Chapter 4: An Explosive Development

The moon was high in its position in the heavens as the party finally began to wind down. Guests trickled off into the night like water out of cupped hands.

Finally, only Spirit, Conor, Reorin and Drac were left in the yard. The foursome sat close to the still-glowing embers of the fire, chatting and laughing. Though they put out little light, the embers still provided plenty of heat.

Drac and Reorin sat next to each other, holding hands in the darkness. Jenin sat curled up in Reorin’s lap, already asleep. Conor was perched on an up-turned log, and Spirit lay on his back, the closest to the flames. Gentle heat caressed his arms and face.

After a few hours, Aunt Laura finished scouring the final platters of food. Once finished, she bustled out the back door of the cottage to break up the gathering. But as she was stepping over the threshold, she stopped and smiled at the scene laid out before her.

All four of the young teens were fast asleep. Drac was leaning against one of the trestle tables, a small smile gracing his features. Reorin had snuggled up to his side and laid her head on his shoulder, Jenin in her lap. Conor had somehow managed to fall asleep while sitting on an upright log, and he sat hunched over like a large bird of prey. And Spirit was stretched out next to the fire, his hands cushioning his head. All was quiet, save for the wind whispering through the trees.

She hated to wake them, but she could already see small rays of light shooting through the leafy canopy of Branwood. Slowly, she walked over to the table and gently shook Drac’s shoulder. “Come on dear, wake up.”

Drac stirred, and his movement woke Reorin as well. The young Storm elf maiden lifted her head off of Drac’s chest and smiled sleepily up at Aunt Keira. “Oh, hello Mrs. Laura.”

The older woman smiled back. “Hello dear.”

Reorin looked around her and giggled softly. “It’s quite late isn’t it?”

“Or early, depending on your point of view.”

Reorin leaned down and whispered in Jenin’s ear to wake her up, but the toddler only sneezed and rolled over.

Drac shook his head and yawned. “I guess you want us all in bed now right?”

Aunt Keira started off around the bed of coals to wake Conor. “Yes I do. It’s almost sunrise.”

The young entertainer had already been roused by the sound of voices, and stood as Laura approached him. Groaning, he stretched his arms high above his lanky body, then relaxed once the old woman reached him.

“Evening ma’am. When does the party start?”

Aunt Laura cuffed him jokingly around the ears. “You silly boy, the party is already over.”

He easily ducked underneath the blow, smiling all the while. “Really? I must have missed all of it.”

She shook her head, laughing at his antics in spite of herself. Turning to the final sleeper, she strode around the side of the fire pit until she knelt at Spirit’s side.

“Spirit deary, wake up. It’s time to get to bed.”

With a deep intake of breath, Spirit opened his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes blazed with a deep, fiery orange. But then it was gone, as if it had never been. Spirit’s eyes were their normal brown, so Aunt Laura decided she must have imagined it. Drowsily, the young boy raised his head and looked up at his aunt’s face.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing waking me up? It’s too early.”

Aunt Laura laughed. “Spirit, the sun has almost risen. You and Drac need to take your friends home.”

Spirit groaned. “Fine. I’m getting up.” Unsteadily, he pushed himself up to his feet. Behind him, the embers flared sleepily. Yawning, the group followed Aunt Laura out to the gate, Jenin asleep in Reorin’s arms. Once she saw them to the wooden barrier, the matronly old woman ambled back into the house. Drac opened the gate and together the five friends staggered out onto the road. Slowly they made their way towards town, not talking much, most of their energies being devoted to staying awake.

They reached the outskirts of town just as the sun was poking over the tops of the low buildings. By unspoken consent, Drac and Reorin broke off to go to Reorin’s house and Spirit with Conor to his.

Spirit broke the tired silence. “So, did you manage to find out anything else about that trade caravan?”

Conor’s face lit up in excitement. “Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

Spirit leaned in as Conor continued. “I wandered around the tavern for a few hours last night and picked up on a few of the rumors floating around. For one thing, all of the merchants, about five or six of them, wear hoods at all times. And do you remember that merchant that just came into town a few days ago? Thomas the Jewelry master? Supposedly he went into one of the wagons to have a look around, but the owners threw him out. They said it was their living quarters, but he swears he saw a bunch of scrolls and strange herbs lying around.”

Conor drew back, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Maybe they’re eccentric hermits. Maybe Thomas was drunk. Or maybe they’re hiding something. Something they don’t want anyone to know about.”

A smile spread across Spirit’s face as he absorbed this new information. He looked sidelong at his best friend. “Well, that’s all very interesting. But I suggest we go see for ourselves.”

