Fire World

by Chris D'Lacey

  “Harlan?” said Lefarr, inviting him to come.

  Harlan took a deep breath. He had no idea what was being asked of him, but there was only one way to find out. New world, new rules, as Lefarr had said. “I need to see this,” he said to his worried-looking colleague. And kicking off his sandals as the other men had done, he charged down the hill after Mathew and the others.

  By the time they were all on level ground, with the Isle of Alavon standing huge beside them, the men had spread out and each was turning his face to the sky. The bird was coming down, but it was hard to say where. Several times it changed direction, which had the men pointing, predicting new landings, and running toward their next best guess.

  Lefarr, however, had a different strategy. As a puffing Harlan Merriman appeared at his side, he said, “Conserve your energy, Professor. This one intends to play with us a while. My advice: Pick an area and stick to it.”

  Harlan spoke, doubled over, with his hands on his knees. “What happens when it comes down?”

  “The first one to catch it, claims it.”

  “And then?”

  Lefarr didn’t answer. He was engaged in a dialogue with another group of men who’d come sprinting toward him, eager to join the hunt. Harlan heard his name reported to the newcomers, but noted no animosity among them. Curiosity afforded them each a single glance, but their clear priority was the bird. Harlan could still just see it, a dark slit against the glaring orange sunrise. “How many of you — in the tribe?” he panted.

  “Twenty-two,” Lefarr answered. “Including you and Bernard.”

  “All men?”

  “In this area, yes.”

  To Harlan’s left, a wild shout went up.

  “It’s dropping,” said Lefarr. “Now we must be swift. Good luck, Harlan. From this moment on, it’s every man for himself.”

  “Wait,” Harlan cried. “What exactly am I supposed to do?” But Lefarr was heading back toward the ridge, where he and any one of four other men were the likeliest candidates to catch the bird. It was flying at little more than twice head height, but still leading them on a merry dance. Just when it looked as if it might come down in favor of a man with bright red hair, it swerved away and plummeted to earth out of Harlan’s sight. He heard a chorus of brief, excited cries, before the group of men came abruptly to a halt. Their collective stillness was a clear indication that the creature had been captured. But even Harlan was surprised when he saw the victor.

  The bird was in the arms of Bernard Brotherton.

  “Get back!” Bernard shouted to the assembled gathering. “You’re not going to kill it! I won’t let you harm it!”

  Mathew Lefarr spread his hands wide to tell the other men to be silent and calm. He stepped toward Bernard in a nonaggressive manner. “Bernard,” he said, “the bird came here to die. None of us ever intended to kill it.”

  “Then why did you chase it?”

  “Friend, you must not let it struggle,” said a man.

  Bernard gulped and eased the tightness of his grip. The bird laid its orange head against his chest, letting its dark red ear tufts fold.

  “Kneel with it,” Lefarr said. “Let it face the earth.”

  “Why?”

  “Bernard,” said Harlan, stepping forward. “This is their way. Do as he says.”

  “The bird has only moments to live,” said Lefarr. “Hold it, Bernard. As its captor, that is your honor and your privilege. But it needs to face the land.”

  And so Bernard Brotherton dropped to his knees with the heartbeat of a firebird fading against his trembling palm. He arranged its head in the crook of his arm and let it see the dead soil all around it. The bird blinked and gave up a grateful rrrh. And as it closed its hooded eyes for the very last time, it shuddered and produced a single tear. Inside the tear burned a violet flame. The tear ran down the firebird’s beak and dripped onto the blackened earth.

  Instantly, as if a pebble had been dropped into a pool of water, a great burst of energy swept across the dirt. The ground Harlan was standing on was purged with a strange white fire before its color settled back to a rich shade of brown. But that was not the end of it. Suddenly, a host of bright green shoots began to push up from the energized soil.

  One of the men knelt down to examine them. “Corn,” he said. He looked joyously at Lefarr.

  Mathew went up and touched Bernard on the shoulder. “It’s done,” he said quietly. “Lay the bird down.”

