Flame Guardian

by Kristin D. Van Risseghem

  “Not to worry, I’ll handle this,” Riley speaks quietly.

  The boat motors near. Several armed soldiers are on it, the silhouettes taking shape against the flames burning on the far side of the river, behind.

  Riley starts to address the oncoming vehicle. Gunfire echoes as he is shot down, toppling half into the water, on the concrete edge.

  Out of instinct, we all drop to the ground. I put out my hands and shoot a beam of fire right at the boat – soon it lights up the water. We hear shouts in Arabic as more soldiers are heading toward us on land, from both directions.

  “Quick, all of you, in the water. Trust me,” Tor shouts. He grabs me, stopping my shooting flames and we jump into the freezing water.

  Splashes rock me underwater as the other two follow us in. Bullets are whizzing around us.

  Tor struggles to grab all four of us, pulling us together. Somehow, he surges the water and pulls us down, down, down and out into the middle.

  Right when my lungs are going to burst and I’m seeing spots, he pulls our heads together and creates a space of air around us all. We pant and gasp. We try to move our legs on reflex, but he tells us to relax as he controls our placement in the deep.

  It’s so surreal. Darkness surrounds us, with a faint roaring from the flames above. Looking up, we can see flickering orange and yellow on the surface near the far-left side.

  Tor sinks our bubble down, gently, until we bump onto the sandy river bottom. Besides plants growing here and there, there’s old cans, bottles, shoes, tires and a truck half-submerged, looming in the dark shadows.

  “Everyone breathe slowly, calm yourselves, relax.” Tor’s voice sounds strange down here, like there is a pillow over his face or something masking it.

  Tage is breathing very fast, her eyes wide in panic.

  “Tage, it’s okay, breathe,” Smoke soothes her and holds her hand. She calms down after a while.

  “We should be safe here for a moment.” Tor’s voice sounds like it’s far away. “We can’t stay long. Everyone relax while I move us to a safer location.” We nod.

  Our giant bubble starts to bump gently along the ground as Tor concentrates on this use of his power—water displacement.

  Good thing he practiced so many various ways to use his abilities. He’s pretty amazing. I look at him, admiring his strength of mind in this crazy situation. A spark ignites in his eyes when he catches me staring.

  In that moment, I know. He’s never stopped loving me. Just kept waiting for me to get my head out of my ass and start thinking for myself again. God, he is a keeper.

  We move farther from the flickering orange, farther into the darkness. Out of the black looms a giant mouth with long whiskers. It’s the biggest fucking catfish I’ve ever seen—the size of a small SUV.

  Everyone in our group reacts on instinct, paddling and moving our hands to go backwards, out of this monster’s path. It’s so huge, skimming the bottom, it could easily open its mouth and swallow each of us whole. Our bubble wobbles and stretches as we panic.

  “Calm down, everyone, keep together,” Tor’s voice is strained.

  I raise my hands to do something, anything.

  “No, Soot,” Tor commands. It’s the nickname he called me before things changed. He is already moving our bubble out of the fish’s way. “Stay calm everyone, stop moving like that, I can’t maintain this unless you’re still.”

  But it’s too late—Tage has already broken the bubble as she paddles to the surface. Cold water inundates us like a shock and our vision blurs in the water.

  A giant, gaping mouth yawns wide as it comes right at me.

  Chapter Forty

  Blackness closes around me as I whoosh into a tight, cold, soft coffin. The flesh squeezes me as the fish undulates in the water, swimming. I’m closed in, trapped.

  Not again! My lungs are panicking for air. I struggle to free my hands, then aim and shoot orange flame right at the wall of skin. The fish convulses, once, twice before I’m shot out of its mouth with great force. I’m still near the bottom of the river and about to black out.

  On instinct, I shoot fire out of my hands, creating a stream of steaming bubbles toward the sand, moving me up, up, up. The power is so strong I fly out of the water and land on the hard, concrete edge, the park flaming nearby. I gasp and pant, coughing out gross, brown water.

  Looking up, I see movement in the river as three heads surface, one by one. They splutter, cough and shout for each other.

