By Flame

by T Thorn Coyle

  He didn’t even know where the words were coming from. He’d never prayed to this saint before in his life. He wasn’t much of a saint-prayer in the first place; that was his mother. But here, in this church on this rainy February afternoon, it felt like all he could do was pray.

  He started to feel lightheaded, a little dizzy, staring at the image. It was as though the brown eyes of the saint were boring their way into his own head. He felt caught by the glass gaze. How was that possible?

  A sharp pain pierced his heart, as if someone had touched a match to his skin. All of a sudden, his chest felt as if it were on fire. He dropped his jacket and clutched his heart. I’m too young for a heart attack, he thought. What’s happening? What’s happening to me? The flames grew stronger and stronger, engulfing his whole body.

  He fell to his knees. He heard a clatter and a shout from the altar just as he collapsed to the ground.

  “Brigid, Brigid, Holy Brigid,” he panted out. His hands scrabbled at the old brown carpet and then he fell all the way down, remembering to turn his face before it struck the floor. He felt the rough nap of the carpet on his cheek. He was sobbing, on fire. His heart was being ripped out from beneath his rib cage by hot metal pincers.

  A hand gripped at his shaking shoulder, and everything went black.

  5

  Tobias

  Tobias had a client coming in thirty minutes and he needed to prepare. His work space was in order. He’d fluffed the deep teal throw pillow on the client chair and made sure the small coffee table was cleared.

  The only thing that wasn’t clear were his roiling emotions. It had been another crappy-meditation morning. He felt sour, like the taste of this morning’s grapefruit juice. Raquel would tell him there was no such thing as good or bad meditation, that meditation just was, neutral. Yeah, but some days still felt better than others.

  Just like some days he tuned in easily to the plants, and other days, he just couldn’t get through. Today? He had to keep trying. His clients depended on him.

  The call from his father still rankled. Combined with the news of Sara’s death, and Brenda’s sharp words, the memory of his father’s voice threatened to throw him into a shame and anger spiral.

  It was time to turn to the altar. Do some cleansing. Again.

  He lit the candle and touched a stick of Nag Champa incense to the flame. Once the end was glowing orange, he blew out the flame, allowing the earthy scent of sandalwood and plumeria to wreath around his head. He breathed it in, then placed the stick in a long wooden holder that would catch the ash as the stick burned down.

  After three attempts to slow his breathing down, he finally was able to get a steady, even flow of air entering and exiting his lungs.

  His emotions slowly calmed. His head began to clear.

  When he felt ready, Tobias took another breath and spoke into the room.

  “Holy Brigid, fiery arrow. You who work the forge that makes us true. You who tend the well of healing, and the fires of inspiration, inspire me now. Heal me now. Forge me now. Be with me, work through my hands so that I may heal. Work through my mind so that I may know. Work through my voice so that I may speak, and work through my heart so that I may listen to the things that the mind cannot yet know. Holy Brigid, be with me now.”

  He gave a little bow towards the altar. He knew the Goddess wasn’t there, not on the altar itself, but Brenda and Raquel always said that going through the motions helped alert the parts of the soul that weren’t rational.

  “Those are the parts that art and music touch,” Raquel would say. “Those are the parts that learn through dancing, or learn through the things that you already know how to do, like listening to plants. The rational mind can’t comprehend it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

  Tobias was still learning to trust that, despite having seen the truth over and over again. As a member of the Arrow and Crescent Coven, and as an herbalist, he’d experienced things directly that his mind still railed against, and his emotions sneered were childish or impossible. But he knew all of that wasn’t him. It was the demons inside of him that wore his father’s face.

  “Brigid, give me strength. Help me to be of service to this world.”

  Good enough for today, at least, and just in time. There was a knocking at his door.

  He opened it and looked up. Where he expected to see his client, Janice, instead his father and mother stood in the hallway. His father wore a tan trench coat. The tightly closed black umbrella in his right hand probably cost more than Tobias paid for groceries in a month.

