Pyro

17

Aide strolled along the green outside Cartham Manor, sucking on an ice lolly. The heat was stifling, and along the green were families sat out on picnic mats, conveniently situated under the branches of greats oaks and pines, sheltering from the sun.

Aide felt surprisingly cool. He had, in the past few weeks, come to enjoy the feeling of intense heat on his skin. He felt good about life; his newfound power had given him confidence and swagger, even if he couldn't define how it worked or what it was for. He seemed to be on a good footing with his dad and Dev, and even Nats was beginning to see him in a new light. As for Rainer...well, he was pretty sure he could handle whatever came his way.

He smiled as he replayed the scene from the other night. The look on Rainer's face as the joint exploded was hilarious, but it worried Aide that he may be abusing his power. Panels from his favourite comic books played in his head, all about power and responsibility. What was his power for? He knew he could control fire, but why?

He approached the Manor House doors, and saw how busy it was. Every tourist in Tanow seemed to be there, browsing the shops and enjoying the sun. Aide intended to add to his art supplies and then find a spot in the gardens and work on his coursework. He squeezed into the Manor, and pushed his way through to the art shop, his massive folder encumbering his progress a little. He bought a pack of pastel crayons, and a new brush for himself. He was about to work his way back out to the green, when impulse took him out the back of the house.

He found himself in the courtyard, and he happened upon a stall selling paintings by an artist he hadn't seen before. He spent a good ten minutes browsing until his concentration was interrupted by some noise coming from another stallholder. He looked over to see that the noise was coming from the direction of the old stables, and there was a demonstration in full flow. People were crowded around the stall watching the demonstrator, who had a booming voice, with a warm, deep laugh. Aide went to see.

He realised as soon as he got closer that the stallholder was the same old glassblower that he had seen previously. The side of the stables had been removed, so the customers could stand in the open air, and watch the glassblower at work in his workshop, which was still under cover, supported by old wooden beams. The old man was giving a good performance too. He was friendly, funny and lapping up all the attention. Aide watched as he blew an ornate glass vase, and bowed and took his applause as the crowd dispersed. Aide lingered while the old boy made a few sales, wrapping each piece carefully in tissue paper.

When the last of the patrons had left, the old man turned to him with a great grin plastered across his bearded face.

"My dear boy!" he gushed.

"Alright?" said Aide. "Took my advice then?"

"Indeed I did! And what a transformation! It took a while to convince the manager, I can tell you, but look! Business has never been better!"

"Good. I'm glad."

Aide looked around the display area and his eyes settled on a flamboyant glass plate. It was red and orange, the colours swirling around each other, the sunlight on the glass dancing and transforming the piece, depending on which angle you looked at it from. He stared at it intently, and placed his art folder down on the floor. It clanged against the display case as it tipped forward.

"And you're an artist too!" boomed the old man's voice, calling Aide's attention back to reality.

"Just GCSE," Aide said, righting his folder.

" 'Just' indeed! Small acorns, my boy, small acorns. May I see?"

Aide picked up the folder and peered into it.

"It's just rough work really," he mumbled. "There's this, part of my coursework, but it's not quite finished."

From the folder he drew an A3 sheet. It was covered from edge to edge in frantic pencil markings. In the centre was a dark figure, the silhouette of a person. Aide didn't really know what the picture was of, or about. He had just sketched it one night as the mood had taken him. He was going to put it in his portfolio as part of his coursework, but if he was unable to explain it, what would his teachers make of it?

"Goodness me," said the old man. "Well, still obsessed by fire then?"

"Obsessed?"

Aide looked at the sketch again, and realised what he had drawn. It was himself, silhouetted against a backdrop of a raging inferno. The fire filled the paper, right to the very edge. It was just a pencil sketch, but in his mind's eye he saw it coloured in a deep red, the flames leaping off the page.

"Pre-occupied then. It was all you spoke of last time," he smiled, handing the drawing back. "What about this inferno then? Friend or foe?"

Aide put his drawing back in his folder.

"I've been thinking about that a lot actually," he said. "How you said fire is alive. I believe that now. Just like a wild animal, it'll run over the land, free as a bird, causing mayhem and destruction. But it can take just one person to tame it. Maybe that's what this picture is about?"

The old man nodded sagely, not a little surprised at Aide's passion for the subject. He was such a quiet, sullen boy at first glance, but he could be quite eloquent when the occasion took him.

"Tame, you say? There's a dangerous notion."

"What do you mean?"

" 'To tame' implies 'to control', and one can never really control fire. It's unpredictable. Even the tamest dog, man's best friend, can turn on its owner from time to time. A trained horse can break into a wild gallop at a moment's notice. Fire is no different."

"But you control your fire," said Aide, looking to the man's roaring furnace.

"Control? No, I merely work with it. It is a colleague, and I respect its nature."

He stepped over the rope barrier that separated the workshop from the showroom. He took the red plate Aide had been admiring and placed it on a pile of tissue paper. He wrapped it carefully, and turned back to Aide.

"Yours, I believe," he said, presenting it to him.

"I...I can't afford it."

"A gift. Payment for your insight."

"I can't-"

"I shall be offended if you refuse," the man said with a smile. Aide took the plate carefully. He held it in his hands with a certain reverence. Then he thought of something. He crouched down on the floor and searched through his art folder. He pulled out the sketch of the silhouette surrounded by flames.

"For you, then," he offered. "A fair swap?"

"I shall treasure it," the glassblower smiled. "You haven't signed it."

Aide produced a pencil and hastily signed it in the corner. He thought for a second and then added a title next to his signature.

"The Tamed Inferno" read the old man. "It shall take pride of place."

They stood awkwardly for a second or two, each holding the other's art.

"Thanks. I'd, er, better be off."

"And I," said the glassblower, looking at the crowd of patrons amassing outside his workshop. "My next demonstration is due to start. I'm quite the attraction, I'm told. Must be these rippling biceps again!" His laughter boomed though the old stables.

"See ya. And thanks," said Aide. He turned to leave.

"Remember," the old man shouted after him. "Fire can be a fickle mistress. It can turn on a man at any time, or leave him altogether. Be careful."