Sweetly Bitter
The wind brought a hint of ash and smoke to him. The fire was raging behind, out of sight, coursing over the landscape. The river stood between him and the fertile valley beside the mountaintop. Berries grew across the way, as their skin started to sizzle from the wall of heat encompassing the valley. The saddleback ridge was a mass of dazzling colours, flame-drenched infinity washing over the seams of the earth. Soon, it would be clean again. Cleared, ready to start anew. His work was done.
Outside his campsite, the evening breeze continued to carry the smell of cedars and pine burning across the canyon. The river beneath him and the sheer drop downward would keep anything but the birds from escaping. He had already seen them leave hours beforehand, with the creatures beneath the earth encompassed by the sulfur fumes. The oil bloom would blow soon, with nothing to keep it from flooding across the entire mountainside and the valley. It would be set off by the guerillas in the morning if he hadn’t stepped in and fueled along nature’s path. The controlled implosion of the well would keep it from being used for domestic cars or rocket fuel for ICBM’s sold on the black market out of Moscow’s reach. Instead, it was burning up carbon deposits left untouched since the Paleolithic Era. No one would take advantage of them here.
The fire continued. He looked across the river, the smell of his work continuing. He couldn’t place why it seemed so familiar, except there was a hint of something vibrant beneath the wood. The scent of the Southwest, piñon nuts burning alongside the dry stubble of the caked soil, fueled his memory like a fresh log. What remained of his memory was quickly being consumed, fresh energy. What had been burnt was any hint of a past. The future hit him every evening like a wave of heat, driving any thought of approaching away. Every night, he sat beneath the only tree he left unlicked by the flames. One tree, amidst a field of burnt rubble or cinders. He preferred city jobs, but only when there was no one to get hurt. No one, not even the fighters who held onto women and children in their headquarters, ready to blame any attack as a case of hitting civilian targets from unmanned, unfeeling inhumane technology raining from the skies. Ragnarok too soon, and without any gods to oversee it.
He sat beneath the tree, the burnt cedar spiraling upward into the air from the warm air. Circling ever higher, he could make out a single bird, not a carrion feeder because they breathed the smoke and left before the others. No, this was a common sparrow or woodlark, a branch in its mouth. The only sign of the forest left other than above his head and beneath his legs. He sat beneath the tree, the dust devils dragging his handiwork upward to the skies. The ashes coated his jacket, licked his boots with the pyre’s cooking, and settled onto his wide-brimmed hat like snow. There was nothing warm about this place, his gaze settling on the cold ground. After the flame, it was cold as tundra, ice-fields beneath the settling clouds of ash and smoke alighting the heavens. When he started, there used to be hidden meanings in those clouds, hanging so close to his understanding he could read them aloud. Not script, but a text waiting to be unfurled, a royal decree or a sealed missive meant only for his eyes. He sat beneath his bodhi tree.
When would it stop? When could he go back and join the memories he had consumed? The outlines of figures started back at him through the haze, smoky outlines of dreams he once had. The mist started to cling to his jacket now, dew running down the tips of his hat. His legs were ice, burning with the fierce licking flames of frost. It hadn’t settled into his bones, ready to bite at any moment. He knew it was almost time, but not yet. He sat beneath his bodhi tree. Waiting.
The past didn’t have to unfurl for him. There was no waiting for enlightenment, or a sudden realization. He opened his eyes, and the suddenness was worn away by a million scenes and sounds of falling charnel, roasted chlorophyll, the egress of his work. Without having to sit, he knew his mind was stilled. There was nothing left in it, only the last ashes of a self he had long since put to the pyre. He scooped a handful of them, rubbing them deeper into the pores of his face and smearing his hands with the gray-black concealment. His face came easily enough; he left it here when he went into town, on errands or to find supplies. His backers could always track him, but never could remember his face. Like the façade on a building that swayed in the wind, it shifted with each breeze. The sensation of his rimed hat didn’t reach his nerves. The last vestiges of his tongue were so far burnt he never tried to taste the ash anymore. Not since the lighting fluid had traveled down his throat, set fire to his lungs, and shot up with a bang like a carnival fire-eater. He breathed fuel and exhaled ash now.
What remained was the smell. The delicate scent of something yet pressing on his mind. The only remainder of a lingering feeling of belonging. The preparation mind almost be over. The lark above saw the figure beneath the tree light a sulfur match, the kind of old-burning flame that leapt up with a green core. It dazzled the black and white landscape, burning like foxfire. The dark coat and trenchant stare of the man was as blank as the landscape, as unsmiling as any figure could be in that wasteland. He light the tip of tongue, and it burnt like it was made of slow-roasting kindling. He breathed out a puff of smoke, and inhaled. The lark only saw a flash of dazzling green light, and a flame like the heart of a tree stood at its roots. It sat, in a medium sized inferno, blazing away without so much as singeing the bark. After a while, the figure returned, sitting beneath the bodhi tree. He was white as ash, covered and dampening in the early morning humidity.
He stood up, inhaled deeply through his nose. There wasn’t a single sensation left to him. For the first time (it might have well been the first, since he could no longer remember or perhaps was he even the same man as before?) he smiled. It was the smile of darkness, of diving into the volcano and waiting to open the doors of night. He had appeased Justice, now waited and stood hoping to be admitted to Her throne room.
The fire-slinger stood up beneath the bodhi tree and began to walk. His feet were already ashes. They crumbled with each step he took, until his torso fell into the ground, as if a chasm in the earth had swallowed him whole. There was not a fleck of dust left of his passing. The only remains he left was a single bronze ring next to the tree. It gleamed in the morning dew, catching the last flickering tongues of the blaze. It smelled of piñon nuts, roasted berries, and the wood smoke of a distant camp which still caught the desert air. The charnel was gone, and only the stark branches of the bodhi tree left a sign.