  His mother wore a bright green raincoat, whose sale could have likely paid his rent. Her dark hair was perfectly styled, as always, despite the spitting rain. She smelled of Chanel No. 5.

  What in the nine worlds were they doing here?

  Boundaries, Tobias. He sent a long, slow breath outward, imagining it tracing the edge of his aura, reinforcing his space.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have time for you today,” Tobias said. “I’ve got a client coming any second now.”

  “The timid woman? Blond hair and some sort of puffy jacket? I sent her away. Told her there was a family emergency.”

  “You what?”

  His father shouldered him aside. Tobias’s mother at least had the grace to look apologetic as she followed him.

  “Wait here,” Tobias said, then ran down the broad wooden staircase, and out onto the broad front porch. No Janice. Damn it.

  He forced himself to not slam the heavy wood door. No need to piss off the other tenants of the space. His footsteps were heavy on the stairs.

  Opening his office door, he saw that his mother had seated herself in the wingback chair, but his father was still standing, peering at his altar.

  Anger flared inside Tobias. How dare he?

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tobias spat out. He was practically vibrating. All the emotions he’d just gotten under control ten minutes before had risen to the surface like a nest of writhing snakes. Or the sparks of a bonfire, flaring in the night.

  His father tsked. “Don’t talk that way to the man who pays your rent, son.”

  That stopped Tobias cold. His head whipped from his father to his mother. She glanced at him, then turned her gaze toward the big windows. Right. No help from that quarter, as usual.

  “What are you talking about?”

  His father didn’t answer, just turned slowly, taking in the shelves of bottles, plants, and herbs, the old wooden case that held tinctures that were in process or were ready to be mixed into specific combinations for his clients, swept back, lingering a little too long on the small altar, and then to Tobias’s face.

  “I own that house you live in, you know. Why do you think your rent is so cheap?”

  Fuck. No. No way.

  Tobias dragged the wooden chair out from underneath the slab of his desk and sat.

  “How long?”

  “How long have I owned it? Oh, since around six months before you moved in.”

  “But Freddie…”

  His father laughed. “Freddie’s father is an old golf friend. Didn’t he tell you? I offered Freddie the place for a song if he wouldn’t tell you about it. Told him to contact you about a room for rent.”

  Tobias stared, unspeaking, at the row of Brigid’s crosses on the back edge of his desk.

  “What?” his father continued. “You didn’t think I would let my son actually struggle too much, did you? But I think we’ve let this little experiment go on long enough, don’t you?”

  Tobias’s skin flared with fire, then ice, then fire. He wanted to puke. “What are you talking about?” Those seemed to be the only words he had left.

  “I think it’s time you went back to school and studied something real. I thought you wanted medicine, but if you want to come into the family firm instead, I’m happy to teach you the ropes. You could get an MBA at night. Or just learn the business as you go.”

  “Trade stocks? Investments
?”

  His mother stood then, and placed a soft white hand on his arm. It took all he had to not shake her off.

  “There are worse ways to make a living, Tobias. We just want what’s best for you,” she said.

  Tobias stood suddenly, throwing his mother off balance. She stumbled into his father.

  “Did you just shove your mother?”

  “No, Jim. I was just startled…” she said.

  “Did you?” The familiar tone was back. And the familiar flushing of his father’s cheeks.

  The scent of incense filled his nose, and the flame of the altar candle flared up, three inches high.

  Tobias remembered who he was.

  “I don’t hurt people,” he said. “That would be you. I’ve got the scars to prove it. Remember, Father?”

  “Tobias…” His mother held up a hand.

  “Enough, Mother. Don’t you think? Don’t you think it’s enough now?”

  She fell silent.

  His father reached around her and grabbed Tobias’s arm. “You ungrateful faggot.”

  “Thanks for telling me how you really feel, Dad.” He pulled his father’s fingers from his arm. “Now get out of my office. Both of you.”

