The Boy Who Set Fire To The World

Chapter 1

Mamma used to tell me a story, when I couldn't sleep. She'd rub the edge of her ring finger down by nose , her larger hand clutching my smaller one. Her voice was soft back then, still preserved amongst the smoke and coal dust outside.

She told me of a young boy. He was an orphan, left along to take care of his younger siblings. Without any money, all of the children escaped into the woods, the fallen leaves crunching under their feet. But soon, Winter came as it always did. The snow crushed their naive dreams of living out in the woods. Two of the kids, the youngest of them all, came down with a sickness. A terrible sickness that ravaged through their small bodies and destroyed everything in its sight. The boy was helpless against this, against this travesty far beyond his understanding.

One night, when the sickness was at its worst, the fever reaching its peak, he sobbed up to the skies. Begged someone, anyone, to help him take care of those dearest to him. He just wanted a way to keep them alive, any way.

He wanted them to stay warm. To supply them with the heat that they needed to survive the horrendous winter.

The gods weren't cruel, and granted this boy with his meager wish. They gave him a chance, a chance to keep his siblings warm. Though, they warned, no blessing comes without a price. The boy, just glad that he had something, ignored their warning. So he rushed back to their campsite and started a fire, in the middle of the snow.

Slowly, his siblings came back to him. Slowly, the sickness diminished against the warmth of the fire, the fire that the boy had created thanks to the gods. Spring came, and all was well. Everyone was okay.

When Mamma had gotten to this part of the story, she'd paused uneasily. Then she'd sighed, and told me that this wasn't a happy story. Not like the fairytales Poppy read. But I begged her to continue. I begged her to continue the tale. And so she did.

The fire didn't stop in spring. It didn't stop in summer. It didn't stop in Autumn, nor Winter. In fact, it grew until the children were forced to relocate. But the fire followed them, and followed them, and followed them. It burned down forests and towns. It ravaged through the lands, destroying everything in its sight. So, the boy, realising that this was the price to pay, the price for his siblings surviving the winter, set off alone. Into the dark woods, where no one came back. He did it out of love, out of love for his siblings. He didn't want to hurt them.

So he left.

And the fires left with him.

The boy was called Benjamin.

My namesake. 

I never understood that tale, how the boy could just leave those who loved him . He may not have wanted to hurt them, but he did. He hurt them regardless. When I'd voiced my thoughts, Mamma had smiled sadly, saying that I'd understand some day, when I was older.

I still haven't understood it yet. I've never understood why people feel the need to leave. The martyr-act, pretending that they're doing the right thing by abandoning those who need them. Those who love them.

I never will understand it. I never will understand how someone could. How someone would willingly leave.

I slowly stir as my thin curtains let the early morning sunlight in. I just hope that none of the little ones have woken yet. I enjoy having at least a few minutes to myself before I must face my responsibilities. Before I must start my day and feed the chickens, prepare breakfast, get my siblings ready for their lessons, visit the centre to collect our rations for the week, get to my lessons, rush back home and prepare lunch. Then, I must make sure all the little ones are fed, sign up for the next round of  rations, prepare dinner, collect herbs and vegetables, then eat dinner, rush to my job in the gardens, and when I get home I focus on my homework late into the night. Monday is always my hardest, and longest, day.

I sigh and stretch my limbs experimentally. My muscles are usually sore when I wake up, especially after yesterday's long day of helping in the gardens, and delivering the herbal remedies to those in the village. The bed is much too small, but it's fine for now. Besides, I don't have the heart to move into Anthony's old one. We all stay far away from the other bedrooms. It works fine for the little ones. They're fine.

There is a small hand on my knee, and I look down to find Jemima's brown eyes looking up expectantly. I sigh and lift her into my lap. Jemima smiles and bops my nose with her small finger. She used to be a chubby toddler with rosy cheeks, but the past couple winters have been hard on us all. She's close to resembling a baby skeleton, no matter how hard I try to get enough food for all the little ones. They're all smaller than they should be for their ages.

Soon, all the little ones start stirring and the day breaks into action. Irene offers to feed the chickens and I gladly allow her to. One less job for the day, I think as I began making small bowls of porridge. It's the very last of our rations, but I'll be picking this week's up today so it's well times. I hand each of the little ones, and Irene, a bowl of porridge, leaving one for myself.

Through sticky porridge, Cabe looks up at me with big grey eyes that contrast his dark brown skin. I look similar to him, dark brown skin and golden hair, though I have father's eyes apparently. A muted Hazel colour. "Benny! Tell us a story!" He asks, banging his spoon against the table.

I shake my head, gathering up the bowls of those who are done. "Not now. You all need to get to school before you're late. So hurry up and finish your porridge." I don't mean to sound so strict, but Cabe's bottom lip wobbles slightly, his expression wavering before he decides on an angry pout.

"Ori would tell us a story." He retorts, crossing his arms and huffing.

My breath hitches slightly and my own expression slips off into a frown. Irene looks at me out of the corner of her eyes, but I stare down at my feet until the room stops spinning around me. My insides feel carved out and I feel hollow. Hollow.

Irene saves the situation. "I'll tell you a story on the way to school, if you all get ready now. On the count of three, go, okay? One, two, three!" All the little ones squeal and run off to the bedroom to pick out their clothes for today. Irene will probably need to help them get ready, but she takes a moment to massage my shoulder.

"It's okay." She whispers. It's not, but I appreciate the sentiment. We stand in silence, my hands still clenched into fists. Her and I, we've been a team since Mamma passed on, working together to control our unruly bunch of siblings. After a couple of strangled cries from the bedroom, she rushes off, probably go help Jemima or Daniel put on their trousers.

I sigh and stare out of the window, sadly admiring the sun peeking through the tall trees that surround our town. It looks like a sight out of those postcards the small shop by the train station sells. It's picturesque, beautiful even. The bright blue against the white clouds look like a painting that should be decorating the roof of a church or a palace, not our small town.

And so my day begins.