Short Story Sunday: Fire Inside the Man

Jed watched as a flame swirled around his finger. He could feel its warmth and see the light, but the heat stayed millimetres away from his skin. 

It had taken months to reach this point, and the joy of victory meant he could not stop himself from playing with the flame, letting it jump from finger to finger until he let it die in a puff of white. He could not wait for Percival to return from his travels so that he could show him that the lessons had paid off; that he was finally learning to bend the elements at will. Wind he could summon without much effort, water leapt out of the earth to greet him, but fire... Fire had taken the longest time and been the most painful to master.

It didn't help that Percival, in his brusque way, kept reminding him that his father was the Great Rafferty, who reigned in fire. It didn't help that he'd never met his father, nor seen his tricks beyond the stationary circus posters that showed him in the throes of a trick. It had driven his mother mad and she refused to talk about him or their time on the road. When he visited her at the asylum, all she would mutter was: "Terrible things. Rafferty did terrible things."

Percival had been the only one to indulge his curiosity with stories, insights and even the offer to train him.

"You have the same gift, Jed," he would say. "I would wager it's even greater than your father's. But it will take time and patience to master. Of course there's also the thing of your being less temperamental than he..." Percival would clear his throat. "I think you are ready to pick up where Rafferty left off."

Six months into their training, once Jed had learnt to summon hurricanes and banish the South-Easter at will, Percival had poured them a celebratory Brandy. Jed only had half, because he was just shy of seventeen. It was that night that Percival got talking about the day Rafferty died.

"I wouldn't expect you to remember, since you were only three months outside the womb. God, I think your mother would slit my throat if she knew I was telling you this. But you have a right to know." He spilled his Brandy on his tunic as he gestured at Jeb. With a chuckle, he waved his hand and the Brandy returned to the glass. "We were in Paris for a month. Rafferty always wanted to go. He said that the city of saints and sinners would welcome a ragamuffin bunch like us -- and pay handsomely too. I rather think he'd been romanticising the stories of cabaret girls we'd heard over the years. Don't get me wrong, he loved your mother, but he loved the attention he got as a showman more. I allowed it, as long as he sent some cast-offs my way for the night." He chuckled again.

Percival patted his pockets and, when he did not find what he was looking for, he performed the summoner's gesture. Jed watched in awe as the silver cigarette holder manifested on his palm. He retrieved one and perched it on the edge of his lower lip. Percival was about to strike a match when he stopped. 

"How about a light, kid?"

"I'm not ready."

"Try." Percival leant forward.

Bullets of sweat formed at Jed's temples. He closed his eyes, remembering to breathe the way he had been taught and...

"Nothing. Try again."

Jed stared at his finger, willing it to form a tiny flame. Just this once.

"You're overthinking, kid. Allow the flame to come from within you."

Jed closed his eyes. He focused on the smell of singeing wood, the crackle of logs in the hearth, the warmth...

"Oy! Easy."

He opened his eyes to find Percival laughing at the glass of Brandy he was holding. The contents were on fire and emitting a hazy blue glow. "I'll take it," Percival said, lighting his cigarette in the glass. He inhaled. "Tastes like Brandy." He removed a strand of tobacco from his mouth. "Not what I was going for, but you saved me a match."

Jed averted his eyes. 

"Look, kid, I know it's hard. I know you want to make your old man proud. But you're not going to do that if you try to make the fire come from here." A grimy finger poked his forehead. "The fire's got to come from inside the man."

He looked up to see Percival tapping his chest.         

"Take it from me, kid. It's the hardest thing you'll ever do: the journey from your head to your heart. But it's the most rewarding." Taking a drag from his cigarette, Percival saw some hidden middle distance that was alive with memories. "I think your father told me that once. Anyway, we were in Paris. The whole place felt electric with possibility -- if you could get over the dirt and the smell. I never did take to the language, but your father insisted there was nothing as beautiful as hearing the philosophy of Voltaire spoken by a Frenchwoman." Percival chuckled. "Maybe you're too young for that part of the story."

