Incantation by Alice Hoffman

fire, and I had to stamp out the flames. My grandmother stood still and did nothing. If it had been up to her, she would have burned along with the others.
    My grandmother was crying beside me. I had never seen her cry, and I couldn’t look at her now. I’d been so afraid of her my whole life, and now she was afraid. I could not bear to see it. My grandmother was wearing the black scarf, as I was. No one noticed us. We were covered head to foot in ashes; two women made of ashes ready to be blown apart, carried to all the corners of the world, east and west alike.
    There was so much screaming, it was nearly impossible to think. People ran and tried to get to their loved ones. As soon as they did, they were struck down, some of them killed, bleeding, their heads opened up on the cobblestones. Nothing could change this now. It was a stone rolling down a hill, getting bigger and bigger, unstoppable, taking down everything in its path.
    The fire was out of control. People were choking on the sparks and the smoke. One of the guards breathed in fire, then clutched at his throat and chest as he lay dying. I knew we had to back away from the heat. We had to disappear from that place. But how could I leave my brother? I looked up; through the flames I could see him.
    I know this is true: He opened his eyes for an instant. Other people were writhing and melting, but my brother stopped his flight long enough to look at me. An instant that would have to last forever. And then the flames rose higher and my brother was gone.
    The smoke was so black it was like a storm cloud.
    Forever after the well water that had come from heaven would be black, filled with ashes.

 

    Sky

    I pulled my grandmother toward the Muslim quarter, along the narrow streets that smelled like cinnabar and sweet bay. I felt that dove inside myself, beating inside my skin, in a panic. I thought the quarter might be the only place where my grandmother and I could disappear. We wrapped our shawls over our heads; with our dark features, we looked like anyone else on the street. But we brought the smell of fire with us, on our clothes, in our hair. Some men yelled at us. We ran faster. Maybe they were saying we were bad luck. Maybe they were saying women shouldn’t be out alone as night approached.
    I went to the only address I knew. The doctor’s house. It was dusk, and I dragged my grandmother along. It was getting more difficult. She was as heavy as a person who had given up; she resisted every step, but when I pulled hard enough, she followed, like a sack of ashes that hadn’t enough life and will to disobey.
    There were no lamps burning in the doctor’s house and no patients at his door. When my mother and I used to come here, the chickens would put up a fuss; now the yard was silent. I thought of the chickens that had belonged to the doctor’s wife, scattered now, roaming our neighborhood until they were caught by Catalina’s mother or someone else. Whoever stole them would be surprised at the color of the eggs they collected the next morning. Surely they would wonder if blue eggs were a blessing or a curse. When they cracked them open, there would be human blood inside; it was true. My mother’s blood that would last forever after. The blood of my brother, my grandfather, my father.
    I wished whoever cooked those eggs and ate them would choke. I knew a curse you make always stays with you, but I didn’t care. I myself would never eat eggs again. Not even if there were nothing else to eat other than weeds and stones.

    W E SNEAKED into the doctor’s stable. No one would find us here; we could be safe for a night. There was a mule that wasn’t happy to see us; he hee-ed and hawed till I gave him some of the almond cakes I’d put in my pockets. Then the mule followed me and wouldn’t leave me alone. He had warm breath and dark eyes, and I thought about Dini. I thought about how he meant so much to me and meant nothing to the soldiers who took him. I