The Son of Fire

The Son of Fire

by Simon Cull ’20

A murmur ran through the huddled mass, leather soles slid and skidded on the dirt floor.

“Quiet now, quiet,” The priest urged. “Don’t disturb his rest.”

It was barely visible to the onlookers in the doorway, but the slight glow and faint hiss emanating from the sleeping infant’s chest spoke what was yet unspoken. The worst had come, the boy was marked.

His father buried his face into his hands, the tips of his fingers pushing the felt farmer’s hat off the top of his head. His mother remained silent, blinking infrequently -- she was too physically and mentally exhausted from the thirty-hour labor to cry.

The priest turned to the midwives and farmers clogging the doorway to the hut. “Go. Leave us.” Some hesitated. “Please.”

As the onlookers filed out of the hut, the priest turned to the parents. “I’m sorry.” The boy’s father had wanted a son for nine years, praying for one every night, making generous offerings to the saints for his one unshakeable desire in life. And now, his son is marked. The elation of the prior hour faded as the mark began to take form, scarifying and cauterizing the infant’s chest, betraying his future.

“You know that boys like him go to the abbey --” the priest started.

But the father, snapping his head out of hands, screamed hoarsely, “No!” He had waited too long to lose his boy. “We’ll raise him, like any other child. We’ll make it through.”

The priest cautiously approached him, and laid a hand on his now trembling shoulder. “Ulric, my son, your dedication is… admirable, but you know the risks of marked children who aren’t trained properly.”

Indeed, Ulric did. Marked children, the holders of magical aptitude, while immensely powerful, were equally volatile. In the abbey, they were taught the mental skills needed to stop their otherwise inevitable descent into violent madness, but the boy would never return home, and never know his parents.

Ulric half-whispered his response, flat and monotone. “We can do it, father. Please, I just want a son --”

The priest cut him off. there was now a twinge of frustration in his voice. “My son, it isn’t negotiable. Without the abbey, he is a threat. If you insist on raising a untrained marked child,” his once-consoling tone had turned deadly serious, “it won’t be in my town. I ought to call the legion to take him away, in fact. But, I can’t ignore your service to His Faith. Leave by the end of week, unless you start seeing straight.”

A slight sigh from the haggard father. “Thank you, father.”

The priest began to see himself out, faint disgust crossing his face with a final glance at the infant’s mark. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Saints be with you.”

Over the next few days, Ulric sold off his land and cattle, and loaded the family’s meager possessions into their oxcart, settling down in another village some distance away.

They ignored the first signs, hoping against hope that their son, Artur, of all the children born marked, would be the one to develop normally and hold onto his sanity.

Artur learned to walk at six and talk at eight. He went from “cripple” to “mute” or “deaf-and-dumb”. He was no stranger to torment. One day, he had been dispatched to the well in the center of town for a bucket of water. Passing several children, filled pail in hand, a foot was extended from within the crowd. Artur hit the ground hard, and as he tasted the blood from his bit tongue, he grew red with anger at the children’s cackling. Their laughter began to die down and Artur became acutely aware, now, of the steam rising off his splashed skin and clothes, and of the hiss of his mark. It’s glowing outline was visible through the clothes stuck to his skin.

One tormenter sputtered out a “What?” at the odd sight. Artur could only let out a single sob in response and, trembling, he sprinted for home.

A disembodied whisper, barely perceivable, calls out. It wasn’t heard.

Three years later, the voice spoke to him. It was a cold winter, but a dry one, the sky blue and cloudless as he hid in the hedge that divided one farmer’s field from another’s, trying to stifle his ragged breathing from betraying his hiding spot. The other children were after him again. He was eleven years old.

“All they do is hate you, don’t they?”

It was a man’s voice, one he had never heard before -- it was as if the voice spoke into both his ears simultaneously.

Taken aback, Artur let out a “What?” to no one in particular.

“The children mock and bully you all the time. The adults fear you. Don’t act like you don’t know why. Because of the mark on your chest. Because of the embers in your fingers. You’re different.”

Artur held still, beginning to shake, as shapes flashed before his eyes. Images of fire, cities and people and animals burned. A world destroyed, perhaps, but a world Artur controlled undisputedly, surrounded by his element. “It can all be yours,” the voice began again, “but you’re afraid of yourself, just like the others.” The voice was authoritative, calming, speaking plainly. Almost fatherly. “They’ll hunt you down like a dog your whole life, yes, but haven’t your elders told you, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?’ They fear your fire.”  Artur found himself persuaded by this stranger in his mind, in spite of his equal fear of it. “The first step must be taken. Wake up.

A hand jammed into the hedges, seizing Artur by the collar. “Found the freak!” The voice of the chief of his childhood tormentors. The other boy threw Artur to the ground.

“Burn him,” The voice ordered.

Artur began to hyperventilate, scuttling on his back up the frozen, unplowed field. “No!” he cried out.

The bully, now joined by his friends, created a chorus of jeers and mockery. “What? Gonna cry?”

“The tears’ll just turn to steam!”

“Artur, could you bake my ma’s bread?”

“Where’s your dragonfire?”

“Burn them.” A command, once again, muffling external sound, as Artur seized up on the spot as images flashed before his eyes again. Little bodies turned to cinders, their frantic running and diving, trying to put themselves out. The predator cooks his prey. “Take your place.”

“I won’t! I won’t kill them!” Artur shrieked, now clawing at his scalp. The first kick connected with his ribs.

“Burn them for their insolence.”

“No!”

“What, you gonna singe my hair?” One of his attackers cackled. Another kick. And another.

“Burn them.”

Hands pulled Artur by his ankles, kicked and punched now from his left and right.

“Burn them.”

A glob of spit landed on the marked boy’s face, and began to sizzle and steam.

“Burn them.” More images of flames and charred skeletons. A world of ash flashed through Artur’s eyes. “Unlock your power. Don’t be a coward.”

“I --” Sparks flew out of his fingertips, his hairs, every pore, from all around him.

“Am not --” The woosh of oxygen sucked out of the air.

“A coward!” Heat outwards, and all around. Blinding light and children’s voices screaming. Bright light and smoke blinded Artur, and as it cleared the screaming likewise stopped. He could see three charred bodies lying about him, rigid and inhumanly twisted among the husks of that autumn’s corn crop, glowing, folding, and blackening.

Artur was barely cognizant that his clothes had been burnt off his body.

“Good. They should’ve feared you.”

Artur felt numb. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, as if he were deprived of all senses, yet still felt and saw and heard. He asked the stranger, “Who are you?”

The voice hesitated. “I… Am fire. And you… Are my son.”