By Flame

by T Thorn Coyle

  The council agenda was long and boring. He glanced toward the bottom and saw that, of course, dealing with “homeless camps” was at the bottom. He hadn’t even bothered to get a ticket to speak. Let other people stand in line for their five minutes. There were people more deserving of the time, like the actual houseless folks here, and other people far more eloquent than he was. He would sit in the balcony, and bear witness, and pray.

  “St. Brigid, are you there?” he whispered. He felt the warmth of wool around his shoulders, and smelled wet grass. Closing his eyes, he let the sounds and scents of the council chambers fall away, and focused only on his memory of Her, and the feel of the mantle, and the scent of green grass.

  His head felt light. Literally light. Not light like a balloon, but light as though there were a warm bulb just behind his head. What, you think you have a halo now? he thought. Then he felt Her touch on his shoulder, and let the thought go.

  A hand on his shoulder. A hand on the crown of his head. A hand touching his heart. A light touch sweeping his brow. Her hands moved around him, like tiny birds, or tongues of flame.

  Whoosh! At the thought of fire, the candle in his heart ignited, burning up his chest. Every muscle in his body tensed so hard he shook from the power of it, a spasming rictus that was making it hard to breathe.

  “Sir! Are you okay? Sir!” Hands, physical hands now, touching him, surrounding him, trying to get him to lie down. He didn’t want to lie down. He wanted to stand up. He needed to stand. He needed air. He needed to see.

  Aiden opened his eyes onto the huddle of worried faces above him. He could hear the drone of the city council members down below, and some muffled shouting.

  He pushed the hands and shoulders away.

  “No. Please. Get off me!”

  He shoved his way back up into a sitting position, and leaned hard on the bench in front of him, levering up to his feet.

  “Let me through, please. Let me through.” He shoved past the people next to him. He had to get to the railing at the front of the balcony. He needed to see.

  The sky on the painting of the mural had been blue, but was now darkening. The clouds were tinged with undertones of purple and black, lit by the light of a setting sun. What was happening?

  Every molecule inside of him was on fire again. Her fire. He saw a vision of a city laid to waste. A city in rubble, decimated by fires and wrecking balls, torched by riots and greed.

  Leaning over the metal railing that separated the balcony from the open air above the chambers, Aiden screamed.

  Every head snapped upward. He lifted both his arms into the air, and began to sway. Hands grabbed him from behind. His elbow struck something soft. The hands let go.

  “You. Must. Stop.” Murmurs and whispers and shouts of What’s happening? erupted in the air. But not from the council members. They were riveted. Staring upward. They couldn’t take their eyes from his face. Good.

  Okay, Brigid. Tell me what to say. The fire burst from his head, his eyes, his tongue. And then the words came.

  “This city, beloved of the smallest rose bush to the tallest, oldest pines, from the rivers to the cinder cones, this city is in danger. This city is in danger of losing its soul. And it is all because of you.”

  He pointed one long finger at the curved desk of commissioners. Their faces were made of stone, set in anger, bewilderment, or fear.

  “You have allowed those who wish to only profit from the lives of all who make this city home hold sway. You have allowed development without heart. You have asked for money and not asked where food or dancing comes from. You are complicit in the rape of the land, the ouster of families from their homes, and the further bleaching of diversity from our communities. You are complicit in the might of the police force, and use them as weapons against the very people they say that they protect.”

  He was sweating now. It streamed in great rivers down his face and back. Aiden could tell there was movement around him, and people talking, but he was too filled with fire to pay any attention to anything but Her words. His words. Someone’s words.

  “The death of Mary Jo Sullivan is on your heads. She froze to death because of you. Everyone from 205 camp who is now truly homeless is your responsibility. The lives of every person at Open Heart camp, currently struggling to save their home, are in your hands.”

  Hands grabbed him from behind again. Rough hands. Aiden tried to elbow them, but hit something hard. He tried to roll his shoulders, shake them off. The hands gripped harder. Someone was trying to force his arms down. He fought to keep them raised.