  Shaking and confused, Bernard did as he was told and nestled the body among the new plants. In a matter of moments, the bird’s molecular structure had collapsed and it had faded from view to become one with the soil it had brought to life.

  “This field of crops now belongs to you,” said Lefarr. “All we ask is that you tend it wisely and be aware of the needs of the men around you.” He stood aside and invited the other men closer. One by one they shook Bernard’s hand and thanked him for what he had done.

  Last to approach was Harlan Merriman. He crouched down and looked his tech:nician in the eye. “Well, Bernard. Welcome to the tribe.”

  “What is this place?” Bernard whispered. He was still kneeling, still overcome.

  Harlan extended a hand to help him up. “This is Alavon,” he said. “Our new life.”

  3.

  It was at least half a day before Harlan and Bernard were ready to speak with Lefarr again. At the suggestion of a senior man, Hugo Abbot, the newcomers were escorted to a suitable dwelling place where they were encouraged to rest. The Shelter, as the tribe described their settlement, was little more than a small collection of huts on one side of the hill, put together from dried earth and woven grasses. When Harlan set eyes upon his new accommodation, the luxury of a self-adjusting pneumatic bed was soon a distant fantasy for him, but after the tiring slog across the marsh it wasn’t difficult to find several hours of welcome sleep on the rough bedding provided.

  He woke to the warmth of a crackling fire and the humid atmosphere of steam rising from a bubbling pot. Every joint in his back ached, more so as he pushed himself upright. Roderic, the man who had stayed with Bernard on the summit of the ridge, handed him a ceramic dish filled with a pale, uninviting broth.

  “I’m sorry, it’s the best there is.”

  Harlan manufactured a grateful smile. He glanced at the broth. There was some kind of loose peel floating on the surface.

  “Potato,” Roderic said, guessing at the coming question. He pressed a clutch of bread into Harlan’s hand and encouraged him to try it. It clung to the teeth and was completely saltless, but otherwise palatable.

  “You have flour?” Harlan asked.

  Roderic turned away to stir the pot. “A bird gifted us a field of wheat. So, yes, we make bread when we’re able to.”

  “How do you bake it?”

  “We found we could construct a tolerable oven by cutting a rectangular hole into an earthen embankment. We heat it with hot rocks. It’s an art, getting the timings right. I’ve been cursed more than once for giving the tribe a bad gut. The small flecks of dark material you can taste are wild berries. They are coated in natural yeast, which helps the bread to rise and gives it flavor.”

  “And the water?”

  “From a spring in the hillside.”

  Harlan brought the spring-water broth to his mouth. One sip nearly took away the back of his throat. He retched a little and had to spit out.

  “Don’t worry, you get used to it,” a familiar voice said. Lefarr swept in and sat cross-legged on a pile of loose cloths, the same material the robes and blankets were made from. “What we lack in seasoning, we make up for in nutrition.”

  Harlan wiped his lip. He’d need a lot more convincing of that, he thought. But the growing threat of hunger persuaded him to take another swig, which this time he swallowed. “Where did you find the dish?” And the cooking pot, for that matter? The potatoes, he assumed, were another “blessing” (as he’d heard one of the men say) from a dying firebird.

 
; “We go out regularly in teams of four, searching, collecting up what we can. Sometimes when we’re digging the crops, we come across gems like the cooking pot.”

  “Then there’s really stuff out there?”

  A smile played across Mathew’s face. “I told you, this place is not as dead as its name implies. The Aunts provide us with cloth, but no food. They are well aware that with enough ingenuity and determination a tribe can survive here — just. By handing us the responsibility of scraping together our meager existence they can claim they’re not condemning us to outright starvation, which eases their questionable conscience and keeps them within the law. But hundreds do die here, Harlan.”

  A weary groan from the bundle of blankets in the corner announced that Bernard, at least, was still alive. Roderic moved across the floor to attend to him.

  “Do the Aunts know about the crops and the firebirds?”

  “If they do, they’ve done nothing to stop it,” said Lefarr.

  “Has it always happened?”

  “No,” said Lefarr. “Roderic can tell you more about it than I.”

