The House is on Fire

CW: Arson, hate speech, racism

“Go!” She screamed, pushing him through the window. He gripped the window furiously, marking the paint chipped sill with scrapes of flesh and drops of blood. Losing his grip he fell sharply onto the packed dirt. He looked back to the window but his mother was already gone, looking for Charlie in the house. Flames crept up the planked walls, licking the frail cotton curtains, heat berated his face, a wave of fire bubbling toward him. 

He stayed low to the ground crawling towards the trees, the shadows of the forest danced in time with the growing flames. His mother’s bluebells, tended carefully that spring, were drooping, curling into themselves against the heat as the flames turned their brilliant green stocks a fleshy brown. In the tree line he kept low, crawling quickly towards the window of his parent’s room. They must escape here, he thought. He kneeled down in the low shrubs, droplets of blood appearing on his shins and knees, blood beading from scratches bestowed by the forest. He stared intently at the window, the smoke billowing out obstructed any view inside. Crackles of fire were muffled in his ears, drowned out by the beating of his heart. The blood racing though his veins urged him to action, his muscles were taut springs, do something his body seemed to implore, do anything. A much quieter voice with his mother’s tone said firmly, do not let them find you. 

Please, he thought, please come to the window, please stop the fire. Like a prayer, he whispered “please… ” as teardrops made tracks down his shallow tanned cheeks. His large chestnut eyes glazed over, sinking into a memory. Here is where he and Charlie played, hiding and leaping down onto each other from tree limbs. The porch was where mother drank her tea, watching the forest across her garden. Blue fairies, Charlie had called the flowers, because their petals had the skirts of fairies from her picture books. She caressed the petals as she sat between Mother’s legs, biting her tongue as Mother used comb and pomade to roughly plait Charlie’s hair into thick, flat, braids.

He was pulled back to the present by the large crack of a beam breaking, the thatched roof bowed as it was engulfed by flames. The night sky looked down on the burning logs, embers like fireflies twirled towards the stars. The window, charred black and still billowing smoke seemed to expand under his pleading gaze. Like a gaping mouth, you are alone, it seemed to yawn, there is nothing here for you.

The porch splintered and sputtered, he watched as it collapsed. Standing near the growing inferno were the men, their pale faces illuminated by the flicking torches in their hands. He stared hard at their faces, memorizing every one. I’ll kill you, he thought, I'll kill you all.

A slim man, with dusty jeans and a worn blue overcoat, as if he could sense the boy’s gaze, turned to the trees and locked eyes with the boy directly. Raising his arm he pointed, calling to his clan. The boy’s heart dropped like a stone and in a moment he turned and was gone, light as a sparrow he darted into the forest. Root, rock, and shrub tried to snare him from the murky shadows but he would not be slowed. He heard branches snapping in his wake, heavy footfalls, and whistles of the men in pursuit. He was younger, but they were taller, their long strides making up time as he flew through the forest. Blood pumping, chest heaving he passed by all the familiar haunts, all the places he’d wandered in brighter days. Further, his body pushed. Away from known landscape, into the great tangle of the forest, and far from the light of his burning home. His legs strained, his bare feet slapping the ground, the blood was in his ears, magnifying the sounds of the fleeing critters ahead and the men on his trail. 

A melody broke into the chaotic turbulence of sound, a frail voice singing nearby. The noise made him stumble and crash into a nearby tree. Dazed, his shoulder stinging, he crawled towards a nearby shrub, wrapping his feet under his shaking body, still vibrating from adrenaline. Hidden for a moment under bush and shadow.

The men followed, missing the boy in his pocket of safety, and lured by the sweet voice, the men stepped into a small clearing. The voice belonged to a woman, sat on a log in front of a small campfire. The men emerged opposite her, the campfire between them illuminating her broad forehead and large opaque milky eyes. She wore traveling clothes, a patched coat and stiff brown trousers. Her boots were discarded nearby, her feet propped towards the campfire where her thick socks seemed to roast. The cluster of noise emerging from the forest interrupted her singing and she turned her empty gaze towards the men.

“Who’s there?”

The men looked at each other. “We’re looking for the boy.” One called.

“What are you doing here?” called another.

She rocked forward on her log. “Haven’t seen no boy,” she cackled at her little joke. “I felt like visiting the trees, just resting my bones a little until the sun comes up.”

