Hair of Fire

I always thought of the heat as happiness. Warmth. Like a family. Cold was the bitter iciness panging the back of your head, numbing your fingers and toes until all you wanted to do was go back inside and sip hot cocoa.

That was until I moved to the blistering desert.

Turns out, enough of anything and you can be numbed by that too. (I was pretty sure my skin considered a slight breeze as “cold” by now.) 

Sigh.

I stared out the dusty window with ragged breaths, so deep in my own regrets that I didn’t hear the AC sputter out. I literally had the minimum number of clothes on I could have without being naked, just a crop top and shorts. Not a single cloud dotted the sky, with zero wind chill or even rain. I had admired my small cottage’s medieval aesthetic at first—filled with dried herbs, spellbooks and art supplies—but it definitely got old having sandy floors, wood walls with cracks letting in the heat and no way to communicate with the outer world. (Not to mention I could barely go outside for two minutes without getting sunburned—the downsides of being a redhead.)

Cuz I was a (*dunt dunt dunt*) wanted witch.

Or, to be more clear, I was a banned witch.

Or, to be more clear, I was a banned wannabe witch. (Still a witch-and-training, if you get my gist.)

Clumsiness is a painful trait to have when brewing potions, so of course my clan booted me out at age 18. I was stuck in my own ~Mini Town of Mirora~ until I’m 20, or mastered the hardest spell in the spellbook—the teleportation spell. 

Nobody has gotten it for centuries, I thought miserably to myself as I padded over the dusty floor and started poking at the AC machine, willing it to work. Also known as the Spark Spell, the teleportation spell required more than just memorization or magic in your blood: it needed you to mean it. For you to channel your inner spark, whatever that meant, tapping into a passion or inspiration or feeling. And since I really didn’t want to be stuck in the desert for another 11 months, I was working my butt off trying to find my spark. (Also trying to find a spell that magically made the room cooler, but oh well.)

Bang bang bang.

I whirled around, my mass of vibrant red hair flouncing on my shoulders. (I wear it down pretty much just because hair is needed in tons of potions.) Who was that?

Silence.

I whispered a quick enchantment to the air conditioning—a fixing spell, which resulted in a steady stream of 70° air flowing out of the vents, thank god—and walked past my art table, where I spent most of my time when not in my spell nook. (Contrary to popular belief of my entire clan, I’m amazing at art. [Or...I try to be.] I love painting, sketching, writing, songwriting, or really anything with creating, well, creatively.)  

Bang bang bang.

I set my eyes on the door. Who the heck is here?

“Mirora Sharps?” a deep voice said.

My eyes widened. And how did this visitor know my name?

I cautiously edged closer to the door, sneaking a quick peek at the double lock to make sure it’s secure before saying, “Yes, it is she, who are you?”

Bang bang bang.

“Open up. I have news.”

“Um...okay. Don’t kill me. I’m armed,” I threatened, snatching my wand up and opening the door. “Hello.”

No one was there.

Or, no one at eye level.

“Down here,” the voice croaked. I shifted my gaze and sure enough, there was a 2-foot...something at my doorstep? It was swaddled in blankets, only two large ice-blue eyes peeking out. He waddled into my home, jumping on my bed with surprising grace. I didn’t even protest. “So, Mirora Sharps, I heard you wanted magic assistance.”

My eyes widened. Yes, yes, yes! “That’s exactly what I’ve been praying for every day for 13 months,” I breathed. “Are you...by chance...Nigopa Hema?” The patron goddess of my witch clan could surely help me with the Spark Spell. “Okay so I have an entire list of things I need help with, cuz like people say my art isn’t good and this spel—”

The visitor laughed, ripping off his blankets. A warty goblin face stared back. “Far from. And no, young sapling, your art muse seems to be down with the flu. But I have assistance nonetheless.” His eyes darted around my room to the art nook, half-finished sketches and fashion designs pinned on a cork board.

“Like what?” I narrowed my eyes (and ignored the insult, I was used to that kind of stuff but I knew I was awesome at the arts), grabbing a tank top and a hair tie from a nearby dresser, sliding on the shirt and stuffing my long fluff of red into a messy high bun.  

“A prophecy.”

I almost jumped back. Prophecies seemed to only bring bad news, as my mother taught me. Right up there with other repeated lessons such as appreciate what you have, the past is best left forgotten and Mirora You Are Bad At Arts. “Oh, oh, heck no,” I said, backing into my dresser.

