Master of the Inferno by Steven Patchett

As a child, I met a man who had set himself on fire. He was just sitting there, naked but for a loincloth, legs folded in the lotus position, rocking to and fro. Flames of red and gold were flowing along his arms, caressing his face. I could smell the oils as they burned away, the air scented with their hot perfume.

I started towards him, certain that his fate was sealed, intending to charge at him with my small frame and roll him in the dirt. His eyes opened and he locked his gaze with mine. He languidly lifted a hand, formed shapes in the flames that sprung from his fingers and waved me away. I felt my mother's hand in mine as she bowed to the man and threw coins into a little pot that was placed before him. He clasped his hands together in prayer and bowed his head. The fire leapt to his brow and across his ears. It ran like water over his bald pate. He smiled as she drew me away, and fire danced on his lips. My mother scolded me for wandering and blocked him from my view.

As I grew, the image of the man and his trickery stayed with me. I studied the pyrotechnic arts, magic tricks, and special effects. I toured the world, astonishing the world with my skill.

And yet no matter what I learned, that humble street charlatan possessed skills I simply could not match. At night I dreamt of flames that lapped at my lips and those dreams would end with him raising his hand in greeting.

At the height of my fame, I returned to that street, but the man was not there. None knew of a man who bathed in flames as if they were water.

When I retreated to a cafe to drink sweet, strong coffee, a boy approached me. His knowledge of my language was no better than mine of his, but he knew the word for fire. I followed him through the cluttered, chaotic streets to a walled compound. With a knock, the gate opened, revealing a lush garden behind the wall. The air was heady with the aroma of jasmine and coriander, but I spied nightshade amongst the planters. The boy took me to the house beyond the garden. I was greeted by others, who did not seem to find it strange that I was there. I tried to explain myself, but they shook their heads and smiled, pointing to the last door.

I pushed on it, feeling the warmth of the bruised wood. A wave of heat and light washed over me and I shielded my eyes from the glare.

Upon a podium was a fire in the form of man. He turned towards me and raised a hand in welcome.

I stumbled into the room and fell to my knees.

………………..

Steven Patchett is an engineer, father and rriter, living and working in the North East of England. His Flash Fictions have been published in Ellipsis Zine, 100 Words of Solitude and The Cabinet of Heed. He can be found in the Retreat West Community.

Twitter: @StevenPatchett7