the Burner and the Singer

Ishmael was a burner, so he jangled while he walked. 

Beneath a crust of thin spring snow, between the cracks of ice, sprigs of purple crocus flowers fought to reach the light. They bent away from Ishmael’s boots, influenced by his power as he strolled across the city park, following his nose. He walked upright with head thrown back and swaggered as he went, hands stuffed deep in pockets jammed with bits of this and that. A marble here amidst the lint, a little purple rock, a feather there, a piece of string, and clumps of citrus peel. He fiddled with the hoard of junk that made his jacket bulge, but rising from his left hand came a trail of special smoke that smelled of tracking magic as he pinched a lock of hair that crisped like incense as it burned, and led the man a-jangling.

“Good morning Ishmael!” Called the man who ran the coffee cart, “the usual today, my friend?”

“No thanks, I’m on the clock!” 

The coffee man gave him a nod, face pinched with pain and pride, and practiced hands began to pack as Ishmael grimly sighed.

“Take this then,” the man replied, and tossed a canvas bag before he popped the brakes and turned his coffee cart around.

“You sure-” 

“I am!” 

“I’ll pay-”

“No need! Just hunt your monster down- and do be careful out there lad. You burners like to disappear just when I've gotten used to you.”

Dappled rays of morning light fell sweetly through the clouds, and sunlight warmed the dampened ground, and fed the frost to grass.

The acrid scent of burning hair steamed from his leather coat, and like a bloodhound Ishmael prowled, fixated on a goal that wafted east and drew him to the fountain in the square where men and women strolled about, completely unaware.

The hair burnt out, as did the spell, leaving only ash. 

This was the place. 

Ishmael breathed deep and smelled his mark at last.

Magic had a sharpish smell, like lightning in the sky, or little copper pennies after soaking for a while. The scent did linger heavy here, and Ishmael looked around, happy that he didn't have to scour the whole town!

“You came to me! My stomping grounds- how pleasantly polite!”

The burner cracked a wicked grin and stood upon a bench to better see the lovely people wandering the square. There was a baker and her man, who strolled with arm in arm. And Ishmael smelled their normalcy and knew they meant no harm. She had no magic to her name, (he’d seen her once or twice,) her suitor on the other hand had something in his eyes... That hint of power might have grown to magic more severe, but he was tall and rather plain, with no ambitious spark.

Aside from them there were five more, all seemed a docile lot. A mother and her little babe stooped at a vendor’s cart to smell the roses sold in bundles by a handsome chap that trimmed away the thorny prongs and gathered a bouquet. An artist sat on fountain’s edge, a sketchbook in his hand, and drew with pastel color sticks that stained his shirt and hands. The artist might have been the threat, for he had a hint of power, but it dwarfed beneath the heavy smell that Ishmael was after. The man, transfixed upon the blooming branches, paid no heed to greed of power, content instead to sketch the plumb trees laden with baby purple leaves; the harbingers of flower blooms- the very first of spring. 

And last there sat upon a bench an old and wizened man who had a sack of breadcrumb that he spread to feed the doves. 

The mother had no magic, and the child was far too young; the painter had an eye for power, but not the fire or knowledge. The vendor was a fresh faced man with kind and rosy cheeks, but no potential stirred beneath his business-man demeanor. 

The bearded man, however, was a stranger in the square. His matted onyx hair did match the batch that Ishmael burned…. 

The burner hopped to cobbled floor and watched the pair stride by, approached the vendor and his cart, and whispered with a smile.

“Good morn, my name is Ishmael, I’m a burner for the Crown. I hunt a violent singer man, and think I might have found him.” 

The vendor’s rosy face went white, the woman promptly gasped and snatched the child to her hip and looked about in fright.

“Not here, but close- don’t make a fuss,” He warned the frightened mom, and then he hissed to the rose man,

“Pack up. Be on your way.”

“Good luck!” the woman squeaked to him as she hurried off, and eager to escape, the handsome vendor left his cart. 

The artist painted nice and far from any magic harm. The baker and her man were gone, so Ishmael plucked a scarlet rose and jangled to the bench where sat the man who fed the doves. 

