Fire as Medicine

I remember that blanket of smoke and ash which ensconce the land in an alien comfort. That heaven choked out by Stygian clouds where the crimson sun bleeds through like a wound in the sky, offering sanguine radiance drop by drop to a burning land.

There was a bridge here once. It connected two tribes with a complicated history. On one side of the divide were a tribe of artists making pots with clay from the river. The pottery they made was the envy of their neighbors.

On the other side of the potters were a tribe of warriors, merchants, and raiders. They were great in size and though they traded with the potters for their wondrous wares, there was never a comfortable under current between them.

Out of elm and yew, the warriors built a bridge to connect their tribe to those potters the world admired. And yet the warriors also reviled the free spirit of the potters: for they did not love the way they love, nor live the way they lived. The artistic spirit of the potters demanded an exploration of new ways of loving, of living, of being. This was art in itself.

The warriors had little tolerance for this free spirit, even as it created the pottery they admire, they sold, and grew wealthy from. So from time to time, at night, when the elders slept, individual warriors would cross that bridge of yew and elm to quietly raid the potters and sow seeds of terror.

Cruelty was the point. They targeted those who loved different, those who lived differently, and gleefully looted crops, livestock, and those cherished pots the tribe created. And when those free spirits resisted, protested, or even turned their tools into weapons to fight their attackers: they were broken, they were tortured, and they were slain.

The reavers would vanish into the night and sometimes they would even take a villagers for themselves. The tribe of warriors and merchants reacted in horror, time and time again, and yet there was never any investigation, nor any punishment to the attackers.

Again and again the potters would be raided by supposed 'bad apples' of their neighbors. And yet time and time again the whole barrel would side with those spoiled rotten hearts.

One night at the potter tribe, a young woman is completing her apprenticeship under her beloved Master. She'd learned the craft of her Master well and was producing dozens of pots a day, each with their own unique and beautiful design.

That night as they sought to celebrate her personal victory together. And then the reavers came riding in on nightmare steeds. The Master's shop was the target and they came in droves, smashing what they didn't care for, and stealing what they prized.

Her Master, an older woman with silver hair and a songbird's voice, pleaded for peace and understanding. The reavers tore her apart with bitter laughter, cutting off limbs to claim as personal trophies. Horrified, the young woman tried to hide from the carnage, tears streaming from her eyes as the reavers thoroughly claimed their prize and salted the earth.

That bitter laughter echoed into the night as they rode away on their nightmare steeds, their packs fat with loot, and only the ruins of her Master's workshop remaining.

The young woman dragged herself out from the wreckage of that terrible night, the dawning sun peeking over the horizon. She knew she could not count on the Elders of the Warrior tribe for justice, or accountability. She knew to her bones that she needed to stop this from happening again.

She took a waterskin and filled it with oil and stole a torch from one of her neighbors. The act she was about to commit, was as much for her neighbors, as it was for her fallen Master. A little sin to stain the soul to protect the tribe from a greater evil.

The young woman thoroughly spread the oil across the bridge's surface and let it seep into the cracks of the elm and yew. With the light of the dawning sun she threw the torch to that bridge, and watched that foul connection erupt into a greedy inferno.

The flames spread and devoured the dead and dying detritus from the wilds, raining fertile ash unto the soil, offering much needed nutrient to the world as it culled the overgrowth.

The young woman admired this strange alchemy. Perhaps fire wasn't merely a tool of destruction when it was free. As the smoke filled her lungs and she felt her head grow light and her body grow heavy. She let herself collapse and admire the crimson sun, peeking through the smog choked heavens, bleeding sanguine radiance from a wound in the sky.

Perhaps this is healing of another sort.