The Woman with no Fire of her Own

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The Woman with no Fire of her Own

Once, in a time and place not far from here, there lived a woman who did not fit. Her skin was the same colour as everyone else's and she had the correct number of senses and limbs. But when she opened her mouth the strangest sounds came out, for she was a seeker and speaker of truth, a kind not often found in her land. She asked questions that couldn't or shouldn't be answered, was honest when she should have lied.

Her own closest relations found this particularly disquieting for every evening while other families sat together encircling their campfires, they grouped themselves around a cold stone. No warm glow lit their faces or hearts and they did not share the stories of progress and prowess the rest of their tribe enjoyed, but only told tales of spite. They were embarrassed enough by their difficult daughter and to prevent her revealing this, their dark secret, they told her she came from a distant race and could not mix with her neighbours and peers.

Already shunned for her curious ways this isolated the girl even more. But the little child grew as children will do in spite of life's efforts to stunt them. She found joy in the sun and the moon and the stars of the sky and quickly learnt such lessons as girls of her culture were taught. Soon she could sing and she could sew, make sweet bread and sweeter still music, though she danced to a different tune.

When the time came for those of her generation to leave their homes and have adventures before adulthood claimed them, the young woman went wandering too. As was tradition the others were given a glowing ember from the family hearth so they could start fires of their own, but her parents, in keeping with the cold way they'd raised her, gave her only a small grey stone. She took her lute and her breadpan with her, her finest needles and threads. And most precious of all she took a hopeful heart that she would find the fire she belonged by, the people from whom she had come.

The road was long and the journey eventful. Sometimes she walked for a while with travellers going the same way, but they spoke the companionable language of being together that the young woman had yet to learn.

At last she came to a town on the coast to the south of the land and decided to rest for a time. By day she let the rays of the sun warm her body while the waves of the sea soothed her mind. But when night fell a chill crept into the air, so she took out her lute and carefully tuned it and then began to play.

So enthralled she was with making her music, that at first she didn't notice the beach filling up with other young girls and boys until the sounds of their revelry reached her ears and she ventured over to watch them. They were singing and dancing together around a huge fire, intoxicated by magical herbs from far off lands, wild rhythms and moonlight on water.

“If only I could join them,” the young woman sighed as she stood in the shadows, her lute in her hand. “If only I knew their tune.”

But then the circle widened and they beckoned her in and she stayed and played with them all summer long. She learnt the words that they spoke and the music that moved them and sampled the herbs that they lived by. Some made her light-headed, some light-hearted and some so light on her calloused feet that she danced beyond the dawn. And the most sacred of all brought a light to her mind's eye that burned brighter than any mere star could do and warmed her through to her soul.

“These are my people. At last I am home!” the young woman thought as she drifted into dreams.

But then the seasons changed and the mist rolled in, her lute buckled and would not play. The herb takers packed up their possessions and stamped out their fire and left her with no farewell. She sat on the beach alone again and pondered upon her fate.

“Why did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”

“I was mistaken”, she reasoned, “They were not my people. ”

And she picked up her breadpan, her stone, her needles and threads and walked away to the hills of the west to search for her home once more.

She was much colder now that she had experienced fire, and much lonelier on her own. One evening she sat by her cold grey stone in the mouth of a cave hanging her head down and weeping. A young man passing heard her sorrow and saw her plight and built a fire for them both from his own glowing ember. The young woman took out her breadpan and made him sweet bread and they ate together side by side as the hills grew dark around them. Gazing up at the night sky she spotted a shower of brilliant shooting stars.

“Look, ”she whispered, turning to her companion. “What joy they bring to my heart!”

But he saw only a lithe body and an eager face and drew her down beside him. That night she discovered the warmth of physical love.

“This is my partner. At last I am home!” the young woman thought as she drifted into dreams.

Winter passed and they sheltered together through the storms and the rain and the snow. But as spring came the boy grew restless and bored, he didn't tend the fire as well as he should do and many times it was almost extinguished. One night as she slept he crept from the cave and made off to the valley below. The young girl awoke to a pile of cold ashes, her breadpan broken beside it. Alone again she sat by her stone and pondered upon her fate.

“Why did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”

“I was mistaken,” she reasoned, “He was not my partner.”

Her heart was heavy without his beating beside it, but in her belly there grew a child. She picked up her stone and her needles and threads and wearily she journeyed down from the hills to the city that stood on the plains.