Conor began to grin as well. “Why, I was just thinking the same thing.”

They talked the rest of the way to Conor’s house, debating the various methods they could use to get into the trade caravan. Leaving Conor at his front door with a promise to meet him tomorrow and talk more, Spirit began the short trek back home. By now, dawn was a thing of the past, and the rest of the village was rising up to greet the new day. Occasionally silhouettes flitted between the buildings, and the sound of footsteps echoed down the dusty streets.

Drac was waiting for him at the crossroads where they had parted. Without a word, the two turned and stumbled wearily back towards their home. By the time they reached the front door, Spirit could barely keep his eyes open. The front room and the stairs passed in a blur. Finally, they reached their bedroom. Spirit was asleep before his head even hit his straw-stuffed pillow.

                                    *                      *                      *

Dark fog swirled around Spirit with tornado force. The fierce wind whipped his hair around his head.  Fear churned like lava in his gut, urging him to run, fight, do something. But something else was there too, strong and encouraging. It lay in the midst of his frenzied emotions, a part of him, and yet not so. A sense of cool purpose radiated from it. Be calm, it told him, you have nothing to fear here. This is merely a test.

With a deep breath, Spirit clamped down on his fear, forcing it down until his muscles stopped trembling. Then he stood and looked around.

In the center of the maelstrom was the shadowy figure of a man, hooded and cloaked. “Who are you,” Spirit shouted into the smoke. But the man paid him no heed. Spirit gritted his teeth, then roared at the specter with all his might.

“Speak you coward! I do not fear you.”

At the word fear, the howling wind suddenly quieted, and all was still. The shadow stepped forward and threw back its hood, revealing a man unlike any one Spirit had ever seen. His features were hard and angled, framed by shoulder length hair as black as the smoke around them. His eyes were fathomless pools of light, and his voice was low and hoarse.

“Sviltath,” he said, and then lowered his head in what was unmistakably a bow.

Spirit was amazed. Why was this… whatever it was bowing to him? He was the lowliest of farmers. Confused, he sank to one knee. “I am not who you think I am sir. You don’t need to bow to me.”

The fair man smiled slightly, as if pleased. “Even now, in the strangest of circumstances, you remain courteous. This is good. The Creator has chosen well.”

Remaining on his knees, Spirit looked up at him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you sir. What’s do you mean, chosen? And who is the Creator? Do you mean Dios?”

Now the fair man looked confused. “Who is this Dios?”

Spirit stared at him in wonder. “He’s king of the Imperial gods sir. Creator of all life. How could you not know about Dios?”

The specter laughed. “You have much to learn young one. You will soon find that it is not the idols of your ancestors that guide the fates of all.”

“But aren’t you a god sir?”

Again he laughed. “No dear child. I am but a messenger.” Suddenly he drew back and his face resumed its stern look. “But enough of this. My task must be completed.” Without giving Spirit a chance to say another word, the man raised his hands and began to chant. Words poured forth from his lips, words of such power that the air around them shimmered from their utterance. Slowly, the clouds about them began to spin once more, churning and frothing. The wind returned with a vengeance, snatching Spirit’s breath away. But each word uttered by the fair man rang out with unnatural clarity, cutting through the scream of the elements like a sword through cloth.

Shards of light began to collect upon the man’s upraised hands, sheathing them in brilliant waves of energy. Runes began to form on his palm, as if written there by an invisible hand. Lightning charred the air, and the acrid smell of ozone filled Spirit’s nostrils.

Just as the noise reached such a pitch it seemed the very world must be breaking from it, the fair man reached down and touched Spirit on the shoulder. Pain exploded from the contact point, and Spirit screamed and collapsed to the floor. All thought was replaced by a red haze that burned like the dawn. Echoing through his torment, he heard the fair man’s voice one last time. “The Creators’ gift to you, that you may accomplish these tasks set before you. Godspeed…”

“fire tamer.”

Spirit sat bolt upright in bed. Cold sweat drenched his body, and his heart pounded like a war drum. A hissing noise filled his ears, along with a cacophony of screaming and banging. For a moment he thought he was back in the fog-world, but his surroundings were a soothing yellow. He relaxed for a moment, and then jumped in surprise as someone emptied a bucket of freezing cold water on his head.

The shouting he had heard clarified into the voices of his aunt and cousin. Drac stood by the door, abject terror on his face, screaming at Spirit, “Get up! Get up now!”

Confused, Spirit swung his legs over the side of his own bed, and stood. “What’s wrong cousin?” Drac said nothing, only stared a Spirit’s mattress. Spirit looked down as well, and gasped in horror.