The goblin studied me. “Too late.”

His eyes flared open, mouth dropping into an O, face stiffening as blue light poured from every hole on his head. He looked like he was possessed as he smoothly rose a foot above the ground, wind suddenly whipping around us, his voice deeper and more ominous when he finally spoke:

The wish of the girl with hair of fire 

Finds her strand at the place of wire 

Where centuries have come and fallen at ease 

And many have found the thing they felt out of reach 

Then with a pop, he was gone, before I even got the chance to whisper “Thanks”.

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*

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I shakily lowered myself onto my bed, the goblin-spaced dent in it gone as well.

Um...okay.

That was something.

Prophecy, goblin intruder, more insults, what was new?

At first I wanted to brush it off. Why should I listen to a word the goblin said? I didn’t even catch his name. Following this prophecy could be dangerous and after all, I only had 11 months until I was back in the witch clan.

But I didn’t want to wait that long, did I? And this prophecy intrigued me.

I took a deep breath, a few sips of water, and scratched the goblin’s message down before I could forget it. Before I did anything, I needed to figure out what this even meant.

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The wish of the girl with hair of fire 

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The first line was easy enough. I was the girl with hair of fire (I glanced at my highlighted red hair framing my face—yup, hadda be me), and my wish was to find my “spark” to help me get the teleportation spell.

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Finds her strand at the place of wire 

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The second line was harder. What was my “strand”? Was that some other spell terminology? But it said I need to find it, and I think I would know if I was looking for something other than my spark.

I glanced back at the first line. Hair. Strand. Maybe the two lines were connected and it was a strand like a strand of hair, but that didn’t make sense either. But what about the fire part? A bit of hair could be a strand and a bit of fire could be...a spark. Ooh, yes! I thought. My “strand” connected back to my “hair of fire”—of course I was looking for my spark. (Although I was a bit surprised they even used that word in a prophecy. It was kinda slang for, again, whatever feeling or passion you’re tapping into.)

What about the “place of wire?”

I thought for a few moments, but I couldn’t think of anything. There was plenty of wire around the world. I’d come back to that.

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Where centuries have come and fallen at ease 

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Sooo...this “place of wire” could maybe be a home, or some place where people have been for centuries and chilled. After all, they even “fell with ease”. Must be pretty special.

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And many have found the thing they felt out of reach 

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The meaning of the last line snapped to me immediately: more sparks. That was the thing almost every witch felt out of reach, and that was what this prophecy was about: finding my spark. 

So, I thought as I pieced together the prophecy, I’ll find my meaning at the “place of wire”, which has/had been a special, peaceful place for centuries and many others have found their sparks there too.

Yet I still didn’t freaking know where that is.

I rolled over onto my stomach on my bed, sweat rolling down my forehead more intensely now as I stared at the paper. I was so close. I just needed to brainstorm. 

Alright, let’s see. Let’s assume the people being talked about are witches. This place was obviously home to a lot of them, and provided a lot of inspiration. But there are hundreds of witch clans and hundreds of homes, and nobody in my clan had even found their spark for centuries.

But what about before centuries?

I barely knew about our home before our current town in the forest (“the past is best left forgotten”, my mum always said), but it matched up perfectly with when people were still finding their sparks and becoming a full witch or wizard.

I flipped open my massive spellbook and raced to the back, to the section entitled History. I turned pages for what seemed like hours, but finally, I found the page I was looking for:

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Magi Aylso: The Old Home of the Jeminiya Clan

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Heart racing, I skimmed the paragraphs and pictures. Yes! Yes! This is what I was looking for! Our clan’s old home was the “place of wire!”

How did I never know about that? It turned out our old home was a magical place made of metal, urban but also beautiful. Instead of using hard slabs of metal and stone, there were wires, gracefully twisted and handmade, providing protection and beauty paired with the plants and nature around our campsite. It was supposedly a magical place, with the creativity of my people carved into the metal to make the campsite one-of-a-kind.

But apparently the other clans didn’t like our creativity so we left, and now the campsite had been collecting dust.

Well, time to un-dust it, I thought triumphantly, grabbing my human-money wallet from under my pillow and sliding on my shoes. I had never used the hundreds of dollars my clan left me in the cabin, but now I would need some human transportation to get to the forest of Magi Aylso once I stepped through the portal out of the desert. But there was a catch: I could only use the portal for one trip somewhere and back. After all, I was exiled to the desert.

