A story I recently received:
Abel knew when the fire began, though he didn’t talk about it often. He typically tried to pass off the pillar of fire as something simply “there”—like a sqeaky floor bored or a crack in the plaster ceiling. Something that simply comes with the inheritances of an old house.
He’d grown used to the crackling and popping—the sound of heat streaming up through air. It was now always there. He’d walk from his kitchen to the living room, left into the foyer, past the staircase and into the dining room, then left again into the kitchen through another door; circling it like an electron to it’s atom.
“Don’t you worry about the fumes?” an old friend who knew about the fire asked.
“I worry” Able said, tossing a fiber supplement into this mouth and calling it dinner.
“Why don’t you just put it out?”
“Don’t know how,” Able responded. “I’ve tried.”
“It’s just your furnace” one expert who he had come to the house to bid on fixing the problem once said.
“It’s not the furnace” Able responded “that’s in the basement – this is on the main floor. And it’s exposed: it’s just a flowing tower of ions and plasma.”
“That’s impossible,” the expert replied, “where does it come from?”
“I don’t know” he lied.
“And that would destroy your house, not to mention the floor around it, the ceiling above it. You own a Victorian for heaven’s sake …” the expert said, looking around at the oak floor, oak stairs, and mahogany ceiling planks. He shrugged. “I’m sorry, but it’s just impossible.”
“It’s contained,” Able responded.
“How can you contain a fire like that?!”
“Look!” Able said, opening the door under the stairs and unleashing the previously muffled volume of a raging blast of flame.
“Oh … so it is that bad,” the expert said.
Able just turned his head towards the flame and stared.
“Listen … you’re going to need a specialist,” he said and reached into his pocket, pulling out a business card. “Here, make an appointment, and maybe we’ll run a few tests.”
Two weeks later he received a call explaining the tests were all negative.
For the most part it was only Able who could tolerate being in the room with the fire. He didn’t do this often, because it tore him apart inside—pushed him to his limits. He’d sit on the floor, back against the wall and stare at the ribbons of orange and teal dancing around a core of pure white, and listening to this eardrums rattle. This experience was now, unfortunately, what he was living for. It was, in fact, why the fire was lit in the first place. But the price of the burn, meant that, for the most part, Able just stayed out of this room, listening to the call.
He visited a wise healer about the fire once.
“Qi – it’s heat” he was told by an old, thin man who worked in a small store front in the warehouse district.
“This is a lot of heat, though. It’s going to burn everything down.”
“Has it yet?” asked the old man.
“No. It’s contained.”
“So it’s not going to burn everything down?” he asked in a false naiveté.
“It’s dangerous.”
“Yes, qi can be very dangerous,” the man acknowledged.
“Should I put it out?”
“I’ll be honest with you, sir. In cases such as this it is very difficult to put out such geysers-”
“Yes! That’s it!” Able blurted out: “It’s a geyser – a geyser in my coat closet.”
“I know … you want to tell me how it got started?”
“It’s been burning a long time,” Able said.
“Hmm” said the man in a knowing way, turn to look at his shelved wall of glass and ceramic jars. He continued with his questions: “Always burn like this?”
“No …” Able said reflectively, “I guess not.”
In his mind’s eye, Able saw the arc of matches launched from his flicking fingers, descending on what was once nothing but a small pile of coals lying in the middle of the unused coat closet under his stairs. He would sit for hours against the wall and enjoy the heart. Maybe he was enjoying the life it brought him – the qi.
He would tempt it, at times, of course. He would put combustibles “too close” to it, more his hand, palm out, as close as he could tolerate, pulling it back only at the point just past too excruciating to handle.
“I guess it’s always been a problem, but I think it’s pretty dangerous now.”
“Well …” said the man has he grabbed a small jar from the shelf and stacked it with the others on his bar. “You can always move.”
“Where would I go? Who would buy my house in this condition?”
“I don’t know … I don’t know” replied the man, as he poured various odd, organic looking substances into a plastic bag laying on a scale. “But something tells me you’re more concerned that you’d be cold.”
“Here” said the man, handing Able a stuffed plastic baggy.
“This won’t eliminate the fire, but it may help protect you from excessive qi. Mash these up with water, and it’ll make a paste you can use to fill the crack around the door. It will dry strong: you won’t be able to open the door again. This will keep you safe, but unless something else changes that fire will still burn.”
“Will I still be able to hear it?” Able asked.
“It might make it grow stronger.”
Able never mashed the herbs, and now he wasn’t even sure where the bag was. He was simply getting used to the fire as a part of his life. The popping and blowing were simply melding into the din of his consciousness. He didn’t visit it often, but often thought of doing so. And when he did, he had to acknowledge to himself—he did fan it, just to ensure it didn’t die.
- Anonymous