  “Here, everyone, come here,” I yell over the crackling flames and screaming sirens. I can’t tell if they hear me, but the fire behind me is probably marking the shape of my body as I jump and wave my arms. Soon they’re all swimming to the edge.

  I help them out. We take a few seconds to catch our breath. Despite the heat of the fires, we’re shivering.

  “This is it.” Tor jumps up. We nod and spring into action. We peel off our wet uniforms, emptying the pockets of anything we want, and toss them into the flames. We’re all wearing civilian clothing underneath – T-shirts, joggers, whatever would fit.

  We throw our weapons and gear into the river.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Tor takes the lead. We follow as he shoots water and makes a path for us through the flames. We make our way to the buildings and streets, where Tor creates a little mist around us as we melt into the thronging, milling people and chaos. Hopefully no one notices our wet hair and clothes.

  Trekking far from the mayhem, we hail a taxi to take us to the airport.

  In the back of the car, we open our wet envelopes full of soggy cash. Can we even use these? Being discreet, I bring forth a soft warmth from my hands, like a little heater. Each person holds their wad close, and the bills dry into crinkly, wrinkled money. It’ll have to do. At least they’re dry.

  The idea works so well we use my heater-hands to dry ourselves as much as we can—at least our clothes. When we exit the taxi, we leave behind four wet ass-marks on the orange vinyl seat.

  ***

  Daylight breaks as we bank and descend toward Cairo. The vast mega-city spreads out far and wide, around the three rivers converging in a low basin. The buildings are brown and dusty. The whole metropolis looks like a haphazard sandcastle city made by a child. Whole sections look like crumbling, ancient, ruined buildings. Others hold large mosques with minarets pointing into the sky, flanked by an old, crumbling wall. Even the newer sections, neon lights switching off, one by one—are made from the same sand-brown dusty color. I can just make out the pyramids pointing out of the haze, far to the south. From up here, they look smaller than I expected.

  The air hits us like a hot wall as we step outside the airport. Smoke hails a taxi, consulting with the driver a moment. With his phone, Smoke has already found us a small, inexpensive hotel.

  We hang on as we swerve and stop and then speed here and there, wondering if our driver is drunk. But looking out the window, I see all the driving is crazy like this—so many people and bikes and buses are crowding the busy streets, the vehicles have to slow down to avoid them, then speed up to get through before another car or bus claims the spot.

  I’m feeling sick to my stomach by the time we’re let out at the old hotel.

  We’re in the historical section. An ancient gate, surrounded by metal scaffolding and stonemasons working on it, looms up to the east. Tiny shops crowd in, out and around all the old buildings hereabouts, even in the mosque and old church. Many of the old-style houses are crumbling ruins, rooves gone, left as an eyesore in the middle of all this tight bustle.

  Down here in the middle of the city, everything is not completely dusty-brown, though most of it is. But up close I notice the colorful, faded blues, yellows, greens, reds and oranges of intricate paint and tile work, some restored, some crumbling and peeling. Colorful geometric lines and designs adorn many walls. The awnings are bright, and some of the stalls are walled with old, colorful block quilts. The tiny, crowded, merchant stalls have all kinds of wares, fr
om giant bushels of raw, white wool, to trinkets and souvenirs and handmade items of all types.

  We escape the loud mixture of noises and scents as we enter the musty hotel. It smells of cardamom and mold. We pool our money and pay for two small rooms next to each other. There’s a large, square courtyard, open to the sky three stories above. In the center is a tinkling fountain, tiled with tiny blue and white squares in a geometric pattern. This place is a nice, cool escape from our tiny, hot rooms.

  We look at each other. We did it. We escaped! We’re here in Cairo, and no one knows it except Dr. Mara.

  We smile, then begin laughing. All the tension, the exhaustion, the craziness—we did it. We made it.

  “I’m starving,” Tor says. We all are.

  We find a little stall outside and buy fava falafels, fresh pita bread, and baba ghanoush. It’s delicious and we gobble it up, standing next to the stall. Nearby, we smell the strong aroma of roasting coffee and some other spice. Going in, we order little cups of steeped Arabian coffee, golden and light, just like tea. It tastes like cardamom tea with a hint of coffee; refreshing.