  “Turn from your lives of greed and embrace the light of love. There is nothing for you but ash and ruin if you continue on your course!”

  His arms were yanked behind him. He felt the click of cold steel around his wrists. Arms jerking the cuffs up, pulling on his shoulders.

  “Aiden!” He could hear Stingray call his name, but he couldn’t see her. Didn’t know where she was. “We’ll follow you to jail!”

  Jail?

  “I call down the holy fire upon every person here. Those whom it must bless, shall it bless. Those whom it must curse, so shall it curse!”

  “Let’s go, buddy.” An arm slung him around. He slammed into body armor. It was the same cop who had pushed him down under the freeway, smashing his head.

  “This city shall be a refuge of love!” he shouted as loudly as he could, vocal cords threatening to snap. “Bow your heads to love!”

  An officer on each arm yanked him away from the edge. He stumbled up the balcony steps.

  “I call down the holy fire! There shall be no release for you unless you vow to change! Reward not greed, seek only justice! Embrace the power of love!”

  “Shut up,” one of the cops said.

  People chanted and screaming around him. “Stop the sweeps! Let him go! Stop the sweeps! Let him go!”

  The police dragged him through the balcony doors.

  And Aiden fainted.

  31

  Tobias

  It was the night of the waxing crescent. Though Tobias couldn’t see the moon through the clouds and rain, he could feel it. The time of the waxing crescent was a good time for magic. It held the energy of renewal.

  Gods and Goddesses knew, Portland needed it.

  He was at Pioneer Square, the brick plaza that took up one city block in the heart of downtown, and was a favorite meeting spot for rallies, memorials, and protests, along with book fairs and other cultural events.

  Three hundred people gathered around him, standing in the softly falling rain and winter darkness. Concentric circles filled the plaza, cascading up the steps that formed a partial amphitheater. There were no candles. The call had recommended no banners or signs, but some groups had them anyway. Some were clever and had taped slogans onto rain ponchos, or carried their signs like sandwich boards, strung over shoulders or necks.

  Mostly, though? The people had just brought themselves—willing bodies and hearts—just as they’d been asked.

  Tobias was surprised to find that he recognized a lot of contingents, though others he only identified by their banners. Bread and Roses Anarchist Collective were there. So was the Portland Socialist Society. A group of Catholic nuns. Folks from the Interfaith Council. Don’t Shoot Us Now. Some Black Bloc-ers. Buddhists. Africans United. Pacific Islander Student Union. A small contingent from the Sikh temple. And just random folks. Adults from everywhere, it seemed. All of them willing to come out in the rain to help a bunch of houseless people save their homes.

  So many communities, all gathered, facing the center of the square. Waiting. Ready to march. The only thing missing were children. There were just no guarantees that anyone out tonight would remain safe, so the call had also asked that children be left at home.

  “They came,” Brenda said softly, putting an arm around his waist.

  “They did.” Tobias squeezed her back. “I can’t believe this many people came at such short notice. It’s beautiful.”
r />   The coven surrounded him. The rest of the Interfaith Council was all present, wearing raincoats, hats, and hoods. Some held umbrellas for those who needed them. They would be stashed in vehicles along the way. Once they got to the encampment, they needed freedom to move.

  A few of the wheelchairs had umbrellas or small tarps rigged overhead. Smart.

  Everyone was there.

  Except for Aiden. Tobias felt his absence with a pang, but he was also proud that this man he’d grown to love so quickly had risked himself and gone to jail. The story had spread like torch fire.

  Aiden had gone full-on prophet and cursed the city council.

  “Cursed them with love,” Stingray had said.

  “You ready?” Brenda again. Right. He was supposed to kick this whole thing off, and wasn’t that strange? After the fight Aiden and Jaqueline had gone through to get the council to accept Arrow and Crescent at all, and they’d chosen to have a witch say the opening prayer.