 The singer’s grubby hunch formed like a shield around his face face, and whiskered brows fixed in a scowl did not relent to greet him. 

“Hello good sir,” the burner said while twiddling the stem, “I’ve not seen you around before-” 

“No. You haven’t."

His voice was like a crush of stone and came out with a cough, as if it had been dormant and resisted waking up.

"I-"

"I’m not looking for company and don't like small talk. Go bother someone else. You smell bad and you're scaring the birds.” 

Ishmael frowned and sat on down beside the filthy man. He felt it now, the strange way how magic fell from his lips. His funny way of speaking was the first dead give away, twas grating to the listener and lacked the right cadence.

Most men who wielded power had to burn to get their way, but not this man. His very words could bend reality. He saw it in the warp of light around his cracked white lips. He smelled it in the heat that rose with each unfriendly hiss. The old man’s eyes were sunk and tired, as if he’d not known sleep for many days and gruesome nights that rendered him quite grey. 

This was, no doubt, the oldest man he’d ever known to sing, and Ishmael had been burning on his own since seventeen! His confidence was set in stone, but this gave him a crack, for if this man had lived so long possessed of such destructive luck, then trouble surely lurked behind his sunburned aged mask.

“We don’t need talk, in fact let’s not, for I know what you are. How you’ve avoided death this long is-”

“Oh yeah?" The man threw down his bread crumbs, which caused the doves to surge.

"Well if you know what I am and you’re not as dumb as you look, then you’ll know to leave me alone. I’m not looking for trouble and you’ve got trouble written all over that smug mug of yours. Scram!”

“Such rowdy talk-”

“For pity’s sake with the limerick bullshit! I said get lost! Or I’ll scorch that ugly jacket off your back!”

The singer flinched in sick regret and touched his lips in fear as magic filled his bitter words with just the slightest ire; just enough intention that it caught Ishmael on fire!  

All at once both men jumped and sent birds in a fright as the fire licked his sleeves and started to climb. Ishmael mashed the red rose to a paste in his might, sending smoke in a curl from his fist to the light that then warped to his magic and bent to his plight.

“Spears of red!” Ishamel screamed, and the ash turned to steel, but the singer was fast and he turned on his heel as the thorns whistled by and then stuck in a tree. 

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! 

Rang the wood that the painter beheld; artist screamed, singer wheeled and pointed right on back before howling a curse that required no ash.

“Combust!”

Ishmael flinched and retrieved a small vial which he crushed into dust of blue glass and hot vapor that gushed into magic he then siphoned to block the attack.

“Waves of rain!” And then down came a frigid deluge, snuffing out the combustion and drenching his shoes.

Singer ran but the burner was not finished yet! Coffee beans hit the ground as he dug in the sack and then heat filled his fist as he crushed them to ash. 

“Earthen grab!” He did shout, and the stones parted hence as a tendril of earth wound its way up his leg. Snared and trapped, the old man tumbled hard to the ground.

“Get off me bastard- I said leave me alone! Pressure!” 

Singer flailed as he wailed, and he managed to aim quite the curse upon Ishmael who was not prepared. All at once came a crush like the sky weighed a ton, and the burner fell prone to the cold cobbled stone. As the earth binding singer began to dissolve, Ishmael dug in his pocket with all his resolve. Each inch gained cost a great measured heap of his strength as he fought against gravity fueled by magic.

“Didn’t want- grr! never meant- dammit! I just want to be left alone!” 

Ishmael then found a string that he pinched like a fuse, and his free hand did point as if in accusation. 

“Bind and gag!” 

Like a flash, blackened strands of his magical ash then leapt forth like a rope and ensnare the old man who had just freed his legs but came toppling down. With his mouth bound and shut, singer’s magic did die; Ishmael scrambled to standing and rushed to his side. Crushing pebbles he scooped from the broken up stone, Ishmael shouted, “restrain him!” and earth followed suite. As if liquid, enchanted stone did as was told and swallowed up singer from chin to his toes.