  We stop for a churro-type dessert soaked in sticky, sugar-syrup, then make our way back to our hotel. We sit in the courtyard as sleepiness creeps up; it’s been a long time since we’ve properly slept.

  “So,” Smoke organizes our plans. “Dr. Mara said she would meet us in two weeks, in-between the paws of the Sphinx.” We look at him, surprised.

  “You heard her wrong, brother.” I remember her words clearly. “She said we’re to meet her in four weeks, at the Bob Zuweila Gate.”

  “No, she said—”

  “I heard her say—” Tor and Tage break in at once.

  We look at each other, confused.

  “I was told to meet her at the Egyptian Museum,” Tage says.

  “No, at the Al Hussein Mosque,” Tor adds.

  “Do you mean to say, she gave each of us completely different instructions for meeting her?” Smoke looks around at our faces.

  We nod, one by one.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The streets are narrow like a labyrinth in this old, medieval part of town. People, horse-drawn carts, bikes, cars and little motorbikes crowd the thoroughfares. Night is falling fast. We’ve slept all day and are now out in search of food.

  A taxi-driver recommends a local favorite restaurant, built in an alley between two buildings. The intricate wooden entrance connects the two tall buildings flanking it. Inside, the roof is stained glass. The long, narrow café stretches the length of the original alleyway.

  The food is delicious – we sample all kinds of small dishes. My favorite is a warm, fava bean stew, thick like chili.

  Cars are constantly honking on the busy, wider streets of downtown. I’ve never seen so many people packed into such a confining, crowded space.

  Though the whole city seems coated with a dull, sandy brown—like a dark stain on the desert—there’s an ancient energy seeping into my feet from the ground. The magic and history of Egypt, the energy of a growing, bustling city, the smells of dirt and mold overlaid with many spices—cinnamon, ginger, pepper. Somehow it all comes together in a deep, vibrant feeling. I am more alive than ever, and the others seem just as excited.

  We explore our surroundings more each day. Though the city is busy, loud, hectic, and dirty, its people are friendly and warm. Arabic writing adorns all the buildings and signs. At certain hours of the day, the call for prayer echoes in solemn, sonorous tones from the many loudspeakers mounted on the mosques across the city.

  Most of the time we hear the constant honking of horns, blaring of radio music, calls of street vendors. The roads are packed with buses, cars, trucks, vans, crowds of people walking or biking, and carts pulled by donkeys.

  The food here is exotic but yummy. We discover a national dish called Koshari; a meal of rice, lentils, macaroni, chickpeas, and vermicelli, topped with crunchy fried onions, tomatoes and spices with garlic vinegar. Delish! It’s such a favorite we find it on every corner, in many restaurants, and street vendors. It’s cheap and filling, so we get it often.

  After consulting together, we decide that each of us, individually, will go to the meeting spot given. The rest of us will be nearby, but out of sight. We have no idea why we were told separate times—maybe in case we got separated or something.

  “Can we trust this Dr. Mara?” Tage asks. She hasn’t known the doctor long. Both Tor and I assure her on this point.

  We’ve only been in the city about a week, catching up on our rest, recuperating, when I wake with a start in the middle of the night.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A loud knocking sounds down in the hotel somewhere. Is that what woke me? I jump out of bed, startling Tage, and rush to the boys’ room, knocking on their door, not too loudly. Some kind of commotion is going on downstairs.

  “Smoke, Tor, wake up—hurry!” I try not to be too loud. I hear some groaning, then, finally, the door opens. Smoke looks at me, his gray hair all over the place.

  “What’s going on, Ash?” I see Tor sitting in his bed, shirtless. I lick my lips. Not the time, Ash.

  “Smoke, there’s something going on downstairs. When we first arrived, you used your phone. What if they’ve tracked us?”

  My brother’s eyes grow wide. “I took precautions, too.”

  “Shit! Let’s get out of here,” Tor says.

  I rush back to the room so Tage and I can dress. We meet the guys in the hallway within minutes. Boots echo on stairs, getting louder.

