Heart's Flame

Heart’s Flame



In the heart of the darkest woods, there stands an altar.  For centuries it has stood, cold and empty, a lost relic of a people long since past.  Long ago a fire burned atop its crest, but now its basin lay abandoned. 

         When the fire still burned, it was duty of every woman who came of age to tend the flame.  They would watch over it for months, and sometimes years, before another would take her place.  She was to stand before it, hour by hour, day by day—her lonely vigil until the next of age.  As long as the fire burned, it would protect the people from the sorrows of the outside world, for Heart’s Flame was a sacred fire.  For centuries it looked upon the earth, taking in all: a witness eye to mankind. 

         Sparks shot into the air, coalescing in the darkness.  Little Lana was the sentinel now.  With silvery hair far before her time, she stood before the fire like so many before her, her penetrating eyes watching the firelight. 

         One warning was given by her elders—never look into the heart of the flames.  The first few days it was an easy command to follow.  She looked only to the arms of flame that spiraled from its core and was very careful to look elsewhere when she tended it. 

         One day, as she placed kindling into the flame, she could not help but glance in the center of the basin.  A soft intake of breath escaped her.  There, in the center of the fire, was a beating heart, wreathed in flame.  Each beat gave new life into the flames.  Lana stared at the organ, transfixed.  It was much larger than a human heart, and beat much slower.  Even now, she could discern a dull throb over the crackling fire and she could feel the weight her own heart slowing to match the one before her.

         “Look into my heart, child,” whispered the Flame.

         Lana started—the fire had never spoken before.  Eye’s narrowing, she drew nearer, unsure of what she had just heard.  She waited, heart hammering.

         “Look into my heart.”

         Little Lana pulled still nearer to the flame, her silver hair now golden in the fierce light and eyes unblinking.  Reaching before her, she put her hands into the flame, finding it icy to the touch.  Without hesitating, she scooped the heart into her hands.  It felt like a heavy river stone, cold, but alive.  As she pulled it from the basin, every heartbeat thundered through her so that her body trembled beneath the energy.

         Squinting into the heart of the flames she saw shapes stirring to form into images, life-like, but still of flame.  Before her, she saw the rolling hills and steep cliffs of a land far off.  Little villages, not unlike her own, lay scattered throughout the landscape.  She saw the people, busy in their lives as they moved from one errand to the other.  They laughed, merrily milling about their lives with enjoyment. 

         Smells of their world floated into Lana’s, curling into her nose—freshly baked bread, churning butter, morning dew, the damp river stones.  Each of the smells made her recall moments in her childhood, when the world was new to her and she still took in everything in great gulps. 

         She watched the fire, engaged in a culture different from her own.  She noticed that not all were truly happy.  The men and women seemed so distant from each other.  The men wore flowing gowns and held their heads high when they looked upon women, who in turn dared not look into the eyes of men.  They moved about their business quickly and alone.

         “Why do the men not speak to the women?”

         “They are mighty warriors, proud and borne of mountain stone.”

         The images disappeared and the fire calmed.

         “Why did you show me this?”

         The fire did not answer her, and she replaced the heart in the basin.

         She sat in the cool night for a long time thinking of what she had seen.  She stared off, pretending to see into that land that seemed so far away.  What it must be like to live there, she wondered.

         The next night, Lana placed kindling in the fire basin, nervous to have such responsibility.  She wedged it in the hot coals, flames licking eagerly at the fresh wood.

         “Look into my heart, child.”

         Lana’s heart skipped, she had hoped the heart would speak to her again.  Stood close, peering into the flames.  Eagerly, she scooped the fiery heart into her hands. 

         The organ glowed and shapes soon formed to shape a black valley, torn and broken.  Stone masonry and remains of buildings stood silhouetted against an angry sky.

         “Is this the village I saw before?”  The fire didn’t need to answer.

         Burnt baskets and loaves of smashed bread littered the streets.  A suffocating plume of ash burnt Lana’s throat as her eyes stung in the firelight.

         “What happened?”

         Hundreds of soldiers lined a hilltop, glaring at her through the flames.  The fire sputtered and she saw a battle, furious and gripping. Man fighting man, neighbor fighting neighbor.  Screams of terror and pain rose through the fire like serpents.  Fiery blood sprayed into the air.  A scorched corpse lay in a pool of ash, a single hand reaching skyward, only bone and charred skin clung to the blackened bone.

         Lana turned away, closing her eyes, “Show me no more.”

         “It is the nature of the world, Silver.”

         She shook her head, “Not here.”

         The fire hissed and sputtered like an animal.  Wind stirred in the trees, and the fire was silent.  Suddenly it commanded, “Look again, child.”

         Lana hesitated.

         “Look again.”

         Swallowing, she brought the heart up to her chest, peering into its depths.  Sparks flew higher than before, arms of flame growing in long, glowing strands that spiraled out from the base.  They curled around Lana, but did not touch her.  In the breath of Heart’s Flame, Lana’s hair blew behind her, alive and desperate to escape the heat.

         “Look into me.”

         Lana squinted her eyes, bending closer than she had ever come before.  The fire was hot upon her face.  When she opened her eyes the fire grew unbearably bright, and a new image was visible: her village, her people, peaceful and untouched.  A tear slid down her cheek.  She loved them more than anything. 

         The image changed suddenly and Lana saw her village devastated by war, broken and murdered in a thousand screams of pain.  She closed her eyes, “Stop it!”  She sobbed, trying to back away, but an arm of flame pulled her close, singeing her gown and burning her wrist as it pried her hand from her eyes.

         For a moment, her eyes stopped, fixated on the image in the fire.  Her breath caught in her throat and her body turned cold.  There was no sound in the world.  For an instant there was nothing but Lana and Heart’s Flame.

         There, nestled in the womb of the flame was her own face looking up at her, pale, lifeless, and staring.  Those penetrating eyes and silver hair sent a shiver through her body as her skin pickled with a thousand needles’ fury.

         She saw her own death in the crook her arms.

         “It is the way of the world.”  The fire grew dim, arms of flame subsiding, folding into the heart of the flame.  “It is the way of the world...”

         Lana’s breathing was heavy.  “What do I do?” she asked the fire.

         The fire was as silent as it had been for years, dim now as its light dwindled.

         She studied the flame, afraid of what she might see.  Heart’s Flame was dying fast, burning lower and lower.  It seemed that it had consumed all of its life to show Lana those images.

         “What do I do?”

         There was no reply.

         Lana drew close to the altar’s basin, a Hart’s Flame in hand.  She bent near as the flame grew smaller and the heart beat slower, duller.  There were no haunting images, no arms of fire, just a single flame, no bigger than that of a candle.

         The silver-haired girl’s breathing was calm, chest rising and falling with controlled persistency.  She stood before the basin, hesitating.  Bringing the burning heart up to her face, she pursed her lips, inhaled a steady breath, and blew, submerging herself in darkness.



-Ryan K. McNeal