  Harlan looked at the kindly old man. The skin on his cheeks was painfully thin, his facial muscles all but stretched to their limit. He was hardly the best advertisement for his own cooking, but his small gray eyes were quick and lively, and if what Lefarr had said about the collection of minds here was accurate, even a bag of bones like him was not to be underestimated. “The crops are a recent development,” said Roderic as he welcomed Bernard awake, “though it’s never been uncommon to see firebirds circling overhead, leaving food or helpful implements.”

  “This was dropped by one,” said Lefarr, taking a needle from a pouch pocket stitched across the front of his robe.

  Harlan nodded. He’d been wondering how the clothing had been put together. He pinched at his robe and sniffed an armpit. The odor from it wasn’t good.

  “It’s rumored that they aid the sick,” Roderic added, “though we, on the Isle, have never seen any evidence of that.” He handed Bernard a dish of broth. “The kind of event you witnessed in the valley began when one of our tribe, a man called Hugo Abbot, whom you met yesterday, was exploring the region and saw a distressed bird come down in the field beside him. One of its wings had got entangled in a small piece of netting that Hugo had found. Unbeknownst to Hugo, the net had blown away on the wind, into the flight path of the bird. Hugo was able to tear away the net, but in its struggles the bird had put the wing out of joint. It was in anguish and ready to give up its life. But Hugo steadied it as best he could and brought it to the Shelter, where another of our men, Terance Humbey —”

  “A medic in Central,” Lefarr put in.

  “— was able to tend it. The bird gave a terrible cry of suffering as Terance reset the wing. The poor creature went painfully limp, and at first we thought it had died of shock. But Terance detected a trace of air in its nostrils and he stayed with it until it duly came around. By then he had strapped the wing and settled the bird in a makeshift cage. It awoke blowing plumes of fire, spitting its red-hot embers at us as if we were its mortal enemy. Hugo bravely knelt down and spoke to it. Perhaps it was his gentle tone of voice or the fact that the bird simply recognized its rescuer, but it allowed him to put his hands up close and take the cage apart. There the bird stood, glorious in its bright yellow plumage, with its ear tufts raised like orange twigs. It looked at us all in turn, then began to peck at the binding on its wing. Terance followed Hugo’s example and knelt down also. Gently, so as not to startle the creature, he unwrapped the bindings and set the thing free. It took to the sky in a flash of feathers, rolling and tumbling as though it was flying for the very first time. We clapped and cheered and wished it well. Before it left to go back to wherever it had come from, it hovered above us with its wings spread apart and the sun forming an aura around it. It was a wonderful sight to behold. Two days later, the first one came to add its fire to the Isle. Since then, others have done the same. The result, as you saw, is extraordinary.”

  Lefarr stood up. “I’ve called a gathering,” he said. “Whenever new men arrive we come together to introduce ourselves and exchange knowledge. Roderic will show you what to do with your dishes. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  “Mathew?”

  Lefarr turned to look at Bernard. The tech:nician looked weary, but was otherwise OK.

  “What does one do about … the soup that isn’t absorbed?”

  Lefarr laughed out loud. “One thing we’re not short of is ground to bury waste in. Roderic will take you to a designated field. When you’re ready, join us.”

  The twenty-two Followers of Agawin assembled in an open space between the huts. Many of them were sitting on parts of old trees they had presumably dragged there. How far, Harlan wondered, did their explorations take them? He had seen no sign of trees the night before. Bernard was guided to a spare block of wood and Harlan to a boulder that must have required the shoulders of the strongest men to move it. Lefarr sat opposite, winding his limbs around a ragged trunk that seemed to have footholds specially carved out for him.

  “Friends,” he announced, “we welcome to the tribe Harlan Merriman, once a Professor of Phys:ics, and his colleague, Bernard Brotherton, from that same line of work.”

  The men looked at Harlan keenly.

  “In a moment,” Lefarr went on, “I will ask you both to explain why you were sent here. But first, let us introduce ourselves to you. On my left is Hugo Abbot, whom you have already heard about.”