  Closing our doors quietly, we slip out in the other direction. We find narrow stairs that go toward the roof. We run up as fast as we can. Shouts sound behind us near our rooms.

  “Smoke and Ashley Warfield, come out now.” A bang follows, probably our doors being knocked open.

  We burst onto the roof of the hotel. There’s a large, square opening looking down into the courtyard. All around the perimeter of the roof are cloths and homemade tents and tarps strung up. People are living up here—it reminds me of the Triangle underneath Chicago.

  Smoke and Tor run, looking over all four sides of the roof. I peer into the dark courtyard. A string of soldiers trots in. One looks up at me and shouts. They race to the stairs.

  “We’ve got company coming,” I shout.

  That was stupid, why did I have to look down?

  People are stirring from their makeshift tents at the noise we’re making.

  “Quickly, here!” Smoke calls us to his location. We join him. The next roof over is slightly below us, the gap about five feet across.

  “No,” Tage says in a low voice. “I can’t make that.”

  “Sure, you can,” Smoke squeezes her hand. “Remember boot camp? This is nothing.” As if to show us, Torrent hops to the ledge, then leaps across. He lands in a front roll, stands up, and makes a bow.

  “You next, Ash,” Smoke orders. After looking at it a moment, I go back a few feet and get a running start. I push off the ledge and fly across, landing in a splat. Tor laughs as he helps me up. I look at our joined hands. My knees are scraped and probably bleeding in my joggers.

  Tage is struggling, and she keeps shaking her head. I look at Tor.

  “Tor, can you, make an ice slide or something?” He looks at me, looking surprised at my idea. He takes a moment to focus, then pours water from his hands, freezing it as soon as it hits the right spots, making a narrow slide with a lip, like a children’s slide.

  Smoke helps Tage and puts her on it—she slides down. Smoke races after her. Whipping up my fingers, I melt the ice, cracking it in two so it plummets down, just as we hear shouts.

  Sprinting around this roof, we drop onto another roof, then run and drop to another, making our way to the street without looking back. Tor sprays ice water behind us, slicking the roofs and stairs to slow them down.

  On the street, we run and dodge. When we get to a busier area, we hail a taxi.

  We pant and catch our breath in the back of the cab. I
ask for Smoke’s phone. It’s broken anyway. He hands it to me, looking sheepish. I roll down the window and toss it into the street.

  “They’re on to us. They know we defected.” I state the obvious. This sucks. I thought we were home free.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” Smoke says. “I didn’t think …”

  “None of us did; we were all exhausted when we arrived,” Tor says.

  He’s right, but I’m still flaming mad at my effing brother. I stare ahead, crossing my arms.

  We get out at some random spot and wait for the bus. We keep changing all night, taking one mode of transportation, then another. By the time the sun rises, we’re beat and wandering the city on foot.

  “At least this is the biggest fucking-ass city I’ve ever seen,” Tage comments. “It’ll be hard for them to find us here, with the phone gone.”

  I nod.

  As the sky begins to lighten on the dingy city, we look at our surroundings. We’re in a strange, extra-dirty, disgusting area that stinks of garbage and sewage and decomposing animal. The smell hits us like a brick wall and Tage gags. Before us are blocks and blocks of ruined buildings, roofs caved in or gone. Several of the walls have a beautiful, white-painted mural, each building another piece of the abstract painting. It adds an incongruous splash of beauty to a place full of crumbling buildings without doors or glass to cover their yawning eyes and mouths. Each structure is filled with trash. The refuse spills out of the doorways, onto the sidewalks. Inside, the trash piles as high as each building’s height – most of them two or three stories. It’s like a bunch of giant buckets full of the city’s garbage.

  “Oh my god, what is this?” Tage asks, plugging her nose, looking as astounded as we all feel.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Even before sunrise, the area is full of bustling people. Empty rag-tag trucks are slowly leaving, spreading out in different directions in the city. Some are truck beds pulled by donkeys. People of all ages are out sorting, washing, compressing, packaging, and carrying the garbage, picking out anything of value. The people are strong and nimble, and as dirty as the trash they work in.