The First Fire

  Kindling

  The Frilled Man had merely shown up one day at the orphanage, spoken quietly with the Headmistress and had gone into the sitting room.

  Dressed in pale blue velvet, frilled with white lace at the collar, cuffs, and ankles, the Frilled Man sat like a stone statue, hands resting on his cane, staring off, unfocused, into the distance. His black ebony cane was set with three gems; red at the top, with yellow and black forming the base of a triangle. It seemed both understated and yet, exotic.

  M did not know the Frilled Man. She peeked around a wall in curiosity and watched as he sat. He moved oddly. Likely age, M thought. M placed him in his late fifties, rather ancient. He sat funny too. Straight but – jagged? His knees didn't line up with his body. Maybe why he needed the cane?

  The Headmistress motioned M over, giving her instructions on which orphans to bring. At age fourteen, M had resigned herself to a future life as a serf. No family ever adopted orphans once they were past that 'child' phase. The term would still be used, but the 'adoptions' were really work placements if they were boys and servants if they were girls.

  Dutifully, M gathered D, L, and Q into the sitting room. Soon they were joined by one last orphan, K, a larger-for-his-age boy.

  She had best get used to duty, she thought. No one would want a Daemon child anyway. That was why no adults looked twice at her. It was the only explanation.

  There was very little actual sitting in this room. Three chairs. One for the Headmistress and two for a couple that may come looking for a child. Children were not allowed to sit in these chairs. Had to keep everything clean.

  There wasn't much else to do but clean. Walls were bare, no artwork. It made cleaning each week more efficient. The walls were a nice light blue. They were just - sanitary. Cold. The orphanage was generally spotless. It was always cold.

  The Frilled Man spoke to the children, “One of you will be coming with me today. Each one, please tell why it is you who deserves to go.”

  To the point. Succinct. Cold. In M's mind, the Frilled Man matched the orphanage. So well did his clothes match the walls, he seemed to disappear and become a floating head and aged hands.

  With that dark black exclamation point cane.

  Today, the Headmistress stood, nervously wringing a handkerchief in her hands. M stood with her. M didn't like the woman, but she didn't like seeing anyone in distress.

  One by one each child recited memorized 'adopt-me' speeches. M could see the Headmistress' mouth move slightly, speaking along. Varieties of “find better lives” and “make the world better” and other memorized speeches. Stumbling and stammering gave away the memorization as every child shook in fear at every imaginable future horror awaiting them.

  At last, after K said his piece about being strong and able bodied, only M had held her peace.

  The Frilled Man said, “And what of you,” directly speaking to M, “you have not said.”

  M trembled as she spoke, “Please, sir, I mean no disrespect.”

  The Frilled Man said, “Then, please, I would like to hear what you think.”

  M gathered herself, endured the incredulous eyes of the other children and the anger-filled eyes of the Headmistress. “I cannot answer, sir. What you say is what every orphan dreams of every night.

  “At least, the orphans old enough to know they are orphans. Or like us,” M gestured to the other children, “old enough now to accept they will likely never leave here.

  “It would almost be cruel of me to answer honestly, no matter my answer. If I said yes, I would dearly love to find a different world.”

  M paused. She hung her head for a second, then, eyes bright, she said, “I want to see wizards, and elves, and dragons!

  “I want the life of those great heroes we read of, warriors of great and wondrous strength like Rhine who could lift a horse with three riders, they say!”

  M's voice had risen in passion as she spoke; the honesty was palpable.

  Then pausing, she forced her passion back under control.

  “There is no point in saying, “Yes, I do desire to go with you.” I will not be chosen anyway. You will choose K. It is always so. At our ages, we are only useful, at best, as servants.

  At worst, it is what everyone is thinking right now.

  If I say yes, I want to go, I am saying to my only family that I would rather risk such a future than remain here.

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  Worse, if I say no, I do not desire to go with you, I crush my only hope to ever see a dragon. I tell my only family that I would rather give up my dreams and put them in harm's way.

  So you see, sir... I cannot answer yes or no.”

  Glancing at the Headmistress' furious face, M added, “I do apologize, sir.”

  The Frilled Man smiled, rose, and walked over to the Headmistress. She made contrite faces and noises and little fawning bows and curtsies, a flurry that made her look more twitchy than apologetic.

  It made M smile despite herself.

  A look of surprise came over the Headmistress' face, but the Frilled Man raised his palm in affirmation of his decision. The Frilled Man then turned and left to wait in his carriage outside.

  The Headmistress came over to M and said, “Well! That was a new approach! How long have you been working on that little speech? I'm likely going to hear it a hundred times now. Well, pack your stuff. You will be leaving in half an hour.”

  Utterly stunned, M moved in a daze. Distances were covered in instants and her hands were coordinating an escape before her brain could quite catch up.

  She was really being... what? Adopted? Placed?

  M's shoulders sagged. Fourteen years old. A servant then. Maybe, a playmate for the Frilled Man's daughter. Hopefully a daughter.

  Is there an adrenaline difference between thrill and terror?

  Alternatives? Run? She was fast. No. They'd know.

  M sighed. She wrapped her meagre belongings in her only bag. On top, protected by the single sock, her copy of A Collection of Sages. Rhine and Lace would be coming with her. She turned to find the Headmistress standing behind her, smiling.

