The Stars Will Guide Us Back

by Rue Sparks

  Her mother cups Lena’s clammy face in her hands and their eyes meet. Her mother shakes her head in disbelief. “Lena, lieb, this isn’t true, is it? You would never-”

  Lena pushes her mother’s hands away and leans back, face taking on a stony glare caught in the flickering of the fire. “So what if it’s true! I love her, and she loves me. There’s nothing wrong with it. What’s wrong is you and your backwards, bigoted bullshit beliefs that are stuck in the eighteenth century.”

  Oscar looms towards Lena, fists clenching in fury and shoulders back. “Don’t you dare talk to her like that.” He gestures towards the road, “You get off of my land, get out of here! You don’t belong here.”

  “Oscar, lieb, please,” Lena’s mother says, touching Oscar’s outstretched hand with careful fingers, tempting them back to his sides. “She’s only a child. She made a mistake. She’s young, it’s a phase. She can change.”

  He shakes his head, sweat glimmering off his brow in the firelight, making the anger in him seem like a rage that burns beneath the skin. “The fire is in her blood. It will only get worse from here, Ana. We need to go back to the People, leave this deifel child and save ourselves, what we have left.”

  The silence is thick and choking, a heady mix of sparked anger and thrumming tension. Ana stands back from Oscar, stance steady between the two of them. She tilts her chin back.

  “I will never leave Lena. You are my lieb, but she is my dochder. I don’t want to choose but if I have to I will.”

  Oscars face transforms from barely contained rage to a demon’s scowl, teeth bared, eyes slitting with fury. He steps forward, grabs Ana’s arm with one hand, and gestures behind her with the other, gaze locked with Lena’s defiant eyes.

  “This is all because of the fire, because of you, hexenblud. What more can you take before you are satisfied?!”

  “I’ve done nothing but listen to you my whole life,” Lena replies, blinking away the sweat dripping in her eyes. She can feel the heat from the fire, and it burns. “Hexenblud, deifel, hexerei, what have I even been to you but a sin for being what I am? I won’t lie to myself anymore!”

  Ana wrenches her arm from Oscar’s grasp, pushing him, away from both Lena and herself.

  “Enough, lieb, Lena. Let this be. Go back inside; let us rest this rage away. Don’t say things you cannot take back.”

  Oscar stands firm, uses her momentum to have her slide behind him and move towards Lena, reaching a hand towards her shoulder.

  “If you love the fire so much, maybe you should—”

  In that moment, it isn’t Lena and Oscar but Eliza and her father facing down. But this time she isn’t alone. This time, she is the one with the power—

  The fire reaches its tendrils like roots, twisting around Oscar’s arm, up his shoulder, and entangling his neck.

  He screams, his skin turning bright red and bubbling wherever the flames touch. Immediately, he turns and attempts to run, tripping over one of the folding chairs, and though the string of flames disconnect from the bonfire in the ruckus, the fire has found new fuel in his flesh.

  “Oscar, roll!” Ana calls out. She rushes to his side but is forced back from the heat of the flames pulsing from her husband. He rolls away from the now burning and blackened chair, into the grass and dirt in front of the house, throat hoarse from his screaming and the flames engulfing him.

  Lena, frozen, watches as her father rolls in the grass twice before an aborted, gurgling scream and the expanding billowing of the flames that licks at the windowsills brings her to herself.

  Her father is dead, and her house has caught fire.

  And it is all her fault.

  “Lena!” the voice is muffled, the sound twisting through the air like smoke, dissipating before it can quite reach her eardrums.

  Then her mother shakes her by her shoulders, face drenched with tears and sweat. “Lena! Run to the Avery’s and get help, quickly. Run, as fast as you can.”

  Her vision swims like the waves of heat above a fire, but her feet are pounding on the pavement as she runs the mile and a half towards the Avery’s house, the night a cold, welcome abyss that drenches her in its silence and anonymity.

  Lena can see from glimpses between the trees as they turn on their road that they are too late.

