Fire: Demons, Dragons & Djinns

by Rhonda Parrish

  She nestles among her dogs for warmth. Around her the hundreds of dogs form a tight circle. The girl falls asleep and dreams of Fire . . .

  . . . The girl’s first memory is of waking to Fire, and Fire feeding her the flames of knowledge. Information came to her in disparate snippets, not all of which she has ever fully understood. This fount of knowledge replays itself incessantly in her dreams . . .

  . . . Before the advent of life, Fire had raged across the world, creating and destroying, destroying and creating, with primal abandon, without purpose or plan. That primordial world of Fire underwent constant incandescent metamorphosis. The planet cooled down—slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, but over a long stretch of time it eventually cooled enough so as to dampen Fire’s ardour, and it came to be that Fire slept. (The reawakened Fire is much tamer than its primordial incarnation, the girl muses in her dream.)

  . . . The girl was born of a human mother, a woman more physically mature than the unchanging and unaging girl has ever been. She was born at the precise moment when Fire consumed the entire surface world; in that instant Fire fed the girl for the first time—fed her the flames of metamorphosis. For thirteen years, as her infant body matured to pubescence, the girl slept, the flames of metamorphosis remoulding her into a suitable mate for Fire. Once she awoke, her body stopped aging, and forever remained the same. (Sometimes, the girl wonders why she was chosen, among all the babies of all the creatures on the planet that were born at that precise moment when Fire consumed the world that was, but this question never lingers, because she knows the answer: Fire acts spontaneously, randomly, impulsively without consideration or design.)

  . . . There are seven types of children that Fire urges the girl to create. Cherufes are not born fully formed; after a potential cherufe bursts from the girl’s loins as raging fire, it only adopts its final shape once it merges with a sufficient number of rocks so as to fashion a body, at which point the bulky fiery creature starts tunnelling into the bowels of the planet, never to be seen on the surface again (what are they up to in their subterranean world?). The humanoid horned devils congregate in covens, whispering to each other in a language unknown to the girl (as babies, devils are the most adorable of all her children—with tiny horn buds, oversize hooves, and random patches of crimson fur—but as they mature they take on a terrifying mien). The dragons are winged reptiles who, once every century, hunt and feed on other fire children (nevertheless, the girl cannot resist the temptation to create these merciless yet alluring predators). The hellhounds never leave their mother (so loyal but so needy). The ifreets—born as living, flickering flame—grow to become mischievous pranksters whose shape is in constant transformation (an ifreet loves to disguise itself as any other types of firechild and sow confusion and discord with its aberrant behaviour). The phoenixes are firebirds of exquisite beauty, their fiery plumage displaying every colour of the spectrum (only rarely does the girl espy one of her phoenix children in the distant sky; each new phoenix stays with her until the next sunrise after its birth but then flies away for parts unknown). The salamanders are tiny fire lizards who scurry everywhere, even in the water (they feed on fish). (Fire had not imagined an eighth type, the girl’s earliest children, whom the girl loves most of all, although they are rather dim-witted, with only scant traces of will or sentience.)

  . . . The long-dormant Fire was reawakened by humanity, the species from which Fire plucked the girl. Human scientists from various nations raced to create a weapon more powerful than those of the other nations, so that their own people might reign supreme. Such a weapon was devised—a weapon of fire that drew its energy from Fire itself, although the human creators of the weapon did not fully understand what energies they had tapped into. And thus did the world end in Fire. And thus was the world reborn in Fire . . .

  WHEN SHE AWAKES at sunrise, the hellhounds have scattered, intimidated by the presence of their father.

  Fire teases the girl. Caresses her flesh. Ignites her senses. Stirs her hungers.

  But the girl isn’t ready. Not yet. Not so soon. She shoos Fire away. She runs to her dogs. The hellhounds run with her. All day long, the girl roams and plays with her pack of dog children.

  EVERY DAY, FIRE presents itself to the girl. But the memories of the ordeal of creation overpower her growing hungers. Every day, she ignores Fire.