Jed took the tiniest sips of Brandy. He realised that copying the gulps Percival took would only lead to hacking coughs as the liquid burnt its way down his throat. 

"We found a site about ten minutes' walk from the Hotel De Ville -- your father insisted we perform in the posh side of Paris -- and I remember the show being nothing short of spectacular. When I pointed out the gathering storm, Rafferty told me it would help make the show even more dramatic. I trusted that he knew what was best. But the horses were jittery and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off." Percival refilled his glass. "Except all that goes out the window when you hear the audience cheering in French and you see the children gasping at the acrobats or laughing at the clowns. I never cared for clowns, myself, but they were the best jugglers we had. The one -- I think he was called Ollino -- could actually slow down the speed of the balls in the air. He was incredible."

Percival closed his eyes and seemed lost in the past. "I don't think any of us saw it coming. I remember your father standing in the arena and making water jump from one cannister to another. He always ended with the goblet and he would swirl the water into a tornado about a metre high before splashing the audience in the front row. They loved it and, before his performance was over, they were completely dry again. The part I enjoyed most was when he created columns of fire and, as he blew them out, beautiful objects would emerge from the flames. The best illusion was when he made a crimson rose appear and then, as he plucked the petals from the stem, they would fly up like wishes before disappearing like ash in the air."

Jed hugged his knees to himself and waited. Percival liked to take his time when telling stories, even if they were as important as this. He left out nothing, lest the omission of a detail detract from its authenticity.

"I remember the thunderclap. It was so loud that the sonic waves made the whole tent and all the lights shudder. I could hear the horses kicking against the doors of their enclosures and the children in the audience buried their faces in their mothers' sleeves. There was a second rumble and then a roar. It took me a moment to realise that it was coming from me. Your father had been shot by a jealous husband of one of the acrobats. Apparently he had reason to believe that your father was teaching her Voltaire's philosophy in French. I know what people think, but I know your father kept his affairs out of the circus to spare your mother. If the acrobat was having an affair, then it was definitely not with Rafferty."

His mother had never recovered from the shame of being so publicly humiliated -- twice. Their life in the circus had only been possible because of Rafferty's talent and, once he was gone, the struggle to raise a child and live down her husband's infidelity overwhelmed her. Jed had sprung up rather than grown up. Not that he blamed her. The circus was not exactly the best place to raise a child.

But he'd managed. He'd made himself useful as a stable boy, and learnt everything he could about each performance until Percival deemed him ready to start training. And now it had paid off.  

The sun was on the verge of dipping behind the horizon when Percival appeared.

"I've been waiting for you." 

"Then you're going to have to wait a while longer. My bones are weary and my boots are chafing me."

"It won't take long." Jed ignited his finger and Percival watched as the flame danced across his hand.

"Impressive. I always knew you had it in you, kid."

"I'm not finished." Jed stepped forward and held his burning hand in front of Percival's face. "It was you who was sleeping with the acrobat, and it was you who spread the story of Voltaire."

"What are you talking about, kid?"

"All this time you had me believe that you cared for me, but I realised that it was to atone for what you did to my father. And to my mother -- she went mad because of you."

"Calm down, Jed. Whatever you think you know..."

"I know that the bullet was meant for you that night."

"Jed, that was years ago. Ancient history. Everything turned out all right, didn't it?"

"You told me once that the fire had to come from inside the man. Once I understood that, it became so much easier to show my anger on the outside. Burn in hell, Percival."

Jed planted his palms on Percival's chest, burning through the flesh to the ribcage. As the sun died behind the horizon, Percival collapsed to the ground.        

"That was for Rafferty, for my mother and for me." Jed contained his rage and the fire disappeared. He walked to his tent without a backward glace. The winds came tearing through the fairground and carried Percival's body into the the night.