By Frederick Charles Melancon

Let’s just finish with this thought: it was all Pire’s fault. He knew it, the townspeople knew it, and if his father were alive, even he’d know and tell his boy everything his supposedly grown child had done wrong about it.

Pire couldn't change it now. So, everyone just needed to get over it. Just to be clear, the it dealt with magic, and no, not the sleight of hand stuff but real magic. The kind that fueled deep within and without explanation altered the world around.

Personally, Pire knew he wasn’t a particularly good mage, mostly because he lacked practice. Perhaps if he listened to his dad, he would’ve been better at it, but Dad had a lot to say. It was impossible to listen to it all. Yet the mage had enough talent to be noticed, hence the mob that intended to kill him.

Oh, that probably should’ve been explained first. The crowd was going to execute him for witchcraft or whatever word they wanted to substitute for jealousy. It really wasn’t his fault that the divine gave him control over flame. Just like it wasn’t his fault that a cinder he sparked to life drifted into the town’s church. At least, the wooden building didn’t combust during the service, you’re welcome.

As the cart that imprisoned him bounced over every rock in the road, the priest riled the crowd up. Apparently, he didn’t like his god’s house burning to the ground, which in retrospect was fair, but he kept yelling, “Burn him like he burned us.” Pire wasn’t about to stop him or state the obvious to the crowd. If they wanted to put a fire mage in fire, that was on them. “Oh no, not that.” The words barely sounded sincere, and the priest poked him hard in the stomach with a plank of wood.

The mob threw these planks around a tree. Each clattered off the other as a circle formed. Pire tsk-tsked the whole idea. It wasn’t even a concentric circle, and while they could tie him to that tree, the fire they planned to light wouldn’t burn as clean as they wanted. All that sap would just send out smoke, possibly even choking some of the spectators. As a mage, Pire liked the idea of the flames blinding the mob versus the smoke rendering them unconscious.

Well, he was still going to give them a show. When they stepped back and threw the torch on the wood, he screamed. He sent a couple of blasts up to get the flame really going, and he raised the temperature in the trunk so that smoke oozed out between the crevices in the bark.

As the townspeople backed away, Pire ignited the straps and slipped out in a billow of smoke. When he thought he was free, the priest stopped him.

“Took you long enough.”

The priest expected Pire’s escape, but the fire mage couldn’t fathom why.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know god was timing me.”

Okay, an old saying spoke about what happened to the young mage who sassed the flame. Pire had to be careful here because he didn’t want to poke the other too much. If angered, the man of god could call the mob away from the recently vacated burning stake. Even worse, if they fought, the congregation back there could learn of his disappearance and start searching for Pire, using their rocks or heaven forbid water to finish the job. He could throw a fireball at the man, but then, everyone would know.

“And what about my congregation’s time? The time they put into the church. The time they won’t spend together to enjoy even a moment of this hard life.”

Who was this man? It’s like his father was scolding him all over again for setting the neighbor’s cat on fire. Perhaps the priest hadn’t noticed, but his congregation had just thrown rocks at his head and tried to burn him to death. Pire didn’t care if they lived miserable lives. If he would’ve been the type to pray, he’d religiously beseech the great unknown from this moment forward to keep up the good work against those people. Anyway, wasn’t the priest just with the crowd? He didn’t stop anyone.

“And did you give your time when they were trying to kill me?”

“Who do you think told them to put down the rocks and start the fire?”

Well, at least the man was consistent with the teachings of his church. Not that Pire knew the teachings at that time, and that really didn’t change anything anyway. The priest wanted something beyond death from Pire. The mage understood that at least. “I’ve nothing to give.”

Pire tried to push past the priest, but the holy man knocked him to the ground like a child. “What are they to do with nothing?”

From Pire’s angle, the man and the congregation by extension had a lot more than nothing. The priest wasn’t calling out to the crowd, but the mage wasn’t satisfying the man.

“I’ll bring back money for repairs,” Pire said.

“No, you won’t. Do you think I’m stupid?”

Pire hoped. It would’ve made all of this so much easier. “I’m good for it.”

“And where is someone like you going to get funds to rebuild a church?”

That was a fair point, and really, Pire had no intention of giving anyone anything. Then, he noticed that between the priest’s clenched fist, tendrils of smoke oozed out. This was a lesson from one fire mage to another, and Pire had no time for the priest’s charity or pity.

“I’ll get it,” he said. Pire waited for the other to spit out the word liar just like he’d heard from his father, but nothing like that came.

Disgusted, the priest let him go. “There’s no help for you. We’ll fix it without you.”

“I can do it.”

“Sure.” The priest walked off toward the dimming glow of the empty burning tree.

And that settled it. If the man would’ve put up a fight or tried to finish the lesson, Pire would’ve never thought about those zealots, and over halfway to the next village, he almost didn’t. But Pire came back to that little town and to the church the locals hammered towards the sky. He didn’t have any money, but he helped forge the nails and bolts with the priest’s help. After all, he couldn’t start this relationship off with that father being right. He could only deal with one of those in a lifetime.

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