Pompeii

The wooden stick struck into the crack in the pebbled pavement, making him stumble. Another child ran past him, cackling.

“Ooh...Hephstus. Watch your step!”

He glared at her with eyes hot with tears. A reddish scar ran across the left side of his face; inflamed skin that had crawled out with him from his mother’s womb and was here to stay.

“My name is not Hephstus!” he slobbered, launching himself forward against the merciless peer that stared at him with eyes glowing in laughter.

A remorseless force bore down the back of his head, sending him tumbling forward. His eyes popped as he turned, open-mouthed, to observe his attacker. It was a man much like a tower, with skin that was grimy and pink with scars. The child stumbled away on his twig legs but the tower did not diminish. It trained its unforgiving eyes on him.  

“Stop fooling around on the road.” It growled in a voice thick with accent. The child barely brought his head down in a nod, before the tower moved away. The child noticed the red tunic beneath the man's gold armor and the glinting blade strapped to his thigh. He did not need a blade, he could crush a skull with his bare hands; thought the child.

The child straightened himself; breathing heavily. A fish vendor chortled at the scene from across the pebble path after making the man was out of sight. The child glared at him, carefully maneuvering his stick to pick his way back home. He was alone now. The merciless peer with beautiful eyes had left him.

He played with the grime on the white pebbles with his stick, smiling as he smudged and crushed it into soft powder. The child sniffed. His chest constricted. Leaning on his stick, he stopped until the feeling passed. A piece of soot floated in front of his eyes. He blinked. What was that? He stared at the sky above; it was buried in gray. The only signs of the Sun appeared through slight cracks in the mold. The divine light was hidden.

He glared at the sky for a long moment; leaning on his stick in the middle of the pebble path. Around him, gray dust settled slowly over the dark-red and white houses. Worried whispers bubbled along the street and in the houses. The gods were unhappy.

The child shook his head and moved forwards, having pushed past his discomfort. He had a question to ask his mother. Tottering forwards mechanically, he pictured her in their home, sitting next to the burning kiln on her haunches and stirring a pot of watery stew. She would be wrapped in her grey and crimson tunic, which had faded after years of dust and grime.  

The pebble path swung violently.

His stick jolted up and he fell, crashing into an earthen pot that was about size of his body. He lay still in the ruin, gazing at the gray sky in shock. The agitated thrum in the earth coursed through his body, as if he was a baby and his mother was rocking him in her arms and the air was cool and pleasant on his skin and he was giggling—

“Get up, you brat!”

A mound of ashy gray hair shuffled into his view and broke his vision. He was on top of someone’s broken pot on a perfectly still earth. His head spun.

“It is happening once more!” A girl’s voice exclaimed from somewhere across the corner. What was happening? He did not know. The old woman’s pursed her mouth (which had as many wrinkles on it as there were cracks in the path.) grimly, gripping her dark shawl.

“The gods are unhappy.” She muttered, her dark eyes glowing with memories of a distant, disastrous time. The child looked at her in wonder, before she suddenly jolted, reaching for him with heart-rending speed.

“You! Get up!”

She grabbed his shoulder and straightened him on his feet. Immediately wobbling, the child pressed against the wall of her home. His eyes darted to the bare red carpet beneath his feet which was covered with the ruins of one pot and several other (fully intact) smaller pots. The view spun together into a whirlpool of white and red.

“You are bleeding.” The old woman told him. There were so many cracks in her face.

The child muttered a strange sound in his throat as a reply. Perhaps he was bleeding. He did not know what to do.

“Get a hold of yourself!” She said sharply, gripping him again. The pain shocked him into movement. “Is your home nearby? Do you have a mother?”

Unsure whether any other mode of action was available to him, the child nodded in reply and the whirlpool returned. This time it was dark and soft and filled with many, many lines—

She pulled him forward, bidding him to lead her to his mother. The child floated alongside her determined stride, feeling as if he did not need the wooden stick anymore. He tightened his grip on it.

“I’m...I’m sorry.” He slurred, glancing at the old woman. “I’m sorry about your…your pot.”

She did not answer him. Her eyes followed a procession of white-robed men and women as they hurried past them; holding bottles of incense and garlands of flowers. Slaves in brown tunics hurried after them, holding or leading live sacrifices with ropes. The yellow horns of a groaning ox caught his eye as the old woman pulled him into a corner. It dug its heels into the pebble path and was swinging its head against the pull of a grimacing slave. Soon, more slaves surrounded the reluctant ox and the old woman tugged at the child's shoulder.

“They will try to appease the gods.” She commented as they neared his home. She squeezed his shoulder. “It is best to remain inside until it is safe.”

The child stared at her vacantly as his feet obeyed her command. He was unable to say thank you or sorry or to invite her in his house or to offer compensation—

His mother shouted. She rushed at him, arms reaching and mouth open with worry. Twirling and glowing, the flames in the kiln caught the child’s eye. He was not able to explain anything. He did not need to. He closed his eyes and fell into her arms.

He was in her arms, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. There was no danger here. His mother would never let him fall…

The child awoke with a jolt as the ground beneath him shuddered. Sudden energy coursed through his body and he sat up, discerning his mother huddled next to him. They were squeezed beneath the door frame of their house. The kiln was cold. The sky was black.

The child licked his parched lips and tasted ash. Violent coughs of an old man could be heard echoing through the street. The ground tilted up and the whirlpool returned. The coughing grew louder and hoarser as if the old man’s soul was being wrenched from his body.

His mother bundled him in his arms.

Their hammock swung from its position and crashed into the kiln, flapping and spreading as a relentless gust of air attacked it. Pots of mud and clay crashed and broke. The child watched the water run over the ground with a sharp pain in his chest. Where were they going to get water when he couldn't even see the pebbles outside his house? He turned away and peered at the billowing darkness outside; pressed against the warmth of his mother. She, at least did not smell like ash.

The billowing black mold cracked to reveal light.

“Mother.” He mumbled, looking up at her with urgent eyes. “Who is Hephstus?”

The light of a raging fire.