Song from the Fire
A Flash Fiction by Stephanie Percival
A few children escape the explosion. Scurrying away; hunched insects, carrying nothing. Behind them clouds of dust and debris mushroom, covering the sky, concealing the sun.
Elba, risks a glance behind her. In the gloom, she sees fires breaking out, like dragons breathing flame, burrowing beneath rubble, devouring their homes; everything and everybody in them.
Too shocked to scream, they run. Human voices quashed. The children cover their ears against the thunder and growl of a city being crushed.
The first nights are the hardest. Cold penetrating to the core of their bodies, clothed in garments unsuitable for outdoors. During the day leaden skies and mizzle are a constant shadow at their shoulders. An acrid stench of singed life stains the air, catching in their throats. Elba coughs, wipes rusty spittle from her mouth.
Littlest is crying. They don’t know her real name. She hasn’t spoken since she tagged along with them. Crawling from a derelict house covered in dust. She just sobs, her nose running green snot, her shirt sleeve soiled where she wipes it. Elba holds her grubby hand, tells her it will be alright. None of them believes that lie.
They track wooded hills, between scorched tree trunks and scrub that provides scant cover. Trying to keep hidden from whatever monsters they imagine to be at large. They trek and forage during the few hours of ashy daylight; then make camp.
Seven of them huddle together, under a couple of ripped blankets that had once been red and blue.
Crouched on the ground, under the heavy black of night, her arm around a shivering Littlest, Elba wishes she could remember a song, something her mother might have sung to soothe her to sleep; settle Littlest into the comfort of dreams. But Elba’s too cold, too numbed. As if the ashy cloud has choked even that small comfort.
At night the darkness; pitch black, echoes like a well. Full of mysterious noises which make the children shudder. There is nothing and no one to comfort them.
They become used to this way of living; know they cannot return. Their homes and families, their whole world, have been destroyed, buried beneath piles of ash, smothering people, churches, schools, shops, libraries.
Ronus is the eldest, says he’s the leader. Nobody argues. His height and manner command respect. He’s the only boy whose voice has broken.
“Stop snivelling,” he says, when the last of the bread has been eaten and their stomachs still rumble.
Elba’s stomach churns with the few mouthfuls of food rotating in the emptiness, like grit in a washing machine drum. She remembers the scent of washing powder, the feel of clean clothes, but they’re distant dreams now. Like a warm jumper, a hug from a parent, a fairy tale from a favourite book.
When Elba looks at the night sky, no stars visible, just a grey miasma floating like dirty sheets, she thinks there might be nobody else left at all.
Then Ronus finds matches. They appear like an unspoken wish has been granted. A ripple of hope dances inside Elba at the thought of fire’s warmth and light. All of them obey Ronus, when he tells them to gather firewood. Their heads filled with the image of that magic spark. They set to their task with extra energy, collecting twigs and dried leaves. When night comes, the darkness isn’t as scary now they can shine light in its face. Unmask it.
Before they sleep, they sit in a circle round the fire pit, mesmerised. Yellow and orange flames, jitter and jump; licking the kindling. Smoke swirls from the fire, hovers above them in a sweet-smelling cloud. Elba sticks her tongue out tastes the air; it soothes the grating in her throat.
Fingers of flame grab the twigs and leaves, crackling with a noise like laughter. The children smile, as if the fire has broken a curse.
Elba watches, listens to the calm even breaths of her companions, even Littlest is sucking her thumb and is quiet. Fire glow on their cheeks makes their flesh pink rather than deathly pale. The flames dance, getting lower and lower as the sticks and twigs are consumed, until all that’s left are wriggling orange embers moving through the ash, like caterpillars. As Elba closes her eyes she hears song in their movement, like a long ago lullaby her mother had sung to her.
She begins to hum, the tune resounding in the stillness surrounding them. Then she recalls a few words. The others join in, until the air is filled with the sound of children singing.
Author: Stephanie’s writing journey began, when she was a finalist in a national writing competition. She enjoys writing in different genres and experimenting with different styles. Her collection, 'How to Catch and Keep a Kiss,' includes flash and short stories that have been long and short-listed and won various competitions.