  “You’d better start thinking about a new place to live, son. You’re about to get quite the rent increase.”

  “Well, I’ll be calling the Tenants Union then, won’t I? We’ll see how long I can get away without paying any rent at all.”

  His father shoved him against the desk. It slammed against the wall.

  Then he yanked open the door and strode out.

  “Clara? Come!”

  “Call me if you need something,” his mother whispered, and with a swish of her green coat, she was out the door.

  Tobias carefully shut the door behind her.

  Then he turned and, arm stiff as a knife, swept everything from his desktop. Brown bottles waiting to be filled. Client files. An aloe vera plant. It all went crashing to the wooden floor.

  One more sweep of his arm, and with a shush and a scrape, the small straw sun-wheels fell, too.

  Tobias’s breath heaved. He was sweating.

  Looking at the wreckage at his feet, he found that he didn’t feel any better. But he also knew it had to be done. This destruction.

  He’d avoided destruction for years. Kept the leash wound tight. Well, he was done with that now. Fuck his parents. Fuck playing it safe anymore.

  The candle on the altar died back down again. It flickered and winked at him. The stick of Nag Champa had burned itself halfway down.

  Tobias dropped into his favorite stuffed chair, sinking into the upholstery. Drawing his phone from his pocket, he pressed the button for his contacts, scrolled, and dialed.

  After three rings, someone picked up.

  “Hello. This is Tobias Kenner. I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Greene. First available opening, please.”

  Maybe it was time to get back into therapy after all.

  6

  Aiden

  The nightclub was jammed with men, the scents of sweat and cologne mingling with beer and whiskey. Boom, boom, boom, boom—the bass thrummed through Aiden’s body.

  He couldn’t really afford to come out and drink beer tonight, but after his encounter with the cops, and then his weird experience in the church, Aiden needed something to take him out of himself. He could still feel the panicked priest crouched over him, patting at his cheeks with holy water. He shook himself, as if he could slough off the whole thing.

  He needed a distraction; he needed the release of music and dancing, maybe a beer or two.

  Anything to avoid thinking about what exactly had happened in the church. Anything to take away the burning feeling in his chest, and the memory of those brown glass eyes staring into him.

  Blue LED lights chased each other at the back of the long bar, dancing in time to the music. The bar was three deep in men, despite it being a weeknight. A bartender, all pomaded hair and muscled arms, spun bottles in his hands, mixing cocktails, then twirled to snick the caps off bottles of beer. A second bartender was working the taps, filling pint glasses with amber liquid, occasionally pouring out a shot of whiskey or tequila.

  And then Aiden saw him—a whip-thin man at the end of the bar—dark brown hair, couple shades darker than Aiden’s own framing his face, falling softly past his jaw line. He had a little goatee and what looked like kind brown eyes. He was just Aiden’s type, if Aiden could be said to have a type. Working in a soup kitchen, he didn’t really date much. He didn’t have money to go out very often and the only men he regularly met were houseless, or other workers at the kitchen, or businessmen who scoffed at his scruffiness and his lack of money. Aiden didn’t need that.

  “What can I get ya?” a voice startled him out of his reverie. It was the second bartender. He was a nice-looking man too, heavily muscled, tight tank top, his dark brown skin framing deep black eyes. His head was shaved.

  “Um, whatever’s on tap, just a beer.”

  “Great.” The bartender tilted the pint glass under a tap, topping it off with a layer of light foam. He slid it across the bar.

  “How much?” Aiden asked.

  The bartender considered him carefully.

  “How much?” Aiden asked again.

  “You work at that homeless shelter, right?”

  “Soup kitchen,” Aiden said.

  “I thought so. I’ve seen you around the neighborhood. Tell you what, this one’s on the house. You can give me a bowl of soup someday.”

  “Thanks man. That’s great.”

  “No prob.” The bartender smacked his palm on the bar and walked away to the other customers who were clamoring for drinks.

