Whispers of Love and Flame

By: Nathaniel Stiles

Mom said she would be right back. She said that grownups were unaffected by the darkness. Kids, she would say, were eaten alive. 

Mashew sat by a dwindling fire, his body cold in the back and warm in the front. How much longer would she take, he wondered, huddling nearer the flame. The darkness was closing in as the fire died. It was his only protection.  He scooted closer, practically touching the charred coals. Off to the side of him, a small stack of wood marked the only life resource left to him.

His thoughts scared him, forcing him to stand and pace, hoping that Mom would walk out of the darkness, holding a bundle of wood in her arms. She would comfort him and build the fire to a roaring blaze. They would dance and have fun. Mashew smiled happily and eyed the darkness, expecting her to come out and hug him.

Silence hung over the small clearing, suffocating the joy out of Mashew. Surely, she was coming. She was probably on her way now, he thought, and settled back down to wait. Her instructions had been clear: Keep the fire burning. He could do that.

Absently, he tossed some tinder into the flames, and they ate it greedily. Mashew’s stomach rumbled. He hoped that mom would waltz in with food to share with him. They would cook it over the fire and laugh happily as they ate. 

Glancing once more at the darkness, he waited. The silence became horrible once more. Tears slowly slid down his cheek, and he waited for Mom to wipe them away. No matter how long he waited, she didn’t come. He rubbed at his eyes furiously, smearing dirt onto his face that had accumulated after two weeks of darkness.

Off to the side, somewhere in the darkness, their house stood resolute. The darkness had come in a wave, overcoming them. His little sister, Anaya, had been trapped. He had screamed, clawing at his mother’s firm grip as the darkness rolled over her.

Devoured alive.

Mashew curled up by the fire, sobs racking his young body. Why had everything gone so wrong? First, Dad had gotten angry and left. Mom had cried for weeks, and Mashew had felt so helpless. Now she was gone, and he didn’t know where Dad was. 

Would Dad even want him back? He had seemed pretty angry. Perhaps Mashew could convince him. Oh, if only he could go somewhere else, be another young, innocent child. A kid with a dad who never got mad. A kid who was safe and listened to stories of heroes told by his mother, who was always there for him.

Once more, the only things that consoled him were the words of his mother, told to him in a mystical whisper: “Be strong, keep the fire burning, and I will return.”

Mashew turned over, staring up at the darkness. He was only nine years old, and he was all alone. “I hope Mom returns,” he croaked, rolling over again and burying his face into his arm.

He lay there for a while, contemplating. Was Mom really coming back? The thought sickened him. He had held hope for a few days now, clutching it in a death grip. Was he going to let it slip now? No, he decided firmly. Not yet.

He shivered at the sudden realization. And then he shivered again. Sitting up, confused, Mashew saw a few coals sitting where the fire had been. Only a small flame remained.

Suddenly seized by a manic impulse, Mashew leaped up and scrambled for the tinder, his heart thumping in his chest wildly. The darkness closed in, creeping up on him and chilling his back. Fear and hope saw his hands fly to the tinder, groping around frantically.

Where was the tinder? His hand fell on wood, and he pulled it up, heaving it into the fire. It was a small stick, round and smoothed. It had bristles on its end. Mashew stared at it dumbly. His mother’s prized hairbrush!

Sinking to the ground, Mashew watched it burn with a feeling of great sadness. He waited for Mom to console him, to say it was all right. The silence was mind-numbing. 

Slowly, too tired to breach the heavy quiet, Mashew drifted off to sleep, his dreams filled with tales of mighty heroes.

………………………………

The next morning was dark and chilly, as always, and the fire did little in the way of heat. Mashew shivered and pulled on his tattered sweater, huddling as close as he dared to the fire. Dreamily, he imagined his mom’s arms holding him, bringing him a little extra heat to fight off the cold. 

Sighing, Mashew shattered the fantasy and stood up, preparing to grab some more tinder. The fire was getting low, after all. To his surprise, when he rounded the fire, he found that there was no more tinder. Dread settled in his stomach, twisting his organs into knots. 

He was doomed.

The next few hours dragged on as Mashew stared at the pitiful flames, slowly burning out. His “inner landscape,” as his mother had always said, was not doing so well. Cold steadily crept in and found a comfortable home in him, causing him to shiver violently.

Soon, only red hot coals remained. The darkness was centimeters from him, dragging at his shirt. Fear clutched him savagely. He curled up in an attempt to hide from the overwhelming sensation. Tears silently streaked down his face, and he kissed the ground as his mother would kiss him, gently and caring.

Water began to fall from the sky, the cascading drops caroming off of his dry skin. Rain, he thought dumbly, staring upward as the droplets cleaned the dirt from his skin. It had not rained in a long time. 

Behind him, a primal hiss rose, causing the hairs on Mashew’s neck to stand alert. He whirled and just barely glimpsed the dark coals of the fire as the darkness surged in around him, cloaking him in freezing night.

……………………………

Mashew whirled in a world of darkness and panic, clawing for an exit, a way to relight the fire, to start life again. He didn’t want to be devoured alive, screaming for Mom. Mom. She hadn’t come.

Tears slid freely, but no sound emitted from his gaping mouth. However hard he tried to scream, he couldn’t make a sound in the void. He couldn’t breathe. Numbness overcame his body, moving up his legs and strangling his arms.

Nothing to see. Nothing to see. Nothing to see. Mashew’s mind was swept up in a torrent of random thoughts. How many chickens did it take to cross a road? The guy across the yard could use a cat or two. Who gave toothpaste to the criminal? Give me all of your lightning, or I will shame your pig.

As Mashew wandered, slowly dying, his breath gone, his brain a jumble, numb all over, a light began to pierce the darkness, cutting through it like a train through a dark tunnel. Tired and half frozen, Mashew stumbled toward it, thinking it was heaven and his time on the earth was done. 

Suddenly, the light expanded brilliantly, washing away the darkness, the cold, the random thoughts. 

Mashew blinked, staring out at the world, awe filling him to the very brim and spilling over. His house stood frozen, half wrecked from the initial wave of darkness. The whole city was in shambles.

In the center of it all stood a massive tower of what appeared to be pure light. He stared at it in awe, whispering “angel” continuously. He stood atop a hill. His childhood sledding hill. It felt like so much time since he last sledded, though it had only been three months since winter.

Below him ran a figure in a rumpled lab coat, her hair flying in the breeze.

Mashew stared in confusion as she hurried up the hill. Who was she? His name floated on the breeze, laden with a familiar voice. 

“Mashew! Mashew!” 

Tears sprung to his eyes, this time not of sadness or despair but of abject happiness. She crested the hill, her brown eyes dancing with delight, her black hair whipping wildly about, barely restrained by her braids. He flung himself into her arms, crying.

“Mom!”

“I told you I would be back,” she soothed, stroking his hair softly.

“I burned your comb,” he blurted out, wincing, feeling himself foolish.

“That’s okay, honey,” her hands rested firmly on his shoulder, and he looked up into her confident eyes.

“You are safe.”

                                                      The End