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Buried where it’s warm it does something akin to waiting, if waiting held no expectations. It’s merely dormant in the darkness – until it isn’t.
The embers of a red cherry, not quite extinguished. A spark of life, so fragile and small but with a hunger that cannot be sated. The patch of grass that had become its birthplace does not contain it for long; tiny gusts of wind help it stretch and dig its way out from the depths, clinging to anything it can feed on. Leaves, twigs, grass – all forms of detritus left littering the dry and arid floor – all consumed in a zen-like fury. It breathes without lungs, growing larger and stronger, clawing at the cracked and brittle bark of the tree that it grew from. Through sheer mass alone the tree resists, but it cannot last.
The flames caress the trunk with a semblance of affection, quietly probing for weakness and purchase – and as the heat rises they begin to show. The bark blackens and scorches, and smoke mingles with cries of fear from the branches above. Beneath, the floor becomes a sea of red and orange creeping its way into the undergrowth, the hunt for fuel neverending. It passes under the metal fence and pinches at the fabric of the gazebo. The panicked shouts follow not long after, spreading nearly as fast as the fire, but not fast enough. Before the first blow is dealt the tree is already ablaze. Life scatters and escapes where it can; three birds take flight from within the branches, but for some it is too soon. Abandoned to face the maelstrom alone, their cries for help remain forever unanswered.
A loud hiss marks retreat as its edges are doused. A coordinated attack repels it from one side. Extinguishers and water work in unison to corral it back to the place it had begun. In the distance sirens wail, singing the song of its death – and to this it only dances. It tip-toes through the woods, moving this way and that, inadvertently closing all options to a fleeing fox, until there is nowhere left to turn. She digs at the hard-packed earth beneath a tree, the fur on her tail catching the floating embers in the air. Sinking to her haunches in her shallow dug grave, she cowers.
Blue lights ricochet against the night and now the hunter becomes the hunted. Its birthplace is extinguished in an unrelenting deluge, and through the trees comes the flood thereafter. Hounded tirelessly by its pursuers, it ducks and hides itself where it can, playing dead amongst the foliage and then re-emerging with a flourish. Despite the tricks and mischief, however, their battle is slowly won, and orange and red is replaced once more with black and white.
The sycamore tree stands petrified, encased within an ashen tomb, wisps of smoke waving from it to the early morning sun. Clouds of soot linger in the air as if unsure where to settle, and buried where it’s warm: the fire, merely dormant in the darkness.
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