  The fire is a living, breathing beast, lighting between the silhouettes of tree trunks and brush, the victorious cries of the spirits as they twist and crawl over their prey a cacophony in the night.

  The fire has consumed the house and has begun to devour the barn. As they get closer, Mr. Avery has to slow down to avoid the goats running across the road to flee the chaos — presumably her mother released them before the fire reached the barn. Lena can see her mother’s horse and her foal at the edge of the forest in the distance, shadowy shapes that are only recognizable because of their ghostly white manes.

  As they stop on the side of the road, Lena hears the distant sound of sirens, moving closer. The Avery’s had immediately called the fire department when Lena had pounded on their door in a panic, explaining in stilted sentences about the fire. Now they look at each other with thin, grim frowns, Mr. Avery fiddling with his seatbelt clasp. They don’t want to become involved any more than they have.

  Making the choice for them, Lena opens the door and runs toward the house, ignoring Mrs. Avery calling her back. The heat is palpable even this close to the road, waves rolling from the source. She searches with her gaze, looking for any sign of her mother.

  She spots her at the edge of the field, back to the house. Her long dark hair nearly blends in with the greenery in the night, but Lena knows that silhouette, that posture, even broken as it seems.

  Lena walks towards her, coming at her from the side so as not to startle her. “Mudder?” she asks, trying to see her face in the darkness.

  When there’s no reply, Lena sits cross-legged in front of her, takes her mother’s hands in her lap, lets her own tears fall.

  The spirits roar behind them, the fire a raging storm, but nothing blocks out her mother’s voice.

  “They thought you were still born at first.”

  As Lena’s eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees that her mother is looking past Lena, through her.

  “It was a long time before you took your first breath. I had to warm you on my chest, you were so cold. I sang to you. You didn’t cry, but I knew you were still with us.”

  Lena traces circles on her mother’s hands, drenched with sweat and soot. She dares not speak but lets her mother’s voice wash over her as if in a trance.

  “When you finally breathed, I praised the Almighty and promised I would protect you always. You are my dochder, and you always will be.”

  Lena inhales a sob and leans forward into the crook of her mother’s neck. “Why did this have to happen, Mudder?”

  There is a moment of silence, the sound of the spirits fading to the beyond, and she can feel the vibrations of her mother’s voice in her head.

  “Some people hate those that love, Lena.”

  Lena inhales her mother’s scent — lavender and chamomile, the potpourri she loves, and the lemon of her favorite cleaner. She locks it away in her memories. “What do we do now?”

  There’s no answer, and Lena’s heart aches as the moments pass by with no response.

  “So wait. You killed your father?” Ivory leans into Lena’s space, face twisting in horror, voice hushed in the night. Even so, it echoes above the crackling of the fire. The other camps have long since packed up for the night, making their campfire the lone beacon in the darkness.

  When Lena doesn’t respond immediately, Ivory leans back and schools her expression, twisting her fingers together and turning away, first gazing into the flames, then avoiding them in remembrance.

  “Sorry. That was … not very delicate.”

  The fire breaks the silence with soft crackles and sparks in the night, even the fireflies having abandoned the pair for their homes. As the moment lingers, Lena star
es into the flames, at the twisting spirits, faces anguished, a molten abyss that reaches into the night sky.

  “What happened after that?” Ivory asks from Lena’s side, gaze in her lap, the sherpa blanket pulled around her shoulders to chase away the chill.

  “The police didn’t believe it was an accident,” Lena replies after a moment. “They thought one of us must have pushed him. My mother took the blame.” The memory stings red hot despite the chill in her muscles and core, the ever-present iciness that she’s long since abandoned fighting.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ivory says, and Lena turns to her.

  “You believe me?” she asks, head tilted in question, face impassive.

  Ivory rubs her hands together, warming them with her breath, not meeting Lena’s eyes. “I don’t know, Lena. It’s a lot.”

  Lena tries not to let her shoulders slump in defeat, to not show any outward signs she’s heard. Don’t show any weakness. Don’t let them know they hurt you.