  ONCE AGAIN, THE girl can no longer withstand the hungers. Her body growls for sustenance and for communion. Only Fire can satiate her.

  Today, she does not spurn Fire.

  Fire envelops her, its flames cascading across her flesh, it bursting into her orifices. It satisfies her needs for nutriments and pleasure and sparks life within her womb.

  One lunar cycle from now, the girl will once again give birth, will once again give shape and life to a fire creature.

  WHENEVER THE GIRL is pregnant from Fire’s seed, the hellhounds are wary around her. They still follow her, but they don’t nip at her heels, don’t rub their coarse pelt against her skin, don’t cuddle with her at night. What the dogs fear is unclear to the girl.

  While climbing a scorched hill—the entire world, save for the seas and rivers and lakes, is scorched—the girl comes across a gaggle of some of her oldest children, from before she had perfected the art of wilful creation. Amorphous globs of floating fire, like miniature misshapen suns. She has never given a name to this most beloved species of her offspring. The name of the other species came to her with the fire of knowledge, and she knew then and forever that those were the children Fire wanted. But these shapeless anonymous beings . . . even though their creation required Fire’s seed, they are hers and hers alone. Fire has no interest in them.

  She beckons to her most ancient children, and they flock to her, bouncing on and off her skin. Their flames tickle her. She laughs, overwhelmed with joy.

  The nearby hellhounds bark in jealousy, chasing away the primal children.

  The girl reprimands the pack, but she knows they cannot help themselves. Nevertheless, she endeavours to lose the dogs, at least for a little while. In the distance, she sees a river. The dogs follow her to the shore. She dives and swims across.

  The hellhounds shun water. They whimper at the girl. But she ignores their pleading. And away she goes. In time, the dogs will find her again. They always do.

  Her next creation will not be a hellhound. She has enough dogs. More than enough.

  THE GIRL LONG ago ritualized childbirth. She has once again sought a beach for the coming of her new firechild. The tangy aroma of brine and the gentle pulsing sounds of the waves soothe the inner fires that rage within her at the onset of creation. She seeks out solitude for these events. But occasionally, as in this instance, some of her children intrude.

  In the distance, she hears the whines of her ever-needy hellhound retinue. In the sky above, a dozen-strong wing of dragons flies by. Fire-red salamanders pulse through the sand around her. And playing on the beach is a lone ifreet, mimicking and mocking her, imitating her shape, but with a pregnant belly of ridiculously huge proportions. The ifreet farts shoots of fire from its mock vagina.

  She laughs at her ifreet child’s puerile antics, but soon the ordeal of creation overwhelms her senses. Once again, heat radiates from her belly; sweat slithers down her skin. That familiar diffuse and fiery pain seeps deep into her bones.

  The new one—still malleable, still unrealized—is coming. The girl must focus, must will her fiery foetus into a viable fire creature.

  The pregnant girl thinks fondly of her amorphous early children; she wonders about the fate of her enigmatic phoenixes and the life of the subterranean cherufes; she wishes her devils would not spurn her so after reaching maturity. She has had enough of all of these. And enough salamanders. Enough ifreets. Enough dragons. And certainly enough hellhounds.

  She yearns for a change in her long routine as firemother. The mimicry of her trickster child has given her an idea.

  In a chaotic blaze, a new child explodes out of the gir
l’s core.

  A child in her own image. A baby girl, ablaze with life.

  THE NEW FIRECHILD needs the girl’s constant attention. For the first few days of her new motherhood, the girl is filled with love for the new being, this miniature fiery version of herself. But soon the intensity of the attention required by the baby, who is needier by far than even her relentless hellhounds, tires the girl. Has she made a mistake? This is not the change she had envisioned, this constant nurturing. Whenever the girl’s attention wavers, the firechild cries, its wails strident and intolerable.

  Still, she perseveres. Her previous firechildren of various species grew and matured after birth. So, too, will this one. Who knows what might happen then? The girl is consumed with curiosity.

