed beneath an open marble arch. There it would remain accessible, lighting souls—when sought, when held, when ready.

Over the years, visitors came from other islands, other lands, to hold the precious lamp. They came to Mytilene in summer’s heat and winter’s chill, travelling by sea and mule, walking hidden paths. They called it the lamp of the light of the soul. They brought poems, offerings, olive saplings, pictorial icons, tokens of grateful hearts. Lykios’ name was spoken with reverence, not as inventor, but as lantern-keeper, keeper of the inner flame.

The lamp remained invisible in a sense—none ever saw it’s light—but to those seekers who held it, the lamp glowed with a quiet clarity, a soft flame igniting the darkened deep places of the soul. It did not blind them to the world—as ordinary light can—but sharpened their perception of it: the curve of stone steps, the taste of bread, the laughter of children—all allowed to brighten without overshadowing the soul.

Generations later, the tradition endures in Mytilene. The lamp rests in the archway, safe from wind and prying eyes. Guides sit at smooth tables in the courtyard, waiting to welcome anyone willing to look inwards, and each morning, as the sea gleams pale and the olives glimmer with dew, one of them picks up the lamp and becomes first a holder, then a guide. Thus, the inner light continues to shine—where it matters most.

Some people come alone, quietly, before the streets stir. Others arrive after long journeys—visitors, seekers, or those people wounded by grief. They do not ask for spectacle. They come to see clearly.

Often, the lamp is passed in silence. There are no chants, no rituals. Only the act of holding, and the courage to observe. The process has changed little over time. What changes are the souls that pass through—each adding a thread to the quiet fabric of the village's story.

Children born in Mytilene grow up knowing of the lamp. They are told that it is not a magical object, but a mirror of the self. It cannot give what you do not seek, but for those Meletics who do—clarity, reconciliation, or the soft dawning of self-acceptance—it becomes a turning point.

Elders say the lamp does not change the world—it changes how one walks through it. It does not erase sorrow, nor guarantee peace, but it clarifies the path. Some people returned years later, bringing their children, or simply to sit once more in the courtyard’s stillness. The olive trees grew tall, their roots tangled deep beneath the stone, like memory.

And so, in this corner of the world, where the light is neither flame nor sun, but something quieter and more enduring, the lamp continues its work—shining not before the eyes, but behind them.

It is in that quiet glow, where no shadow falls, each soul is reminded that the journey inwards is the greatest illumination of all in life.

In the silence of the village, you might still hear a silent voice speaking: 'Look within, for there lies the truest light that man could ever see within the self'.

Thus, ends the Meletic tale of 'The lamp that lit only the soul'.

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