  She’s learned that the hard way.

  “Show me.”

  The request comes as a surprise, and it takes a moment for Lena to catch on to what Ivory has asked. She shakes her head furiously and stands up in a rush, as if she could run from it.

  “You promised you wouldn’t ask.” She paces, shoving her gloved hands under her armpits to warm them — a habit she’s never been able to kick.

  Ivory stands in response, eyes narrowing, and moves in front of Lena to stop her pacing.

  “You made me promise without knowing what I was promising! You can’t hold me to that. Come on, Lena, you’re asking me to believe a lot on your say so, a lot of impossible things.”

  Lena turns her gaze away from Ivory, dissecting the flames with her gaze.

  “Why can’t you trust me?”

  The tension between them is a knotted, taught line. Ivory takes hold of Lena’s arms, but on feeling the tremors, her gaze softens. She rubs Lena’s arms, then gently extracts them from under Lena’s armpits and pulls Lena’s gloves off her hands, pulls the icy fingers into her own palms and blows on them to warm them before continuing.

  “This goes beyond trust. We’re not talking about infidelity. You’re claiming you control fire. How am I supposed to take that without any proof?”

  A chocked sob escapes Lena’s lips. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Ivory shakes her head.

  “I didn’t say that, Lena. Honestly, I don’t know what to believe.” Ivory pulls Lena into her arms, encasing them both in the sherpa blanket, cocooning them together.

  “So show me.”

  Lena only spares a moment’s thought before pulling away, wiping clammy hands against the faint wetness around her eyes.

  “Okay,” she says, “I’ll show you.”

  Lena wakes slowly, a steady beep and distant shuffling of feet a chorus that bids her to open her eyes. They’re caked shut, lashes sticking and her under-eyes puffy and bruised. Her face throbs and itches on her right side along her cheeks, chin, and down her neck, reaching to her clavicle and over her chest before falling away at her side.

  She struggles to form thoughts into words, her memories puzzle pieces that don’t fit together, a Rubik’s cube she twists and turns but can’t make into any semblance of order, disjointed colors on a stark landscape.

  She finally manages to pry her lashes apart to the murky view of a sterile room, white and baby blue walls, plastic curtains, light paneled wood and cheap laminate counters. A hospital room.

  The memories surface, then hit like a tsunami, and Lena chokes on her own saliva at the sudden onslaught.

  Gentle cajoling —

  Careful movements —

  Whispered pleads —

  Soft relief —

  Laughter, joy, dancing with the flames —

  The power is too much —

  Heat unlike anything she’s ever felt —

  Ivory.

  “Lena?”

  The voice comes from the other side of the room, behind a curtain between the hospital beds. There’s struggle in that voice, scratchy and thin, but Lena would recognize it anywhere.

  “Ivory? You’re alive?”

  There’s a wispy chuckle followed by crinkling coughs, like the crackling of pinecones thrown in a campfire. When will it ever stop being about the flames?

  “Of course, silly. It’ll take more than a few burns to take me out.”

  Lena sinks into the pillow, wet trails from her eyes itching her burnt skin where it’s peeling. It takes several tries to talk past the guilt in her mouth, like holding a cotton ball between her tongue and teeth, but eventually she lets out the words.

  “I’m so sorry, Ivory. I’m so sorry.”

  There’s the sound of rustling cloth, the squealing of wheels and the clanging of metal, then suddenly the curtain is pushed back, revealing Ivory, standing hunched, holding tightly to her IV stand.

  Their eyes meet, and though emotion hangs by its fingers on the cliff of their tongues, neither say a word as Ivory drags her IV stand towards the bed and curls into Lena’s side, Lena adjusting to make room for her.

  Ivory gently pets the left side of Lena’s face, avoiding the burns. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Hush. We’ll be alright.” The pads of Ivory’s fingers feel like nails scraping against Lena’s sensitive skin, but she says nothing. She doesn’t dare.

  “You tried to tell me what would happen. This is my fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Lena shakes her head against the pillow. The wetness makes puddles that feel cold against her cheeks. “No, this is my fault. I won’t call the fire again, never.”

