Fire Meeting

Fire Meeting
The sun is now fully below the horizon as I walk toward the only light I can see besides the few brightest stars already in the sky.  I know from before sunset that the trail is nearly straight, reasonably wide, and generally goes in the direction I seek, which is toward the light.  Still, every ten steps or so, I feel the branches of a tree or wet, tall grass against my legs, hinting that I need to reorient myself to stay on path.

This bright light that I see is somewhat like the dying sun at sunset – orange, red, yellow, at what I imagine is the horizon, if not in the West, for in darkness there is no true horizon.  However, unlike the usn, this light’s brightness surges and wanes; occasionally, it burst high into the air, and then quickly returns to normal.  It is against this light only that I can see my breath.  Warm, wet breath, condensing mid-air as it meets the frigid, dry night.

As I approach the light closer, my hopes are realized.  It is a fire, consuming energy from what seems to be one enormous log, but now I can see others in the burning pile.  No risk of running out of fuel during this cold night.  I can now hear the snapping and crackling of tree sap bubbles bursting in the heat, the dried cells of wood exploding from the resulting expansion.  I hear no sound, nor see any motion from the maker of this vibrant source of heat, energy, and safety. 

Ten feet away now.  No more worries about going off-trail.  I can tell that this fire has been built here before, perhaps nightly.  The ground around is completely bare, as if this is a meeting place, maybe one that has been used for centuries.

Perhaps from the sheer relief at finding the fire, or maybe because of fear that I have not yet confronted in myself, I do not walk around the circumference.  I approach the fire directly, falling gently to my knees in the aura of its blazing heat and loosening the straps on my pack.  As I lower the strap over my left shoulder, I feel the cold night air invade the space between my wet, cold pack and my sweat-covered shirt.  I had found that as long as my gear was soaked through, there was no benefit to extra layers.  I slid the pack to my right, letting it slip off my shoulder, lightly balancing it to sit upright on the ground next to me.

For now, all I can do is look into the dancing, licking flames, working their way around, into the formerly solid mass of the wood that is now its fuel.  I can literally feel steam coming off of my shirt as I remain on my knees, feeling that my skin may be sunburned by the blasting hot light.  Burning will be better than freezing; I’m convinced of that.

As the energy continues to push into me from the front, my mind goes to the freeze-dried chicken stew package, still sealed in its foil container in my pack.  Do I have enough water in my canteen to fill my cooking pot?  I can surely collect more in the morning, if I can only make it until then.  I will only need another cup or less extra to get me through until morning.  The dehydrated meal would have been so hard to eat as dry powder, or floating in cold water, as I had thought I may have to do.

As I turn to open the top flap of my pack, the left side of my vision explodes with a blast of light.  A burst of orange tracers shoot skyward, up and out to the sides in a thrusting plume, as another enormous log falls into the fire from the opposite side.  Above the sound of a thousand branches fracturing and the crackles of the cold wood on the outside succumbs to the flames, a thick, confident voice from the darkness says “Do not get comfortable stranger, your time here is up.”

The shock of the energy burst from the fire knocked me onto my right side, on the ground.  As I lay there next to my toppled pack, I know I am defenseless against the firemaker, the owner of the unwelcoming voice from the unfathomable other side.

It takes me not long to recover my balance and stand upright.  If asked, I would have guessed that I could not have done it at all, let alone this quickly.  My mind races – should I run, leaving my pack – which for all of its wetness and lack of fuel or source of warmth still holds my shelter, my only chance for surviving the night?  No, it is surely better to die quickly, if painfully, at the hands of the firemaker than to fade away, shivering in the night.

As I lean over to shoulder my pack, once again feeling that cold, wet fabric contact my skin through the thin shirt, I shake to my bones.  As a wild animal is simultaneously attracted to a fire, yet repelled by the fear of the unknown, I wonder if I can remain close enough to survive.  I think not.  The firemaker will certainly make sure that I am well out of sight, or personally ensure that I am not alive to see the sunrise. 

I do not have time to weigh decisions.  I expect another burst of light any moment – from the fire, or worse yet from a gunshot or blow from my unknown adversary.  I must show my retreat from this life-saving place, in order to survive – what irony.

As I bend to pick my hat from the ground before walking away, it comes to me.  I don’t ask.  As I flip the hat onto my heady, I reach out and grasp a four inch thick branch extending from the fire.  I hold its glowing red ember high above my head with both hands, as I turn and start my retreat down the same path I had entered by.  We could both now see just how far I go before stopping to nurse the little branch into a fire of my own.