He was the flame now. The ring glowed with a brilliant green sheen deep in the metal.
Outside his campsite, the evening breeze continued to carry the smell of cedars and pine burning across the canyon. The river beneath him and the sheer drop downward would keep anything but the birds from escaping. He had already seen them leave hours beforehand, with the creatures beneath the earth encompassed by the sulfur fumes. The oil bloom would blow soon, with nothing to keep it from flooding across the entire mountainside and the valley. It would be set off by the guerillas in the morning if he hadn’t stepped in and fueled along nature’s path. The controlled implosion of the well would keep it from being used for domestic cars or rocket fuel for ICBM’s sold on the black market out of Moscow’s reach. Instead, it was burning up carbon deposits left untouched since the Paleolithic Era. No one would take advantage of them here.
The fire continued. He looked across the river, the smell of his work continuing. He couldn’t place why it seemed so familiar, except there was a hint of something vibrant beneath the wood. The scent of the Southwest, piñon nuts burning alongside the dry stubble of the caked soil, fueled his memory like a fresh log. What remained of his memory was quickly being consumed, fresh energy. What had been burnt was any hint of a past. The future hit him every evening like a wave of heat, driving any thought of approaching away. Every night, he sat beneath the only tree he left unlicked by the flames. One tree, amidst a field of burnt rubble or cinders. He preferred city jobs, but only when there was no one to get hurt. No one, not even the fighters who held onto women and children in their headquarters, ready to blame any attack as a case of hitting civilian targets from unmanned, unfeeling inhumane technology raining from the skies. Ragnarok too soon, and without any gods to oversee it.
He sat beneath the tree, the burnt cedar spiraling upward into the air from the warm air. Circling ever higher, he could make out a single bird, not a carrion feeder because they breathed the smoke and left before the others. No, this was a common sparrow or woodlark, a branch in its mouth. The only sign of the forest left other than above his head and beneath his legs. He sat beneath the tree, the dust devils dragging his handiwork upward to the skies. The ashes coated his jacket, licked his boots with the pyre’s cooking, and settled onto his wide-brimmed hat like snow. There was nothing warm about this place, his gaze settling on the cold ground. After the flame, it was cold as tundra, ice-fields beneath the settling clouds of ash and smoke alighting the heavens. When he started, there used to be hidden meanings in those clouds, hanging so close to his understanding he could read them aloud. Not script, but a text waiting to be unfurled, a royal decree or a sealed missive meant only for his eyes. He sat beneath his bodhi tree.
When would it stop? When could he go back and join the memories he had consumed? The outlines of figures started back at him through the haze, smoky outlines of dreams he once had. The mist started to cling to his jacket now, dew running down the tips of his hat. His legs were ice, burning with the fierce licking flames of frost. It hadn’t settled into his bones, ready to bite at any moment. He knew it was almost time, but not yet. He sat beneath his bodhi tree. Waiting.
The past didn’t have to unfurl for him. There was no waiting for enlightenment, or a sudden realization. He opened his eyes, and the suddenness was worn away by a million scenes and sounds of falling charnel, roasted chlorophyll, the egress of his work. Without having to sit, he knew his mind was stilled. There was nothing left in it, only the last ashes of a self he had long since put to the pyre. He scooped a handful of them, rubbing them deeper into the pores of his face and smearing his hands with the gray-black concealment. His face came easily enough; he left it here when he went into town, on errands or to find supplies. His backers could always track him, but never could remember his face. Like the façade on a building that swayed in the wind, it shifted with each breeze. The sensation of his rimed hat didn’t reach his nerves. The last vestiges of his tongue were so far burnt he never tried to taste the ash anymore. Not since the lighting fluid had traveled down his throat, set fire to his lungs, and shot up with a bang like a carnival fire-eater. He breathed fuel and exhaled ash now.
What remained was the smell. The delicate scent of something yet pressing on his mind. The only remainder of a lingering feeling of belonging. The preparation mind almost be over. The lark above saw the figure beneath the tree light a sulfur match, the kind of old-burning flame that leapt up with a green core. It dazzled the black and white landscape, burning like foxfire. The dark coat and trenchant stare of the man was as blank as the landscape, as unsmiling as any figure could be in that wasteland. He light the tip of tongue, and it burnt like it was made of slow-roasting kindling. He breathed out a puff of smoke, and inhaled. The lark only saw a flash of dazzling green light, and a flame like the heart of a tree stood at its roots. It sat, in a medium sized inferno, blazing away without so much as singeing the bark. After a while, the figure returned, sitting beneath the bodhi tree. He was white as ash, covered and dampening in the early morning humidity.
He stood up, inhaled deeply through his nose. There wasn’t a single sensation left to him. For the first time (it might have well been the first, since he could no longer remember or perhaps was he even the same man as before?) he smiled. It was the smile of darkness, of diving into the volcano and waiting to open the doors of night. He had appeased Justice, now waited and stood hoping to be admitted to Her throne room.
The fire-slinger stood up beneath the bodhi tree and began to walk. His feet were already ashes. They crumbled with each step he took, until his torso fell into the ground, as if a chasm in the earth had swallowed him whole. There was not a fleck of dust left of his passing. The only remains he left was a single bronze ring next to the tree. It gleamed in the morning dew, catching the last flickering tongues of the blaze. It smelled of piñon nuts, roasted berries, and the wood smoke of a distant camp which still caught the desert air. The charnel was gone, and only the stark branches of the bodhi tree left a sign.
He was the flame now. The ring glowed with a brilliant green sheen deep in the metal.