  The petting stops, and Lena misses it immediately.

  “Don’t say that,” Ivory says, and Lena’s chest constricts in a twisted knot, ready to spring at the slightest touch.

  “What? Why not?”

  Ivory turns on her side, staring at the white cork and metal tiled ceiling, sterile and impersonal. To Lena it feels like an echo chamber, her emotions bouncing off the walls and gaining speed until it tightens in her throat.

  “Like I said, it’s not your fault,” Ivory starts, grabbing for Lena’s hand and squeezing. “You tried to tell me. Or maybe you didn’t know. What your grandma said. The fire is a bridge between our worlds, she said. Between the broken spirit and the savior. They’re meant to be called to help people, not to satisfy curiosity. We should have listened to her.”

  The tightness releases an inch, and Lena intakes a breath that heats her throat. “What do we do now?” The words felt like a hollow echo.

  “We find another Fire Starter.”

  Lena turns to Ivory, confusion fluttering in her chest. “How?”

  Ivory twists her fingers together, a habit that Lena couldn’t help but love.

  “I have a confession to make,” she says, near inaudible, but gaining volume. “I’ve been doing a little digging on my phone, while you were asleep.”

  There’s a pause, but Lena stays silent, letting her continue. Wanting to understand.

  “I looked up Amish and Pennsylvania Dutch. I wasn’t much sure the difference to be honest, sorry. But there were no results for Fire Starter for either one, so that was a dead end.”

  “So, I tried looking up the things your father called you. Hexerei, hexenblud. A hexerei is a Pennsylvania Dutch witch. In the seventeenth century, they were witch doctors, before medicine evolved. There were actually valued in the community. Nowadays they’re near non-existent.”

  Ivory is no longer twisting her fingers, eyes alight in excitement, looking at Lena with awe and interest.

  “I didn’t find anything on hexenblud at first. I dug around and finally went on a witchcraft forum and posted. I didn’t get many replies, but then I got a weird email, so I deleted my post.” Ivory leans on an elbow awkwardly despite her tremors, so she’s hovering over Lena, ripe with excitement.

  “He said, ‘You must be English. If you don’t want the Hexenbischof on your trail you’d best remove your posting. I
’ll be in touch … if you’re still alive.’”

  “The Hexenbischof are witch hunters!” Ivory gesticulates with thin fingers, the left hand covered in red wisps of burns, and Lena swallows against the horror. “And this email … there must be more people like you, more Fire Starters.”

  “Delete it,” Lena says without a second thought.

  “What? Why?” Ivory deflates, lowering slightly back into the bed, expression drooping.

  “I burned you. I burned both of us.” Lena leans in close. “I killed my father. This is a curse, like Daadi said. I want no part of it.”

  She falls back to the bed, staring at the ceiling that only echoes and tries to forget what Ivory told her. Trying to forget the little thrill that had run through her at the thought.

  “I said it was my fault,” Ivory says in a near whisper.

  Lena snorts. “That doesn’t make it true.”

  There’s a moment where Lena thinks Ivory is going to drop it, but then there’s warm, clammy arms moving around her waist, and she knows she’s lost.

  “Look. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Lena,” Ivory speaks against her shoulder, lips moving on Lena’s skin. “I should have trusted you. I’m sorry I got us in this situation. I really don’t blame you. Can’t you put the trust in me I denied you?”

  Lena exhales a hum, trying to understand why it means so much to Ivory.

  “It’s too dangerous, Ivory. What would I even do with the power if I knew how to use it?”

  Ivory’s hand traces circles on Lena’s side, below the burns, and Lena wonders at how she knows where it ends.

  “We’ll figure it out. But I believe you’ll know someday. And when you do, I’ll be there with you.”

  Lena closes her eyes, sinking into the feeling of heat. An arm across her stomach, a body to her side crushing her left arm, lips and hair against her shoulder and neck, and above all heat, fire, the warmth she couldn’t remember ever feeling before.