I took a deep breath as I looked at the whirling portal of blue-purple-silver dust. Time to find my spark.

I stepped in and the desert whooshed away.

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*

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6 hours and a hodgepodge of transformation later, I walked into the sprawling clearing of Magi Aylso and my jaw hit the floor so hard I was pretty sure it cracked.

Even after years and years left unattended, the metallic town was gorgeous, glinting silver in the foggy, cool forest. Homes in odd shapes such as pyramids dotted a winding path, the famous handmade wall of wire surrounding it all, unique shapes twisted in. Vines were starting to cover the town, but with nothing to root onto besides slick metal the process was slow. As I started walking through the ghost town, I ran a finger around the soft carvings into the metal. Some were doodles, some were poems, some were pictures, some were just for decoration. Hundreds of people, hundreds of sparks, hundreds of fresh minds and hundreds of heated butter knives made quite a cool quilt of combinations.

I kept waltzing down the path, tennis shoes clicking on the metal, until I reached the center of the town: the massive bonfire. Thick slabs of wood piled into a triangle, ringed with stone to contain what used to be the center of this lively town. 

Whoooooooooooosh!

I jumped back as flames roared to life, the heat of a thousand matches stretching far over my head. It was eerie and almost creepy as twilight approached, but the sudden heat was welcomed.

The fire kept growing, blossoming higher and higher, every color of the rainbows weaving through the flames, sparks flying and reflecting in my glassy eyes. I couldn’t help myself. I stepped closer, and a wave of warmth swept over me. And suddenly I was immersed in the fire, my vision a blur of streaming colors and light, inspiration filling my chest out of the blue. I saw myself late into the night, sketching images of sweeping outfits, grinning at the beautiful creations. I saw myself early in the morning, sipping ice water as I created a fantasy world in my writing. I saw myself any time of the day, new contortion poses, impossible animations, smiling at the joy of boundless creating. That was my spark. That was the passion that fueled me, even if I wasn’t the best at it, the art of limitless creation. 

And then a cold gust of wind swept over my mind, the flames out in a second flat, until it was just me in the damp metal ghost town of Magi Aylso. 

I shivered, taking a step back from the firepit, but at the same time I was beaming brighter than the campfire. I could almost feel Nigopa Hema smiling down at me, too. It really was a shame the Jeminaya witch clan moved on from our old home all those years ago—nobody had been able to identify their sparks since without the magic-enhanced campfire. 

All doubts aside, after 13 months of trying, I got my spark! Got my transportation spell hopefully down! And more importantly, got out of the flipping desert!!!!!!! 

I knew where to take it from here. I pulled out my wand (which was only needed for harder spells), took a quick deep breath and rolled my shoulders, then started chanting the words of the spell: 

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Nigopa Hema, noli me avolare

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I chanted faster, power swelling up: 

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sicut avis ad caelum

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I looked inside my recent memories and pulled out my spark, letting the spell ignite on my burning passion of creation, cramping my eyes shut as I remembered the feeling of inspiration blooming in my chest when I wrote or drew or sung:

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iter multo me lo, et

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And with a smile, I felt my body grow light as I pictured my final destination, chanting the last words to the spell at my climate changed: 

non est inventus qui scintillam meam

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And that was all there was to it. In a blinding flash of light, I was back in the current home of the Jeminiya.

“AHHHHHHH!”

I opened my eyes, startled, and whirled around. Pedestrians were fleeing from where I randomly appeared. Ah, of course they’d be a bit spooked if a random hooman appeared in the middle of dinner time.

“Wait! No! It’s me!” I cried, raising my hands.

Everyone froze.

I glanced around. Little cottages decorated the meadow, covered in moss and fairy lights. Total cottagecore aesthetic. A little girl with dark skin and fluffy hair crept forward. “Mirora? Is that you?”

I recognized her as Bree from church. “Yessss!”  

An older woman with golden-gray hair and blue eyes squinted at me. “Aren’t you...banished to the desert? How did you get here? Why are you back?”

Bree’s shiny eyes widened. “Omg, did you get your transportation spell?”

Half the clearing leaned closer, most of them Bree’s age, which I kinda expected due to all the little kids frolicking when a community dinner was being made. I smiled and casually fingered my wand. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Woah!”

The old woman raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. That hasn’t been done in centuries.”

I grinned, wishing History taught more about our past home and it’s connection to our patron goddess. “Maybe we just didn’t know where to look.”

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