  And the new firechild nurtures her mother as well. Every night, as they fall asleep together, as the firechild nurses at the girl’s small breasts, she inserts a finger, two fingers, sometimes an entire hand into her mother’s mouth. Sparks of living flame escape from the child’s fingers, feeding the girl.

  FIRE WAITS LONGER than usual to come courting for communion with the girl but eventually the moment is here; the girl, however, has no yearning for Fire and Fire’s attentions, has no desire for another child. Her new firechild is both all she can cope with and all she needs.

  FIRE COMES AGAIN and again, always rebuffed by the girl. Eventually, by the time the new firechild is a toddler, Fire’s patience comes to an end.

  Fire ignores the girl’s protestations. The sensuality of Fire’s flames against her flesh tempts the girl; she almost gives in, but then she yells and pushes Fire away.

  Fire leaves her alone. At least, for now.

  The girl has lost track of her daughter. She looks to her hellhounds: there she is. Around her daughter, the hellhounds have formed layers and layers of protective rings.

  THE GIRL’S DAUGHTER now spends much of her time playing with the hellhounds. What a relief to have the attentions of her neediest children focused on each other rather than on herself. Still, every night, mother and child nurture each other, feed each other.

  IT HAS BEEN a year since Fire last visited the girl, and now Fire has returned.

  Fire burns with fury and sets upon the girl with no warning, with none of the usual teasing play. This time, there is no sensuality to the contact of Fire’s flames against her skin—only hurt. Try as she might, she cannot push Fire away. She screams, but Fire ignores her.

  A horde of hellhounds attack Fire, freeing the girl from Fire’s grasp. Fire burns with yet greater fury. Instantly dozens of the attacking hellhounds are reduced to cinders, the rest of them cowed into submission.

  The girl runs to her daughter, takes her by the hand, and together they flee from Fire. The girl senses a change in her daughter. As they are holding hands, as they run, the firechild ages, until she becomes an exact fiery replica of her mother. The surface of their touching palms yields, as if there were no longer any separation between mother and daughter.

  As Fire attacks, the mother and daughter complete the process of merging into one being. The composite firegirl screams, her screams made of such powerful flame that Fire is momentarily rebuffed.

  Fire’s rage mounts, strength and power building to an apocalyptic crescendo.

  Now that mother and daughter are one, the firegirl is now connected to all her children. To her thousands upon thousands of offspring. And she calls upon them all. And they all come to her.

  The ifreets steal portions of Fire’s flames, diminishing their father’s power.

  A gaggle of her primordial blob children form a shield, protecting her from Fire’s onslaught.

  Out of the ground the cherufes emerge, lobbing mud and stone at their father.

  Breathing destructive flames, the dragons soar toward Fire.

  The remaining army of hellhounds chase Fire away.

  Covens of devils chant various spells to contain and bind Fire.

  The salamanders slither together to form a giant lizard that shreds Fire apart.

  And the phoenixes, who had been flying the spaceways between planets, return to Earth to consume the last shreds of their sire.

  TOGETHER, THE FIREGIRL and her children are building a city, a city that spans the breadth of the entire planet. A city of fire and earth. A city imagined by the girl.

  The devils are the architects; the hellhounds dig the foundations; the chefures erect the structures; the dragons transport materials; the salamanders craft the fine detail work; the ifreets provide entertainment for the labourers.

  And the phoenixes travel the universe, to guide space travellers to this new Earth, as potential citizens of the firegirl’s metropolis.

  As for those gaggles of primordial blobs, the firegirl’s first and oldest children, they do the most important thing: they bounce around aimlessly, hovering near her, bringing her joy.

  Light My Fire

  Susan MacGregor

  YOU’D THINK TIME would have little meaning for us. Those of us who are content to remain as we are, fiery butterflies who flit between sunlight and shadow, or demons who dip tongues into the nectar of mortality, aren’t much affected by it. But time becomes a problem when you’re ensnared by an even greater mystery than yourself. When that happens, wings falter, immortality loses its appeal, and you fade from what you once were.

