Jasmine Kwan | 11EXO

The Fire Jar

The elders tell us that there was once a young maiden named Shandra, who had been blessed by the gods with skill in weaving. They say that though her nimble fingers were able to make whatever her heart desired, she was never satisfied. For she climbed the high hills, and watched the soaring birds, and dreamt of flying far above the realms of mortal man. Finally, when she could no longer withstand the ache of longing in her chest, she sought out one-eyed Oonagh, the wisest of the gods, who they say is never further than a shadows width away. Oonagh was reluctant to help her in her quest, for he knew that everything comes with a price, but she begged and pleaded until he relented. You must learn the name of the wind, he told her, and speak it with the rising of the sun. But do not do this lightly, for some things cannot be undone. That very day, Shandra began weaving. She caught the flames of fire, and the rays from the setting sun, and wove a net of light. In the weaving, her fingers were burnt and scarred, and she knew that she would never use them again, but all was well. For she caught the name of the wind, and spoke as the grey light turned gold, and she rose with the sun and flew. This unfinished tale was the last thing the nameless childs mother whispered, before she walked out of their hiding place to find a scrap for them to eat, and never returned.

PART I The child with no name sits crosslegged at the edge of the rubbish dump and holds soft, one-sided conversations with a family of sparrows. She had her own family once, just as she had her own name and her own home, but those are gone now, burnt to ash and buried with the coming of the strangers. She is supposed to be elsewhere, begging for

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Jasmine Kwan | 11EXO

coins or cans of spam, with all the other children. Instead, she sits among the sparrows, silent and peaceful just like she was taught, and feeds them stale crumbs. She whispers stories to them, stories about cool, soft fingers which gathered wisps of hair behind her ears, and large callused hands which cradled her safe; warm stew on cold nights and the colour green. Sometimes it is hard to remember whether they are a dream of a memory, or merely the memory of a fading dream. She sees the jar as the sun is rising. The rays shine through it, red light catching on the cracks and limning them in all the colours of a dancing flame, like a spiderweb of fire. Like a net of flames. She picks it up gently, remembering her mothers story, and hums a prayersong to Oonagh, who they say is ever but a shadows width away. The wind stirs her tangled hair and smooths the rainbow stripes on the surface of the water. When the nameless girl shuts her eyes and listens hard, she thinks she can hear it, whispering its name among the dented cans and half rotted cardboard boxes. It sounds like the dried out skin of a pomegranate, rattling with shrivelled hard seeds.

What did you bring? The nameless girl held up her spiderweb jar, which she had carefully washed and dried. There were small cuts on her fingers where the sharp edges had caught her skin. Its Shandras fire net. Shandra is dead, fool. She was never alive. The Toad grabbed it out of her hands and inspected it with narrowed eyes. He swiped one dusty forearm across his runny nose. It's empty. No it isn't, the girl said. Hold it to your ear.

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Jasmine Kwan | 11EXO

Toad squinted his eyes at her, endlessly suspicious. He slowly raised the jar to his ear. Can you hear? It is the name of the wind, the nameless girl smiled. Toad broke her arm.

She stumbles away with the shards of the fire net cradled in her good arm. News travels fast. Other children who are bringing to Toad a small handful of copper coins or a heavy can of food do not meet her eyes, their gazes sliding away like water in a cupped hand. She wanders aimlessly until she passes through the dump and ends up at the river, where no one goes. The river has changed. Once it was full of soft green weeds that curled gently in the current, and little coloured fish that nibbled on toes. Now the weeds are dark and slimy, and the clouds of tiny fish are gone. But the river is beautiful she thinks; in the sunlight it gleams in many different colours, and paints the banks with rainbow lines. The nameless girl sits on the bank, and watches the swirls gently undulating across the water. Her arm is aching fiercely, and it has turned red and swollen. The sparrows come. She has no crumbs for them this time, but they hop around the biggest pieces of the fire jar that was Shandras net inquiringly, small black eyes bright and curious. What have you brought for us? What have you got? She holds out her hand and one lands on it. He gazes up at her with his head cocked to one side, tiny and fearless. She leans her head down and whispers the name of the wind to him. He chuckles and chatters, and flits in the air around her head, making tiny dips above the much larger curve of the river, as if to say That? I know that already! The nameless girl gazes up at the neverending blue and dreams of flight.

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The fever dreams visit that night. She sees the invasion again, the death of the trees and the death of the people, the fire that burnt even through the rain that the gods sent. It catches her arm and gnaws on it like a rat, and when she screams, her throat is so parched and dry that it sounds like nothing more than the thready cry of a newly hatched bird. Distantly she hears amidst the chaos of her delirium. No, I thought I heard something. Wha- holy fuck!! No no, its alright, I think its just one of the native kids. Gave me a fucking shock. Moron, its a girl. Theres something wrong with her arm. The strangers, settlers from a land far away, take her in. Their doctors heal her, their women dress her and feed her. They give her a new place to stay, and try to teach her their language. It feels like a mouthful of eels, slippery and hard to keep down. They call her Alice.

PART IV Many years later, or perhaps only a few, Alice returns to that desolate place. It seems that the only area that has benefitted from the years is the rubbish tip. You used to live here? Her fiance asks in disbelief. Alice gazes across the river, polluted with oil and toxins and who-knows-how-many chemicals. It was beautiful then, she says, but somehow she is no longer so certain. High above their heads, a sparrow chimes its warning call. As she turns away, a piece of glass, jagged edges worn smooth by the years, cracks underfoot. It gleams redly, edges burning in the dying light.

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Alice grinds it to powder beneath her heel. Just a piece of glass, she tells her fiance. Its dangerous, some kid might have hurt themselves.

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