You step from the hatch and see a line of bricks built into the wall that protects this section of the parapet from rough sea; it’s a day of symphonic bluster and the azure sky has become overtaken by the glow of a nearby brushfire. A warm buffet of ash sweeps past as the howl of the open hatchway wails in freight against the squall, shaking on its mountings and attempting to break itself free.
Slamming the metal barricade shut, you attempt shield your ears against the wailing wind and turn look to toward the walkway again.
Bracing against the din of movement, you see hundreds of small motes of ash take to the air, each caught within the plough-winds of the approaching storm. The embers grow white hot as they travel, almost bursting to flame as they are carried to the dunes beyond, searching for new ground to add to the fire’s raking claw. An ember brushes against your hand and you sharply brush it to the floor, a welt of pain radiating from the remaining ash left where it had landed.
Stamping on the small fire that has sprung to life at your feet you crouch lower and attempt to take whatever buffer the brick wall could afford you.
A crash impacts the bridge some meters away and radiant sparks explode outward in a flurry of terrified movement. A branch, thrown as if it were a matchstick, is pulled up over the wall and smashed into errant coals taking bricks from the walkway and bathing the way ahead in fire. Lightning crackles beyond the storm-front and illuminates the sea in a moment of dazzling blue, without time to brace, the roar of the following thunder shakes the earth, and you tumble from the safety of the wall, choosing to utilise this moment of panicked flight.
The ash moves slowly, and the burning air feels like a rasp as you breathe. Unable to blink the soot from your vision you dart along the walkway toward the bridge and leap over the branch that moulders upon the ruins of the break-wall; time and time again you had walked along this path and taken the wind break for granted, stealing a glance sideward you see the hills of the land beyond shrouded by the pall of fire. The summer had been dry and the withered beechwood quick to kindle. You think of the rabbits and finches that call the dense scrublands home as you continue to run, hoping that they find salvation before the sand turns to glass below their feet.
It’s dangerous to run along this damaged wall, you duck low while moving forward so that the wind doesn’t take you over the edge, the ash in the air making it challenging to see your path clearly.
Why today, why today of all days did the beacon choose to lose its flame. Looking bitterly to the fires of the hills and then to the churning sea you softly curse under your breath and finally reach the safety of the tower.
Pressing against the wall you see the blinding flash of lightning striking one of the harbour pines, splintered wood strewn across the sandstone and the once mighty tree sent crashing into the harbour below. The sea cruelly drags the ancient tree into its depths, crashing and churning the relic against the rock of its bead, making sure than no trace could remain.
The concussion of sound following the strike shakes the world again with the anger of a god, you look upward in time to see sections of rock dislodged from the tower above and hurtling down toward you.
Dive to the side in a reflex of preservation, you roll across the walkway and hear the impact of the fallen brickwork behind you, fine granules of mortar showering your back as momentum carries you toward to the edge of the walkway.
Clasping at the free air below, you manage to hang on before the precipice and are brought into look to the heart of the sea.
Death has not come for you yet, there’s too much that needs to be done.
You scramble back to safety and into the tower above; Sound shakes this stone monolith as with the hands of a raging giant, as emblems of your village fall from the ascending walls.
Care now lost, you make for the stairwell and begin the lonely ascent, shockwaves threatening to throw you with each step. You must hurry, the sun hangs low, and the way-light is out.
‘Never let the light be out at night,’ they said repeatedly, elder gods of wrath a ruin shall return if the tower should fall.
What has that fool done? How could they have left the lantern unkindled so close to sunset?
Embers now began to walk with life upon the air, the will-o-whisps of dead sprits lazily drifting through the stone and seeking to steal the life that they cannot remember.
As if embodied within the strike viper, an ember lashes outward attempting to unseat you from the mortal coil. Stepping leftward you dive forward under the sudden gout of flame and crash down hard upon the stone of the staircase, crying out in pain you feel the ember moving downward as if searching for you, the heat of its flames growing closer and closer.
A lantern of bronze you retrieve from your side and hold open toward the approaching flame.
Enticed by the lamp oil within, the ember takes rest upon the wick, allowing you to snap the seal shut, a single blue flame now burning within the heart of the storm lantern.
It’s too late, you worry as the world seems to have become wreathed in flame. A Firebird of destruction returned and its passing enough to turn the clouds into mist and the lands below to stone.
You run, with encompassing fear you run onward, not caring for the lashing embers that seem to grow more innumerable with each passing second. Coughing heavily on ash you reach the tower’s summit and see Cycas before you.
‘What have you done?’ you manage to cough as the weight of the last hour begins to draw your breath shallow.
‘The flame is out my fellow keeper,’ Cycas spoke with impasse, ‘it seems that the old tales were right in this tower being important. The last anchor holding us all to reality and burning so vigilantly against the night sky. I’m almost sad,’ they spoke while withdrawing a simple knife of gleaming edge, ‘but no, I’m too tired to feel remorse.’
Moving without the fear of death Cycas lashed outward with scything arcs, their eyes were mad and deeply hollow from fretful rest. Stepping close to avoid the edge of their blade you push into Cycas, attempting to unseat their balance and hopefully wrest the knife from their grasp.
With speed beyond the frailty of their form, Cycas clutches at your shirt with a withered claw and holds you ready for the final strike. Life no longer in their eyes they cast their knife toward you and wish to see this world undone.
Quiet,
The entire world takes on an eddy of expanding quiet as a gentle blue washes into the sky and the fire recedes once more to the heart of the deep beyond.
You lay upon the cool stone of the tower’s apex with a shattered lantern by your side.
The beacon now relit and Cycas joined with the embers and ash, you look to your burned hands and finally take in an unlaboured breath.
‘Such destruction can be wrought at the heart of man, they who stoke the flames of existence become jaded and embrace a void able to shout beyond sky and sun. See these dirging bells and know their purpose. Good will lift this destruction from the flames and withstand its hatred.
Know rest and see the light of the coming morning, you must be tired.’
J.McCray
2021
Sunday Short Stories 