selling. There is no why. Fire simply burns because it can. Because it must. I picture Nadja buttoning up her white blouse for the family portrait. The day I beat Jonas at golf. Michelle when she was just an admiring colleague. I try to banish them from my mind, hoping the spark will end with me.
Fire Girl smiles, her ruby eyes glittering and kinetic.
“It never ends,” she says. “They’ll always be fuel to feed me.”
I see Michelle running out of the woods. She’s at a gas station. The attendant is calling the cops. He rips open a pack of smokes for her from behind the counter. She lights a cigarette. Fire Girl is there in the flame.
I feel myself slipping. Losing focus. Losing fuel. The black cinder at the end of it all is close now.
THE GHOST DANCE
A crow bobbed its head, fluttered its wings, and took flight from its perch on the roof of the nightclub. A patchwork of hand-made band posters covered the wide glass window. The crow squawked and flew over a circle of hundreds of dancers crowding the sidewalk and street.
The briefing said there would be crows, Erin thought. The bird’s presence made this different, more real. Erin scanned the crowd: mostly teenagers, not just from the Rez. The last rays of the late summer setting sun cast a red glow on the closed stores of the strip mall and the circle of dancers crowding its streets. No sign of the suspect. No lucky break today.
The dancers’ feet lifted and dropped in unison, then in syncopation with the pounding bass and low grumble of guitars audible outside the small club. It smelled wrong.
No pot. No beer. Not a single one smoking a cigarette.
Her partner, John Avenco, got out of their unmarked Ford Taurus. Together they walked toward the circle of dancers and the nightclub.
“You believe it’s really him?” Avenco asked.
Erin shrugged. She didn’t know what to believe. Two days ago, agents from Squadron Thirty Seven had apprehended the girl called Sitting Bull, along with a beat-up van full of guitars and amps. All the recent chatter indicated something big was going down—tonight. Something big enough for the director to have almost every agent scouring the Reservations and every rock and roll club in the country for the suspect, Crazy Horse.
Avenco looked around, amazed. “I never even heard of this dance thing till that first clash with the National Guard in Houston.”
Erin pictured the image she saw on the news: a giant circle of dancers, much like this one, surrounded by lines of Guardsmen in riot gear.
“I know my history, but come on.”
Erin held her tongue. The Ghost Dance, the desperate protest movement of the Native Americans, had been outlawed over a hundred years ago. Since the fated massacre at Wounded Knee, it was rarely seen outside ceremonial gatherings. Its resurgence along with the rebellious and unified talk of the tribes spooked her. She couldn’t expect Avenco to know all this, but now, after the briefing, he had no excuse.
“I mean, what the hell?” Avenco continued. “Even my sister’s kid in New Jersey is doing it.”
The government today wouldn’t condone shooting into circles of mixed-up suburban kids, would they? Erin hoped she wouldn’t be expected to.
“That’s rock and roll for you,” she said, not wishing to voice her concerns to Avenco. “You were a kid once.”
“Yeah, of course,” Avenco said.
“Let’s just clear the place, confirm he isn’t here, and be on to the next one,” she said.
“Yeah, I heard the briefing. But rock and roll, Wounded Knee, and reservation teenagers pretending they are dead Indian heroes. It doesn’t make sense.”
Erin agreed. At Wounded Knee, hundreds were slaughtered by American soldiers when they refused to stop dancing the Ghost Dance. The dance itself would not bring back the buffalo and herald the downfall of the invaders, like they claimed, neither then nor now. So why the Bureau-wide
Fire Girl smiles, her ruby eyes glittering and kinetic.
“It never ends,” she says. “They’ll always be fuel to feed me.”
I see Michelle running out of the woods. She’s at a gas station. The attendant is calling the cops. He rips open a pack of smokes for her from behind the counter. She lights a cigarette. Fire Girl is there in the flame.
I feel myself slipping. Losing focus. Losing fuel. The black cinder at the end of it all is close now.
THE GHOST DANCE
A crow bobbed its head, fluttered its wings, and took flight from its perch on the roof of the nightclub. A patchwork of hand-made band posters covered the wide glass window. The crow squawked and flew over a circle of hundreds of dancers crowding the sidewalk and street.
The briefing said there would be crows, Erin thought. The bird’s presence made this different, more real. Erin scanned the crowd: mostly teenagers, not just from the Rez. The last rays of the late summer setting sun cast a red glow on the closed stores of the strip mall and the circle of dancers crowding its streets. No sign of the suspect. No lucky break today.
The dancers’ feet lifted and dropped in unison, then in syncopation with the pounding bass and low grumble of guitars audible outside the small club. It smelled wrong.
No pot. No beer. Not a single one smoking a cigarette.
Her partner, John Avenco, got out of their unmarked Ford Taurus. Together they walked toward the circle of dancers and the nightclub.
“You believe it’s really him?” Avenco asked.
Erin shrugged. She didn’t know what to believe. Two days ago, agents from Squadron Thirty Seven had apprehended the girl called Sitting Bull, along with a beat-up van full of guitars and amps. All the recent chatter indicated something big was going down—tonight. Something big enough for the director to have almost every agent scouring the Reservations and every rock and roll club in the country for the suspect, Crazy Horse.
Avenco looked around, amazed. “I never even heard of this dance thing till that first clash with the National Guard in Houston.”
Erin pictured the image she saw on the news: a giant circle of dancers, much like this one, surrounded by lines of Guardsmen in riot gear.
“I know my history, but come on.”
Erin held her tongue. The Ghost Dance, the desperate protest movement of the Native Americans, had been outlawed over a hundred years ago. Since the fated massacre at Wounded Knee, it was rarely seen outside ceremonial gatherings. Its resurgence along with the rebellious and unified talk of the tribes spooked her. She couldn’t expect Avenco to know all this, but now, after the briefing, he had no excuse.
“I mean, what the hell?” Avenco continued. “Even my sister’s kid in New Jersey is doing it.”
The government today wouldn’t condone shooting into circles of mixed-up suburban kids, would they? Erin hoped she wouldn’t be expected to.
“That’s rock and roll for you,” she said, not wishing to voice her concerns to Avenco. “You were a kid once.”
“Yeah, of course,” Avenco said.
“Let’s just clear the place, confirm he isn’t here, and be on to the next one,” she said.
“Yeah, I heard the briefing. But rock and roll, Wounded Knee, and reservation teenagers pretending they are dead Indian heroes. It doesn’t make sense.”
Erin agreed. At Wounded Knee, hundreds were slaughtered by American soldiers when they refused to stop dancing the Ghost Dance. The dance itself would not bring back the buffalo and herald the downfall of the invaders, like they claimed, neither then nor now. So why the Bureau-wide
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