  “Welcome,” said Hugo. He nodded his nearly bald head. Two slim wedges of dark brown hair sat like crowns just above his ears. He wore round-rimmed spex, though only the left side lens was present. “I was sent here for openly speaking my opinions of the Aunts and advocating a return to natural births.” He turned to a square-chinned man at his left, whose jaw was red with shaving marks. Whatever cutting implement the firebirds might have gifted him, it wasn’t slick or intended for human skin. The whole tribe, except two, had facial hair.

  “Welcome,” he said, thick and nasal. “My name is Colm Fellowes. I am an engineer. I used to imagineer and tune Re:movers. I was sent here for making them deliberately malfunction when my wife was taken for Aunthood against her wishes.”

  That raised a small cheer. And so it went on, all around the circle. One man after another, telling of their rebellion against the Higher or the Grand Design. Harlan’s confession of his experiment gone wrong stimulated many questions and prompted a long discussion about the properties of time and the possible role of the firebirds in it. Finally, Lefarr said to the new men, “Is there anything you would like to ask of us?”

  “Yes,” said Harlan. “I’m interested in the tower.” He pointed over his shoulder to the hill, rising like a moody giant in the background.

  “Does the path take you to it?” Bernard asked. From his position he could see the hill clearly. He nodded at a faint brown line winding across the elevated ground.

  “The tower is a sacred place,” said Hugo. “It’s all that remains of the dwelling place of Agawin.”

  Harlan swiveled on his boulder, cupping his hands above his eyes. “Can we go up there?”

  Lefarr glanced around the circle. He leaned close to Hugo Abbot and spoke in a whisper. Hugo gave the faintest of nods. “It is every man’s right to make the climb,” said Mathew, “but I should warn you, there are dangers.”

  Bernard’s questioning gaze shifted back to the hillside. The sun was sitting just behind the summit. “It isn’t high. Surely we’re not likely to fall?”

  One of the men, Thomas Spilo, gave out a short grunt.

  Mathew raised a hand before others could respond. “Men have been changed by the experience, Bernard. The tower, as Hugo said, is a spiritual place.”

  Another of the men muttered something and for a second time Mathew overrode it. “We will climb the Isle today, before dark. Myself, Colm Fellowes, Harlan, and Bernard.”

  “Why ‘Isle,’ not ‘hill’?” Harla
n asked. He couldn’t wait to get started.

  Colm Fellowes replied, “Alavon was once surrounded by water. When the Great Re:duction began, it drained to leave the marsh you crossed.”

  “Re:duction?” Bernard said, looking around the circle.

  “You’ve never wondered how these lands earned their name?” said Lefarr.

  Bernard concentrated inwardly for a moment. “Weren’t we all taught that the elemental forces — ‘nature’ I believe they were called — simply fell into collapse when humans gathered in Co:pern:ica Central?”

  One or two of the men began to shuffle their feet.

  “I’m afraid that’s not correct,” Hugo Abbot said. “Mathew, tell them what you discovered in the Geo:grafical Institute.”

  Lefarr waited for Harlan to look at him, then said, “As I’m sure you know, all living things have auma, from the smallest blade of grass to the largest hill. Once, this land was rich with it. Every stone, every granule of soil, every creature that burrowed through or lived in the soil or ran across its surface or swam in its pools of life-giving water, every tree or flower that sprouted from the land and drank in the rain that fell from the clouds — all of these things had natural auma, linked together in a collective consciousness called Gai:a, and shared with us, the most privileged, intelligent life-form on the planet. And do you know what we did with that privilege, when we eventually discovered how our minds were connected to this extraordinary resource? We slowly sucked the consciousness out of the earth and all of its creatures and all of its plants, and we took it to ourselves and we used it to enhance our fain. Before we knew what we were doing, the plants and the creatures were fading from view and the land had become dark. We took it all, Bernard. We re:duced it to nothing but a barren wilderness where hardly a memory of its beautiful, boundless diversity survives.”

  “But why? For what purpose?” Bernard said, wringing his hands in a belated show of guilt.

  “For the purpose of ‘a better way of life,’ “ said Hugo.