  He didn’t know who was responsible for that, but if Aiden couldn’t be here to do it, it felt right all the same.

  Tobias took a deep breath and stepped into the center of the circle. He began to slowly rotate, face tilted upward to the gray skies, and the darkness, and the falling rain.

  He swallowed, then took in another breath, braced his diaphragm muscle to raise his voice, and prayed. “Holy Brigid! Be with us! Guide us. Please. Be with the people gathered here. Be with the people of Open Heart camp. Guide us all. Walk with us. Bless us.”

  He held up a bag of tincture bottles. “And bless these herbs. May they heal our bodies and strengthen our souls.”

  He passed the bag to Moss, who distributed them to the rest of the coven. They would offer the herbs to whomever wanted them.

  “Send to us the spirit that connects us all. Kindle our hearts with the fires of justice! Let us become, together, a people guided by the power of love. Blessed be.”

  “Amen!” Rabbi Schwartz spoke loudly from across the circle. Her voice was echoed by others.

  “Creator!” the rabbi said. “Forgive us for not caring enough. Help us to care more. Help us to care better. Let us walk in the footsteps of all who have walked the ways of justice. May we lead the way for those who are yet to come. Bless this congregation. Amen.”

  Stingray, Brad, Sheila, and Barry all came forward at that point.

  Brad handed Barry the mic to a bullhorn. The big man held the small box up to his mouth as Brad pointed the mouth of the bullhorn above people’s heads.

  “My name is Barry, and this is Sheila. We’re both part of the Open Heart community. We’re an encampment up by Naito Parkway, and our community is in danger. Thank you for coming out tonight. We need you. We also want you to know that if you ever need us, we’ll be there. Now Stingray and Brad are going to set some ground rules for tonight’s action.”

  Stingray took the mic.

  “Power to the people!” she shouted. “Okay! There are two main things to remember tonight: stay together, and keep calm. We don’t know what’s going to happen tonight, but the cops may provoke us, or use chemical weapons on us, or even beat us. We hope none of that will happen. And we’ve got a lot of folks in clergy robes and collars to try to help steer things that way. It’s bad publicity for the city if nuns get clocked in the head by police.”

  There were a few chuckles at that, but also quite a lot of grimaces.

  “When we get to the camp, we ask that you listen to the folks from the Interfaith Council, Bread and Roses, Portland Socialists, Don’t Shoot Us Now, and De Porres House. All of these people have been at meetings and know the plan. I am not going to shout that plan out into the open air tonight! Just know that it is a simple plan, and we’re going to keep you all as safe as we possibly can. Okay? Great. Thank you. We’d now like to ask the Wasco and Grand Ronde Nations to bless this march and lead us to the camp.”

  Led by Arnie, a small contingent came to the center, including four men carrying a huge drum. Two other men had beaters with round skin heads. A woman burned sweetgrass as Arnie raised his arms to each of the four directions. Then the drummers started up a rhythm and began to chant.

  Tobias realized that these people from the first nations of this land should have started off the prayers. It was only right. They were on their land. He hadn’t thought of it because it was decided they would start the march. But now he felt the wrongness of it. He hoped it didn’t affect the magic badly, to have made such a mistake.

  He tried to let the sense of worry go. There was too much to keep track of tonight, and he needed to be on point. The bottles of tincture were still being passed around, in an echo of last night’s communion. He missed Aiden again. He hoped he was okay. When they told Tobias that Aiden had fainted, he almost rushed down to the jail to break him out. Stingray insisted he wouldn’t be of any help, and that two workers from their community would make sure he was taken care of, and meet him when he was released.

  Tobias wanted to be there when Aiden got out.

  “He’ll want you at the camp, Tobias,” Stingray said. “Don’t you think? He’ll want all of us out there who can be. The last thing that would make Aiden feel good would be the thought that he’d pulled a bunch of key people away from the action he helped organize.”

  Then she surprised Tobias by pulling him into a hug. “He’s going through a strange time right now, and I have no fucking idea what happened when he cracked his head on that rock, but I think you’re good for him.”

