The Tale of the Angel and the Fire
The angel Mirab stands at the salt lake's shore. He is a tattered ruin.
Mirab's legs are encased in armor so old and rusted he cannot move them. In his right hand he holds a bowl of fire; in his left, a little knife, curved and cruel like a crow's beak. His hair is ragged, chopped off in uneven pieces; his wings, half-plucked. Strips of his skin are missing. Several of his fingers have been bitten off.
Mirab's duty is to feed the fire.
Once, people came to Mirab, gave him cedar, beeswax, and books of songs. They gave him bright-burning tallow and smoky pine. In those times Mirab was a beacon, his wings like copper mirrors bathing the lake in sunlight and fire.
Now no one comes with fuel for Mirab, so he burns his hair and feathers and fingers and skin.
Someday there will be no more angel left to burn, and the fire will go out. What will become of the world?
Mirab's legs are encased in armor so old and rusted he cannot move them. In his right hand he holds a bowl of fire; in his left, a little knife, curved and cruel like a crow's beak. His hair is ragged, chopped off in uneven pieces; his wings, half-plucked. Strips of his skin are missing. Several of his fingers have been bitten off.
Mirab's duty is to feed the fire.
Once, people came to Mirab, gave him cedar, beeswax, and books of songs. They gave him bright-burning tallow and smoky pine. In those times Mirab was a beacon, his wings like copper mirrors bathing the lake in sunlight and fire.
Now no one comes with fuel for Mirab, so he burns his hair and feathers and fingers and skin.
Someday there will be no more angel left to burn, and the fire will go out. What will become of the world?