Fire Top Peak

Fire Top Peak

The air was different that summer.  Just a tinge of ozone, a tickle at the back of my throat, a burning under the bridge of my nose; a deadness where before there had always been the sweet scent of flowering bushes and plants, underlying the dust raised from the cars passing along the road leading up to our village.  That year, there were no exhaust fumes.  The only live things left around were my dog, my best friend and me. 

That spring was like any other.  The first crocuses had peeked their heads out through the last of the late spring snow, and the birds were starting to return and fix up what would be their summer homes.  Mothers were fighting with their adventuresome sons who felt the coming good weather in the air, and saw no reason to dress warmly, consequently coming home with coughs, runny noses and tales of wonderful adventures in the woods.

The chilly days of spring led to the warmer days of summer, bringing with them a strange wind down from the mountains.  That wind blew day and night, straight down from Fire Top Peak.  The wind had never blown that way before.  It brought something with it; something that brought death to the town.

It started on the first day of Summer, June 21st.  I was sleeping on my back porch, bundled up in my sleeping bag, enjoying the quiet and clear summer night. My German shepherd Hania, Hopi for Spirit Warrior was cuddled up against my back, and my best friend Nuala was on the glider couch, huddled under about four down comforters, only her right ear showing.  I had been awakened by hydraulic pressure, and had just snuggled back down into the bag when Hania stiffened against me and growled softly, deep in the back of her throat.  I sat up, and looked out into the darkness where she was staring.  There was nothing to see, but what looked to be fireflies flickering off in the trees. 

I was so tired that fireflies made perfect sense, even though it was way too early in the year for them, and I couldn’t ever remember seeing them this far west, before.  But lots of things make sense in the middle of the night, when dreams are real, and reality is dreamland.  I reached behind me, stroked Hania until she calmed, and went back to sleep.

In the morning, over breakfast, I told Nuala about my firefly dream of the night before.  She sniffed the air, glanced up to the mountain, looked worried, but wouldn’t tell me why.  I tried to laugh it off, but something inside me wouldn’t see the humor.  Nuala disappeared after breakfast.  I could hear her rummaging through drawers and closets, and the occasional thump as something hit the floor. 

I ignored it as long as I could, then went looking for her.  I wandered through the house till I found her, sitting in my bedroom, surrounded by candles and some incense that I’d bought years before. 

“Is this all you have?” she asked, gesturing at the pile on the floor.

“All of what?” I asked.  “Candles?  No, I have some emergency ones in the kitchen.  Nu, what are you doing?”

“Never mind that, help me.”  The impatience that I heard in her voice was tempered by something I’d never heard there before: fear.  So I helped her.  I followed her into the kitchen, grabbed the candles from the emergency drawer and pointed out whichever herbs she wanted from my cupboards.  All without knowing what was driving her, but starting to feel the anxiety myself. 

Finally, there was a jumble of things piled on the kitchen table.  Nu looked hard at me, picked a few herbs up and motioned me into the bathroom.  She crumbled whatever was in her hand into the tub after stating the water running.  Then she ordered me in.  After I finished, she refilled the tub, put more stuff into it and climbed in, herself.

After we’d both dried off and dressed, we went outside.  She carried a basket filled with everything she’d gathered.  Hania followed at our heels, after being warned to behave herself.  Nuala set off into the woods, on a meandering path that seemed to follow neither rhyme nor reason.  She frequently stopped to sniff the air, muttering under her breath.  I sniffed too, but didn’t like what I smelled.  I couldn’t put a name to it, but it wasn’t right. 

Finally, we came to a clearing that I remembered having passed a long time ago.  In the center of the clearing, a circle of mushrooms stood, all alone.  Nuala knelt close to them and started emptying the contents of the basket beside the circle.  She pulled a glove from the basket and directed me to the edge of the clearing and told me to pull some of the thistles which grew there. 

When I brought them back, she shredded the leaves and scattered them around us.  I raised my eyebrows at her and she smiled.

“Thistle, protects us from evil intent...and this is evil.”

“What is...?”

“Shh!”  She finished scattering the herbs around, lit the candles and started chanting under her breath.  This was getting weird.  I knew she was Irish, but...faerie rings, chanting, herbs...

When she was done, she stood up, pulled me up, and we walked back to the house.  On the way home I saw the fireflies again.  They flitted close to my face.  Funny, I could have sworn I saw little faces on them...and since when did fireflies have butterfly wings?

*  *  *

Nuala tells me that the little folke got tired of what we’d done to the world, so they took the world away.  Or, they took the humans and their works out of the world.  I don’t know where they went.  The village is gone, has been, since that afternoon.  Just disappeared.  Now there’s only Hania, Nuala, and me.  Sometimes, I hate her.



Word Count: 1000 Words, including title
Writer's Cramp Prompt: Story must contain the line: The air was different that summer.