The first thing the young woman did when she got there was to take out her needles and embroider a shawl to wrap her baby in. When people saw the beautiful work she was doing they begged her to stitch and sew for them. Soon she could afford a comfortable tent of her own and rich customers brought her braziers of fire so she could embroider her fine coloured flowers for them by night as well as by day.

But when her baby was born she found she could no longer sew, for her hands were busy with him. Her patrons took their braziers and business away, her needles rusted and were spoiled.

“Never mind, my son,” she said, wrapping warm him in the silken shawl, “We have riches enough for now. “

“This is the one to whom I truly belong,” she thought, “At last I am home!”

And she laid him down beside her next to the cold grey stone as he drifted into dreams.

While he slept she sang to him, for songs were all she had left to share. And the sound of her voice and her words were so true that people came from all over the city and paid money to her to listen. Thus she was able to feed and clothe her child and pay others in time to teach him such lessons as boys of his culture were taught. Soon he could read and he could ride, make fine gardens and weapons of war, and he grew into a man.

When the time came for those of his generation to leave their homes and have adventures before adulthood claimed them she handed him a piece of grey stone.

“Son,” she said, “You know I am a woman with no fire of my own. This is all I have to give you.”

But the young man said, “Keep it, I have no need of your stone. I am the fruit of your womb but only half your child. I am going to find my father's tribe and the fires that I belong by.”

After he had gone the woman wept and pondered upon her fate.

“Why did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”

“I was mistaken,” she reasoned, “He could not be like me.”

She was too old now for the sound of her sorrow to bring lovers to warm her. Her once true voice was cracked with tears, all her talents and treasures were gone. She sat alone by the cold grey stone outside her tent as the darkness grew around her.

“I have known the joy of the dance and the pleasure of passion,” she thought, “the fierce love of mother for child. But all these have been fleeting and their loss has been hard, what else can I seek that will bring me warmth and will stay with me forever?”

Gazing up at the night sky, she spotted a shower of brilliant shooting stars.

“Look,” she whispered to herself, “What joy they bring to my heart!”

But shooting stars shine only briefly and after a while she remembered the visions she'd seen on the sands of her youth with the herbs that had opened her mind. She yearned for the blazing white light that had burned so brightly it had warmed her through to her soul.

“Perhaps that is the one warmth that I can call mine,” she decided, “but its fire is the brightest of all. I must seek it now so the rest of my days can be lived within its glow.”

And she set off for the mountain that stood in the north to ask the wise man who lived there, and knew of such things, the path she should take to the light.

The road was steep and the journey was tiring, her ageing limbs ached as she climbed. But her heart was as hopeful as when she'd been a young girl and first set out to find the fire she belonged by, the people from whom she had come.

“At last,” she thought, “I am almost home!”

It was cold on the mountain top and she shivered in the shawl she'd made for her baby as she described to the wise man her quest. He had no fire to sit beside, no companions, no partner, nor sons, and yet he seemed warm and lit from within by a glow she recognised.

“Teach me the secret of seeing the light,” she asked, “so I can live without fire like you.”

“Alas,” said the sage with the greatest compassion, “what I have takes years of disciplined training. It's too late for you to start learning now. But the light is inside you and you will see it again once before you die - for everybody does so.”

The woman was devastated, she aged many years, all her youthful hope was gone.

“My life has been wasted,” she thought, “my dreams all in vain. May death come soon to release me!”

And she struggled painfully back down the mountain and made her way to the slow flowing river that wound through the east of the land.

The woman sat on its banks with her stone beside her and awaited her time to die. By day she watched the sunshine play on the water and when night fell she watched the moon and the stars as they moved across the sky. But none of these had brilliant enough a light to bring her the joy she was seeking.

One evening as a golden sunset filled the heavens, the chill of disappointment crept into her heart and she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders as she pondered on her fate.

“Why did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”

“I have been mistaken many times,” she reasoned, “The people I thought were mine were not. The partner I thought was mine was not. The fruit of my womb that once shared my heart was only half my child. And all the time I yearned for their companionship was time I lost finding the light.”

“I shall never know warmth!” the woman cried in despair, “What use is a cold grey stone?”

And she picked it up and raised her arm to hurl it into the river and be rid of its curse for good. But her old fingers fumbled and lost their grip and it dropped down to the rock beneath her. As flint struck flint two sparks ignited and leapt to the fringe of her shawl. They glowed brightly then burst into flame. Soon the fine worked flowers began to smoulder and smoke but still the old woman didn't shrug off her shawl or shrink from the blaze that embraced her.

“This is my fire, “ she thought, “At last I am home!”

And she opened her mind to the inner light that warmed her through to her very soul............as she drifted into dreams.