  Many of us were drawn to America in the ’60s—a time of mass immigration. The diabolics, in particular, flew east to lap up the excesses of the Vietnam War. For me, blood held little appeal. The new music of California, the mind-blowing drugs, and the unfettered life-style were more exciting. I wanted to be a part of it, so I went to L.A.

  Some humans burn brighter than others. He was one of the shining ones. All fae adore beauty—even the leeches who seek to destroy it. His eyes were close-set with pupils so huge I wanted to swim in those dark tides forever. His lips were as curved as a young god’s—perhaps he had a touch of Dionysus about him, although the gods had long since departed from the world. For several nights, I watched him drop tab after tab of acid. He was trying to write songs, but the drugs kept getting in the way.

  “Hello,” I said, walking across the roof to his sheltered corner where he had been sitting before a flickering candle. It was twilight, a time of in-between, of magic. The breeze had come up. On the beach, the palms swayed, dancing free-form. The waves were white-capped, kissed by the wind. It must have seemed to him that I appeared from out of nowhere. I’m pretty sure he attributed it to the drugs.

  “Whoa, get it on. Where’d you come from?” He squinted at me.

  I’d taken on the guise of a Navajo girl, drawing from his memories. She was dusky, long-limbed, and black-haired. When he was four, his family had come upon a truck crash outside of Santa Fe where he witnessed the death of a shaman. He believed the old man’s spirit entered him that day.

  “Look inside. You know where I come from,” I said.

  He considered me a moment, then nodded. “Cool. Maybe I should have asked you why.”

  I settled before him on his blanket, cross-legged. “Every shaman has his songs. You’re creating yours. I can help you.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “If I’m a true shaman, I don’t need your help.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s never wise to refuse a gift before you know what it is.” I reached for his hands. At the contact, the world tilted.

  We were on a wave; the roof lifting and dropping, floating us to the horizon. The sun slid into the ocean, wavering and molten, death in purple, orange, and gold. Then the moon came up, pregnant and gravid, dripping a silvery path across the sea. I kissed him, the taste of our lips flowering into hummingbirds on a midnight flight. There was music all about us—the stars punched the sky to the howl of guitars, and the earth groaned in a gut-wrenching bass. Then both earth and sea shattered and we made love, rocking in tandem to every quake.

  It lasted for hours. When we were finally spent, he grabbed a pencil and scribbled madly. I drifted, exultin
g in every minute of his mania. Time stretched and shrank; he wrote and wrote. Finally, he came back to himself.

  “Who are you?” He set his notebook down, then lay back on the blanket, opposite me. I could tell from his thoughts he hadn’t believed I was real, but now, as he stroked my arm, he wasn’t so sure. My eyes were aflame, twin fires reflected in his.

  “Why do you need to know?” It was dangerous for a fae to reveal her true name. Names meant control, and I would never relinquish that. “Names are nothing but someone else’s definition of who you really are.”

  His own father had named him James Douglas MacArthur, after a five-star general.

  “Truth.” He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and fished one out. “I think you’re an angel, come down to earth.” He patted his knapsack for matches and came up empty. I flicked my finger. A small flame burst forth.

  “Wow.” He shook his head. “I’m still fried.” He hadn’t found his matches, but he’d found another sugar cube. “Let’s keep this going. Wanna drop another?”

  I smiled and sat up. “Later. You should eat.”

  His glance softened, as if touched I should care. “Had a can of beans yesterday.”

  “That was then, this is now.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t. I’m out of bread.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Really?” He gave me a quirky smile. “You’re one trippy chick.”

  I said nothing, wanting to play it cool, but I wanted to wrap my arms around him again, keep him there forever. His admiration was ambrosia, honey from the gods.

  He glanced at me side-long. “You show up out of nowhere, blow my mind, take me on the most amazing trip of my life.” He nodded at his notebook. “I got pages of lyrics in there, great stuff.”