Ishmael gasped and quickly pat the embers from his chest, as magic seemed to crackle from the last remnants of ash.

“I gave you chance for speaking, and you chose instead to run. I hope it’s worth it-”

The singer growled and Ishmael stopped, for something was not right. His tongue was gagged and mouth bound shut, all logic said his fight was done, so how on earth could Ishmael hear the singer’s words inside his ear! 

"Let me go, you bastard! You're killing me!"

"The stone is soft enough to breath, do not be so dramati-"

"Not the stone you ignorant dick! All someone like me can do is run or die because you burners and your ‘crown,’- you’re murderers! You’re no hero for catching me like this! You’re a harasser and you've as good as killed me! I’ve never done anything wrong, I’ve been careful!” 

Ishmael blinked. 

“Singers are a threat by nature, wielding power with no cost! I only do my duty; you cannot escape the law!” 

Again the singer creased his brow, loathing in his eyes, and Ishmael heard his voice again.

“They kill burners too, you know, If they get too big for their britches or decide to think for themselves! Ever wonder why they start you so young? Why they've got you speaking in rhythm and you don’t know any older burners? They're scared of you! They envy you! They will kill you too!”

“You have the right to hold your tongue!” 

“Give it a few years, jackass, and it will be you they haul off to be burned! Powerful shithead like you, they’ll siphon off all the magic you’ve got in ya and feed it to some bastard up top- and as thank you for what? Huntin’ down and killing innocent people on their behalf? Go to hell!” 

Ishmael stooped and deftly scooped a feather from the ground. His fingers burned and pinched the tuft which promptly scorched to ash. 

“Sound asleep!” 

He blew the ash upon the buried man. The singer blinked in angry fury, tried to fight the grit, but focus became blurry, and the magic had its way.

Far more rattled than he should be, Ishmael found his burner's flute. He burned a bit of yellow paper and he gave the reed a puff; the twilling signal told the crown that he had found the one.

As Ishmael watched officials load the singer on a cot, he frowned and found as they strapped him down,

The sleeping man was partially right, at least in one regard.

Ishmael was the second oldest burner for the crown, just below his captain who was maybe thirty one. He learned to burn at seven years; this was all he’d ever known. But it was common knowledge that burning was a risk, and those who took the mantle up had all accepted this...

He watched the singer disappear then turned to wander home, his hands stuffed in his pockets and mind stuffed with concern. 

Magic wielded without cost... Power without price… those who sang were dangerous and should be set aside...

He left the ruined square behind and ducked beneath the trees the artist had been drawing, the one with purple leaves. Abandoned flower cart sat back beside the cobble stone that twisted up in ruined heaps against a plumb tree full of holes.

 Ishmael could be dangerous, though he tried his very best to mitigate the damage done when he was on a quest. Magic was unstable, and required discipline, he’d learned that from his mentor-

Ishmael stopped.

The snow dampened earth gave a bit beneath the compression of his boots.

"What happened to my mentor?” 

How could he have forgotten? 

Thomas was the burner who had taught him how to hunt. He was extremely powerful, and had a tender heart… Together for a tenure, and suddenly no more…Ishmael set out on his own, and Thomas… 

Ishmael blinked, brow furrowing.

What had happened to Thomas?

Had the man retired? Moved somewhere far away? Ishmael’s mouth went dry as he plumbed his memory and found to his dismay that he had no recollection of what happened to the powerful man who taught him how to burn. It was as if those happy memories of his apprenticeship were torn right at the end. Like someone pulled the last chapter from that particular story, and Ishmael hadn’t even noticed! He didn’t remember any disaster, or a shameful sacking of the man who dutifully trained him up… He could recall no scandal or accident or happy retirement. It was just… empty. How on earth could he forget something so important! He spent every day of his life for ten years working under Thomas, the man was practically his father, and one day he was training with Thomas and the next… there was nothing! Nothin except, perhaps, a little hint of magic...

Ishmael was a burner, so he jangled as he walked, his head ducked low, his mind now full of a new sensation:

Doubt.