Ancient Fire by Mark London Williams Page A

fire. It would have broken her heart and her spirit at
last.
    “Sorceress!” they were yelling from outside.
Me, sorceress. Here I was, a thirteen-year-old girl, shivering and
cold. Where was my magic now?
    In the catacombs, the docks and channel locks
had collapsed above us, destroyed by flames.
    I was covered with water and swept away. I
had been pretending to be dead and now found myself clutching one
of the many real dead bodies rushing by,
using it as a raft. That body, that person whose life had been
given to slow pox, saved mine in the flood. Eventually, I floated
out past the shattered Gate of the Moon at city’s edge. I shook
myself off and staggered to shore.
    I gazed back where the docks had been. Fire
seemed to be everywhere.
    I remember once looking at a statue of
Serapis—the serpent god, the healer, the city’s protector—on
Mother’s desk. I asked her if there really was a Serapis. I argued
with her that if a god, or gods, exist, how could their greatness
and mystery be contained in a mere statue?
    “What there is really,” she said, “what
exists, is people’s hope that there’s a way to balance things, heal
them and make them better. ‘Serapis’ is one of the names we put to
that hope.”
    “Then Serapis is not real?”
    “Hope is a very real, very living thing. But
it needs to be taken care of and nourished, or it dies.”
    Brother Tiberius’s view was that if you even mention Serapis, you should have your
tongue cut out.
    That seemed neither helpful nor hopeful. And
now our city was burning. There were screams in the distance,
panic. Everyone going through their own sorrow, their own
grief.
    Walking along the ruined shoreline, I heard
the flapping of wings. I expected an owl hunting in the night, but
saw instead the escaped griffin vulture from the zoo circling
overhead. These loose bodies would be a feast for him.
    Eventually, heading in the direction of the
lighthouse, I was surprised to see the long wooden footbridge
leading out to Pharos Island still intact. Once again, that bridge
provided the promise of escape.
    I thought that perhaps nobody would think to
look for me in the lighthouse a second time, but I had only just
arrived inside and bolted the door when I heard a loud thump and the first cry of “Witch!”
    Tiberius had eyes all over the city, and the
fire had not managed to blind them to my whereabouts. It seemed his
whole mob was after a final reckoning with their perceived enemies
that night.
    An hour or two went by, and from the yelling,
I could tell the crowd below had grown in size.
    I had no idea if my new friends were still
alive. Or if Mother was. In a lighthouse, surrounded by people, I
had never felt more alone.
    I thought of letting the mob in. Perhaps, in
the end, that would be less painful.
    Then, suddenly, came a new and distinct
pounding on the door below. I froze, listening to the loud booms.
And realized they had a battering ram. Now it didn’t matter what I
did. They would get in anyway.
    The battering ram crashed into the door
again, and instinctively, at the top of the tower, I stepped back
away from the noise. I stumbled over the remains from Mother’s
experiment.
    Because of the chaos in Alexandria, no one
had come here to spark the lighthouse bonfire, which is why the
signal was dark for the first time in memory. But the mirrors were
there, and the fuel lines from the ground floor were still intact,
drawing up oil from below to keep the giant wick lit...
    I realized I could
make the lighthouse shine again if there were a way to start the
fire. And perhaps, seeing the signal, someone would come. Someone
not connected to the mob below.
    The crystals were sharp in my hands, almost
cutting my skin, but I hardly noticed. I began to wonder if those
two stones could be used…like flints.
     
     
     
    Chapter Fourteen
    Eli: Tiberius
    415 C.E.
     
    My mom is waking me up, and I’m home in New
Jersey, and it’s all been a dream, and I’m still a regular kid