“How does a blind woman walk through the forest,” one man murmured to another. “She looks like a Negro, “ another rasped, curling his lips. A few still had torches alight and the flames danced in their eyes, mirroring the eager malice in their hearts. 

With the boy out of sight, the men regarded the woman with new attention. It was odd to find a woman wandering in the forest alone, without a pack or other means. They were miles away from the main road and farther still from the town proper. Her olive skin was cracked along her cheeks and between her exposed knuckles. Though her skin was weathered her stature betrayed some youth, her back erect and lithe.

Some men speak not in words but in tone. In subtle ways power is pried from a hierarchy of the meek with a sharp phrase. Men who view difference as derision and derision befitting violence. Men whose confidence grows in groups and are unaccustomed to the familiarity of a lesser’s nonchalance. These are the kind of men the woman observed through her milky eyes, a crooked grin affixed to her face.

One of the men scowled, “she can burn as well as the others.” The temperature chilled as the boy watched through a space between leaves. The campfire seemed to dim, the flames retreating towards burning embers. The men didn’t seem to notice, their torches still vibrant in their hands, casting their long shadows across the woman. 

The woman scowled. “The trees gab ‘bout you. They say you reek.” Ruffled and quick to anger, the men strode purposefully around the campfire, grabbing roughly at her jacket. They hauled the woman to her feet, pushing her towards the dying fire. One stepped on her boots, wickedly pulling her hair, attempting to drag her into the forest. 

From his hiding place the boy saw their aggression with hollow eyes. He gripped his ears, stifling the sound from the clearing. His chin dipped to his chest, curling his body till his forehead kissed his knees. Something felt like it was breaking in his chest, a heavy weight was opening up a cavern in his heart and his whimpering shaking body could only find comfort there. A numbness was creeping up his toes and the boy wished it would turn him to stone. "Mother", he murmured, "mother, mother-" A piercing shriek brought him back to his senses and he looked weakly towards the clearing.

The woman was unruffled, standing, her arm slightly extended, her fingers playing lightly with a soft breeze that passed through the clearing. Her face turned to the sky she reveled in the orange hue settling over the forest, a rising sun was aching to meet her. At her feet the men were screaming, their bodies disconcerting and shrinking. Their feet were growing thin and coarse, bursting through their shoes and digging into the earth. Their bodies shrank and thinned, it looked painful as their shoulders collapsed, drawing towards their hips. Clothing shredded to the ground as they screamed, reaching for the air with hands turning translucent and delicate. Veins exposed in brilliant violet and then quickly grew a soft purple sheath. Their backs curved into graceful arches and in the dwindling light of the forgotten torches the men’s bodies sank until they were no taller than the boy’s shin. Their faces were the last to transform, looks of horror peeling back from their lips and disappearing into an encompassing emerald colored stalk. A stark silence muffled the forest, and the men, now a patch of bluebells, swayed gently on the breeze.  

“Now,” she smiled, “ain’t that more beautiful.”

“Come here boy.” She called. The boy pale, month agape shuddered at her attention. The forest was starting to take shape around him, a pale sun rising in the distance. He thought about running, or hiding in the bush, hoping the woman would forget him. He thought about his father, how his wide pale hands had once gripped the boy’s shoulders. “A man meets his destiny on his feet,” Father said before they took him away. The boy unfolded himself slowly, his legs sore and bloody. Fear raged through him and tears flooded his cheeks even as he hampered them with his bravest face. He stepped timidly into the clearing, the growing sunlight giving more detail to the woman’s face. Her skin was dark, speckled with black freckles, her hair, thick and coiled, was chopped carelessly about her shoulders. He looked at the patch of flowers now growing in place of the men, shreds of cloth, extinguished torches, and two gold teeth littered the clearing. The sun caught the flower petal tips and the surrounding leaves swayed slightly as if waving to him.

“Boy,” her white eyes shined so lovingly, “do you have any shoes?”

Epilogue

The boy stayed with the woman as he grew tall, muscles formed on his broad back, and his hair expanded into a thick effervescent halo. The boy and the woman often walked through the forest and she whispered secrets to him, forming a narrow white film over his eyes. When it was her time, he turned her into a willow tree, the wind oft singing melodies through her growing limbs. He built a cabin and found a wife. He was known to take walks though the forest, for days sometimes. There were others who mistook him for feeble and his existence an affront to their dignity, and though some men disappeared from nearby towns, retribution never burdened him. His children grew bold and adventurous playing in a great big field of bluebells.