  “It won't be far,” the Headmistress had said to M, tucking the girl's hair into her kerchief, “just three hours or so. You'll be able to visit!”

  Of course the Headmistress would be happy. It was the start of the month. She would still charge the city for the full month's upkeep on M.

  Three hours sounded like forever away to someone who had never left the grounds of the orphanage. Though she would terribly miss the other children, she would not miss the orphanage.

  These background thoughts slowly cowered in her mind as the all-pervasive fear, panic, and dread began.

  Helped by the driver, M climbed into the carriage with the Frilled Man. He had judged, then tossed, M's small bag of possessions onto the seat beside him. His clambering into the driver's seat made M wobble sideways on the brick-red leather seats. The Frilled Man smiled as M, embarrassed, righted herself.

  A sharp crack and the carriage lurched forward. M's life was no longer what it was.

  They didn't talk much during the drive. Weather, mostly.

  At one point, the Frilled Man asked if M would like a cookie from a small tin he produced from a cabinet under the seat. M was afraid to either take one and risk poison, or refuse and risk a beating.

  She chose the presumed poison. It tasted like something she remembered from childhood. She couldn't place it. If it was poison, death would comforting and familiar.

  The Frilled Man just smiled and put away the cookies. In the silence, M continued watching out the window as the world went past. He had chosen to face backwards in the carriage. M was glad. It allowed her to see her future coming toward her.

  First there had been houses and stores and people in the city. That thinned after a while. They stopped at a gate on the edge of the city where the Frilled Man said some words to an inquisitive guard. They continued on out into the countryside.

  Midsummer and all the crops were full and green. Bees buzzed in their labours, farmers made repairs in preparation for harvest still a month away. Cattle fattened on lush long strands of grasses that would become hay for winter feeding.

  Colours flooded M's eyes, unseen in the drab blue-white-grey tones of the orphanage. Oranils blooming with their vibrant orange. They were often used to dye cloth a lustrous, deep yellow. Subtle greens denoting wheat, oats, or barley. Flax fooling folks with a flotilla of flowers forming a sea of blue into thinking, “A lake?”

  In the distance she could see they were moving closer to section making up the famous Tripitar Woodwright Guild forest.

  Supposedly, stories M had overheard, the forest contained at least one of every tree in the world, two if a male and female tree were needed.

  It was wide and deep as a man could walk in two days. Vast enough, the forest supported a village as well as the Guild.

  Even from this distance, M could see the great variety of trees growing together. Oaks, larch, sycamore, maples and exotic mango, teak and even bamboo were among the myriad of arboreal denizens.

  Tripitar itself was home to vast natural forests. The country ran far enough north to be home to vast stands of conifers. Southward, a boreal mix sprung up in a kingdom of squirrels. Great oaks, mahoganies, chestnuts, and ironwoods dominated southern Tripitar.

  The Guild was taking full advantage of the environment. This was no natural forest. It had been planted over centuries by a group of forest-dwelling woodwrights.

  M considered, “Would the term be shepherds? Woodwrights? Guilders?”

  People didn't talk much about them, just rumour. Most of that was not polite.

  Wherever they were going, it seemed they would be passing through this forest. The trees on either side of the road were closely packed, quelling any hope of seeing deeply into the forest.

  As the carriage entered the woods, trees began forming an arched tunnel over the road. Further in, the thickness of the leaves and branches effectively nullified the brightness of the day.

  Already rattled, M grew uneasy at the thought of disappearing into that darkness. Her concerns were about to amplify as the carriage came to a narrow, poorly kept side road leading into even deeper darkness.

  M's fears were confirmed when the carriage turned down this lonesome lane.

  White poplar lined the lane - huge trees twenty to thirty meters high. Some were nearly ten meters in circumference. Their main branches, some had six, were as thick as the black-barked birches standing behind the poplars.

  Sentinels. Guarding passage to... where?

  A hangman's oak sent out one gallows arm menacingly over the road. It might have been moss; it looked like rope to M. It must be moss. It must.

  Unlike the main road, M could not see light at the end of this path. It seemed to end in pure blackness. Either this path was much longer than she thought, or the trees must get very thick.

  All that was needed, thought M, was for a crow to call. On cue, a crow croaked a short, sharp reproach and flew from the trees along the road, straight over the carriage.

  M jumped, flinging her hand out to clutch the seat.

  Her heart racing, M saw the trees thin and stop, but the blackness! The blackness was vast and palpable.

  This was her end.

  She had heard of this place. The “blackness”. The “journey”. That's what this was.

  This man was some spirit of death. She had died.

  The Frilled Man had come to collect her and now – now she was going to a very bad place. Home of Daemons like her.

  MonDro, the forever dark! Forever alone! Forever to be unknown.

  People are like Ollen; we only exist in the eyes of others. We are characters in a story, loved or hated, we exist only while we are held dear in the heart or hated with as much vehemence.

  She would never find her Lace and look into his eyes.

  This was to be her fate then, alone till Festa called her to the fray.

  A small door opened in the wall of blackness. Daemons.

  A short, round man in suspenders came through and said, “Hello! Welcome!”

  Emotional overload. Too much. Every nerve fired. M fainted.