  The music shifted again, and the blue lights reversed themselves. Michael Jackson started singing about starting something. Aiden smiled. Maybe coming here had been an okay idea after all. He sure would like to dance, forget himself for a while, forget the cops and the weirdness of a saint looking into his eyes, and that strange heart-attack feeling of being on fire.

  The priest had asked him if his left arm had gone numb. It hadn’t, and Aiden didn’t know if that was good or bad. The priest let him go only when Aiden promised to stop by the clinic. Well, by the time Aiden got out of there, the free clinic was closed. He felt okay. He actually felt more than okay. He felt like something had changed, but other than his fury having crawled back to a reasonable mixture of sadness and anger at the way of the world, he didn’t know what.

  He sipped at his lager, letting the cool beer wash down his throat, and smelled the mingled scents of the men nearby—Polo Black, Old Spice, and sweat. He wondered what the man at the end of the bar smelled like. His feet seemed to move on their own as he angled his shoulders and squeezed through the crush of men, letting Michael Jackson carry him forward.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” The man looked at him. Aiden felt a shock down to his toes. It was as if he’d stuck his finger into an electrical socket. What in the world was happening to him today?

  “My name’s Aiden,” he finally croaked out and took a quick swallow of beer, trying not to choke. The man smiled. He had a beautiful smile.

  “Tobias. I’d offer to buy you a beer,” Tobias said, “but it looks like you’re well set.”

  “Yeah, yeah, the bartender gave it to me.”

  “Wow, that’s a miracle here. Bartenders here don’t give anyone anything. He must like you.”

  Aiden just shrugged. He didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t have much practice with banter or flirtation, so he took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

  “So, what do you do, Tobias?” he asked. He couldn’t believe he was asking someone what they did for work. What a dumb opener.

  “I’m an herbalist,” Tobias responded.

  “Wow. That’s actually interesting.”

  Tobias smiled. “Yeah, yeah, it’s pretty cool most of the time.”

  Aiden noticed that the smile d
idn’t quite reach Tobias’ eyes.

  “So, like, what does that mean?” Aiden said, “You help people, you grow plants? What do you do?”

  “Both. At least I try to.”

  As they talked, Aiden’s eyes kept flickering from the man’s mouth to those deep brown eyes. He felt like he could trust this man, at least he hoped so. Finally they both finished their beers.

  “Wanna dance?” Tobias asked.

  “I’d love to.”

  They moved their way through the crowd to the thumping dance floor, Beyoncé now. Everybody loved Beyoncé. Aiden started to dance, a little awkward at first.

  Tobias bumped up against him and smiled. Aiden cut him a quick smile back. The lights—blue, white, and amber—flashed over Tobias’s face, sparking on his cheekbones, shadowing his eyes.

  He smelled like church. Like frankincense and myrrh. Aiden reached out and touched the other man’s arm, just above his elbow. Tobias reached up and laced their fingers together. Just the one hand. Half connected, half free.

  As the two men moved together, Aiden felt something inside of him loosen and let go. He slid his hand from Tobias’s and raised his arms above his head. Then he leaned a little closer. He could still smell Tobias—woven with the traces of incense, he smelled like breath mints and warm skin. A little bit of the hoppy scent of beer still lingered on his lips.

  Aiden wanted to kiss those lips. He leaned away again. No, no, no Aiden, don’t fall in too soon.

  His chest grew warm. A tingling ran along his skin. The music hummed and pounded through his feet, his hands, his thighs, and his chest. The pulsing rose and snaked toward the back of his head. The music filled him, all the way up. He felt the man moving in front of him and the other men bumping him, shoulders, hips, and butts. He loved the crush of it; he loved feeling held this way—held by music and a moving throng of men.

  A smile touched Aiden’s lips and he felt as though he was about to cry.

  Then his chest caught fire again, and he fell into Tobias’s arms. His lips found the other man’s waiting. Rough. Strong. Open.