  Tobias hoped so. He wanted to be.

  The drummers were moving, followed by a row of Buddhists, some of them carrying gongs that sounded as an occasional counterpoint to the drumming.

  The crowd streamed out of the plaza onto 6th, heading north, toward the spot where the Willamette curved in its banks, heading northwest only to curve again to meet up with the Columbia.

  They were heading for the camp.

  “We’re on our way, Aiden,” he said. “Wish you were here.”

  32

  Aiden

  Aiden’s head felt as though someone had short circuited his brain cells. Or as if a lightbulb had exploded inside his head. It ached, and hummed, and flashed. The headache was a ferocious, pounding, stalking animal, rattling its cage.

  His body felt battered again. Weary. All it wanted was rest.

  But the work wasn’t done. Aiden knew it. But there was no pressure inside of him. The incandescent flame had settled, and steadied to a warm glow. No matter what was to come, he had done all that he could.

  Aiden felt completely at peace.

  The pain in his body was nothing compared to the sense of love and well-being he felt inside his soul. The wrenched shoulders and throbbing lower back were just fine with him. So was the pain in his knees from the concrete floor.

  Aiden blessed it all.

  He blessed the buzz of the long, fluorescent tube in its cage. He blessed the steel bars and the seatless steel toilet bowl. He blessed the metal sink. He blessed the stink of bleach and vomit, and the stench of the dried sweat brought on by drugs or fear.

  He blessed the other inmates, those who were in their own kinds of pain, those who tried to sleep, those who scowled and those who cried.

  Aiden was a man of flesh and light.

  The edges of his skin felt as if they might just float away. He was buoyant.

  He was in a state of grace, and Brigid was with him.

  He’d woken up in the city jail, bewildered at first as to what had happened and how he’d gotten there. Once his senses returned, and his brain started functioning again, he soon settled in, knowing that this, too, was part of the service he’d been called upon to offer.

  The most beautiful thing about it all? His rage was gone. No more anger. No more fury. Just the certainty that he was loved: by Brigid, by his community, and by a beautiful man named Tobias. No matter what happened, from now on, Aiden would never feel alone.

  I am here. And she was. He could see her, standing before him once agai
n. She held a white cloth in her hands, and ran it across his face, salving the bruises where his cheek and chin must have hit the marble floor. The cloth felt warm. Damp. It eased the aching, just a bit.

  Time would do the rest.

  And then the cloth was gone.

  The saint floated, two feet above the stinking concrete floor, green cloak billowing around her tunic. In her hands now appeared a chalice and a burning torch. In her hands were a sword and a scythe. In her arms appeared a bleating lamb. In her hands were a loaf of bread and a mug of beer. In her hands were a bowl of fresh milk.

  “What is all this?” he asked her. The images were beautiful, but they made no sense to him.

  You can choose, she said.

  Ah. Gifts. Weapons. Powers.

  He chose the torch.

  So you can illuminate and See.

  She touched his forehead with her lips. Just a breath. A whisper. And then She was gone.

  Aiden held a torch in his right hand.

  In the torchlight, among the stink of chemicals and men, among the sound of fearful raving and the clang of bars, he Saw.

  The sky above was dark, and full of rain. The flame of the torch in his hand flared and flickered, but would not be doused.

  He looked down.

  Aiden saw a stream of people, marching, moving steadily toward a river. He saw Tobias, face fierce and beautiful. He saw Stingray and Ghatso, Barry, Sheila, Jaqueline. The reverend and the rabbi. And, toward the curving ribbon of water, he saw a web of brightness, and a spiraling of gates.

  The mighty stream of people were headed there. Steadily. Surely. Guided by the heartbeat of a drum.

  33

  Tobias

  They reached the camp, and the people living there greeted them. Nothing was cooking on propane stoves tonight. Everything that could be packed away, was. The domed tents remained. Defiant. A sign to all that this place was home.