A huge fire raged directly on top of his bedspread! Orange flames ate away at the straw bedding like a starving man before a feast. Already little tongues of fire licked at the frame.

Aunt Laura frantically threw more water onto the conflagration, but the flames only leapt higher. After ineffectually dumping the rest of the liquid, she turned and sprinted out the door, while Drac took her place with a full bucket. Amidst all this, Spirit stood and stared in shock. What had happened? And how could they put out the fire if water did nothing?

Desperately, Spirit shouted at blaze, “No, stop!”

And suddenly, as Drac emptied his bucket over the bed, it did just that. Quickly, unnaturally so, the bonfire petered out to a little pile of ash in the middle of the floor. And all was silent.

Aunt Laura embraced Spirit, crying all the while. “Oh, my poor darling! What on earth happened? You slept all the way through that fire, and you’re not even burned!”

Spirit shook his head, doubt and amazement flooding his mind. Did that fire actually listen to me? No, that’s impossible!

While he wrestled with this conundrum, Drac strode over to Spirit’s wardrobe and began to rummage around. Pulling away from his aunt, Spirit strode over and said indignantly, “What are you doing?”

Drac turned about, his eyes fixed pointedly on the ceiling and a wad of clothes in his hand. “You might want to put these on.”

Spirit opened his mouth to protest, then looked down and gaped in astonishment. His clothes, which the night before had been entirely whole, albeit a bit dirty, now hung in smoking tatters around him. And he had not a burn on his body.

An hour later, they sat at the table discussing what had happened.

“Perhaps a coal from the bonfire was ignited by the wind, and a spark flew through your window.”

Drac shook his head. “No, that window was closed. I never opened it all day long.”

Aunt Laura snorted. “Well, you weren’t exactly in any position to remember this morning were you?”

As they continued to bicker, Spirit sat quietly on the far side of the table, a mug of tea clutched in his shaking hands. Although his eyes were unfocused, a battle raged in his mind. You know what you saw, his eyes said.

It was just chance. I happened to say stop just when Drac put it out, he replied.

Then why didn’t Aunt Laura’s buckful put it out?

I… Drac was just lucky.

But Spirit didn’t even believe what he was saying. Great. I just lost an argument with myself.

After a few moments, he became aware of a burning on his left shoulder. Maybe he had sustained a burn after all! Growing more excited by the second, Spirit rolled up his sleeve. What he saw would have amazed him, but after all that had happened he felt no surprise, only a grim resignation.

His birthmark, usually so transparent, now looked as if it had been inked onto his skin with a glowing pen. The little flame seemed to flicker across the corded muscles of his arm. A barely perceptible glow emanated from it, like a miniature lantern.

Drac was the first to notice, the point he was about to make dying on his lips as he stared open-mouthed at his cousin. Aunt Laura took one look at his glowing extremity and began to shake, then lowered her head into her hands.

“Spirit, your arm—”

“Yeah. I know.”

“What happened?”

Spirit gave a mirthless laugh. “I have no more clue than you do cousin.”

At that, silence fell over the table, broken only by the sobs of Aunt Laura. Spirit was still trying to grasp what was happening to him. Did that dream he had have something to do with what was going on? And if it did, what did it mean?

Eventually, Aunt Laura stopped crying and got up from the table. Her eyes were red and puffy, but her voice was steady as she said to the two shell-shocked boys, “Regardless of what all this means, none of us are going to be able to make any sense of it unless we get some rest. We can decide what to do tomorrow.”

Slowly, they nodded agreement and stood as well. As Spirit passed her, she reached out and enveloped him in a hug. But this time, he didn’t fight, just let himself be held. He could fell a wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes, but ruthlessly crushed the sense of despair threatening to engulf him. Stop it, he told himself; you don’t know if this is a good or bad thing. You’re tired, and have no clue as to what’s happening.

After a moment, she let go of him, and he followed his cousin up the stairs and into their room. A faint odor of smoke lingered in the air. After sweeping out the ashes of Spirit’s mattress, they had pushed the blackened bed frame off to the side and laid out a sleeping pallet for him. Kneeling, he rolled over onto his back with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered to himself.

“Don’t worry cousin,” said Drac. Obviously he had heard Spirit’s question. “I’m sure there’s a completely reasonable explanation for everything that’s going on. I mean, it’s not like you managed to light that fire or anything. You were asleep.”

“Yeah,” Spirit said. But his mind was made up. Maybe he did light the fire, maybe he didn’t. Regardless, something big was about to happen, and when it did, he was sure it was going to turn his whole world upside down.