Elin Dahal

27 March 2011

Mr. Hearns

English 10

House Burning Down

The smell of burning wood filled the air. Sammael looked up and saw the column

of smoke rise up and swallow the white moon with its thick, black jaws. Sammael

dropped his hammer, wiped his hands, and ran through the streets towards the

increasingly acrid stench of flame and brimstone. The streets were quiet at this hour of

night, the only sound coming from the uneasy whinnying of the horses at their stables,

who seemed to sense the danger just around the corner. The small wood and brick houses

spread forth dark, immense shadows which flickered as the fire behind them emanated

waves of red light which contrasted against the dark night like an ominous dawn.

Sammael joined the crowd that had gathered and stared at the bright flashes that

had consumed the entirety of the house. About twenty feet away, a small group of valiant

men were desperately trying to put out the fire with buckets of water drawn from the

nearby well while the rest of the townspeople watched with a tired awe. These fires had

almost become commonplace among the citizens of the town.

“What’s happened?” a voice inquired from behind. Sammael turned and saw John

McKinney, who was new in town. Sammael turned back to the fire. How could he even

begin to explain? No one was ever sure how it happened. He stared at the fire tried to go

over it in his head…

 The man dismounts his horse and ties its reins to the barn. The horse has a look of

confusion on his face, but the man has only the blank, stoic expression of a man on a

mission. He grabs his satchel from off the horse and begins to walk towards the center of

town. The satchel is unusually heavy, as if weighted down with the guilt and knowledge

of the last few months. The man swings the bag over his shoulder and proceeds through

the streets. The hour is late, and most of the townspeople have already retired into their

homes.

The man creeps through still, having now reached the center of town. He looks up

at the statue of the town’s founder, dressed in military garb pointing his bronze saber

boldly West, at his sides a priest and a nun, both clutching onto bibles as one clutches to a

child. The crucifix at the priest’s side seems to bathe the valiant troop in a soft, protecting

light. The man turns to the Church, which reaches out towards the heavens, seeking out

the merciful touch of God.

The man continues his trek through the town. He hears a slowly loudening sound,

the sound of loud footsteps and swift fiddles. He passed into the Eastern quarter of the

town, and scowled at the pitiful drunks stumbling out of the pubs. As he passes the clubs

he peers through the windows and gazes contemptuously at the women, each dancing

with three different men. He averts his eyes and continues down path deeper into the

town.

The man finally finds what he has come for. He reads the house number and

prepares like an artist preparing his canvas or like a minister walking up to his pulpit. He

drops his satchel to the ground and pulls out a hammer and a small container filled with a

clear liquid. He reaches his hand deeper into the bag and produces a small lead cross. He
looks at it for a second as a shadow of doubt flashes across his face. He takes in a long,

deep breath, and then begins.

With the container in his opposite hand he swings his hammer at the glass of the

window. It buckles and shatters easily under the force of the man’s swing. The man

reaches his hand through the shards of remaining glass and unlocks the door from the

inside. He then enters the house and sets down his tools. He surveys the home and finds

what he is looking for: an oil lamp, still full to the middle with oil. The lamp is thrown on

the ground in the center of the living room. The man goes around the house collecting

various candles, lamps, and torches, and piles joins them with the oil lamp. He then turns

towards the bookcase in the back of the room and tears the books off the shelves. Such

tomes as The Evolution of Species, Historia NaturaI, and even a copy of the Qur’an flop

open as they hit the pile, as if desperately trying to take flight and escape their fate. He

piles the rest along with the lamps, and then eventually crashes the bookcase and

surrounding chairs into the pile until it has reached shoulder height. The man then

proceeds to drench the pile with the contents of the container, until the air is filled with its

stench. He exits the building, his hand going towards the cross in his pocket for

reassurance. From his satchel the man pulls out a small, red case. He then turns again

toward the house.

As he reenters the building, he opens the red case, and pulls out from it a single

dark brown match. The man notes to himself that the case was beginning to run short. He

flicks the match audaciously against the back of the red case and the match bursts into

flame with a soft whisper. The fire reflects in his eyes, and he looks upon the pile in front
of him with the look of a thousand Archangels looking upon Sodom and Gomorrah. As

the match begins to run short, he flicks it into the midst of the pile.

The flame quickly devours the pile like a feral beast unleashed upon the carcass of

a wounded elephant. A soft, cackling hiss builds into a crescendo of power and might.

From behind is the sound of footsteps. The man turns to see a fellow dressed in a

nightgown spring upon him. The fellow catches the man by surprise and knocks him onto

the ground. The fellow has a look of panic and anger on his face as he puts his hands

around the man’s neck, trying to stamp out the man’s life. The man helplessly flails his

hands about, until he gets a hold of something hot and metallic. He strikes with all of his

remaining strength, and lands a heavy blow on his opponent’s temple. He pushes the now

limp body off of his chest and stands up. He gazes down at the thing in his hand: a warm

lead cross now stained red with blood. All around him parts of the buildings architecture

crash down with a fiery blaze. As he is exiting he hears a slight moan. He looks briefly at

the man on the floor, who stares up at him. As he fades away, the last image he sees is the

man’s silhouette against the rising flame, clutching his cross in his hand. The man exits

the building…

“Sam? Are you listening?” McKinney’s voice broke Sammael’s concentration.

Sammael looked blankly into Mckinney’s eyes for a moment, before he replied.

“I have to get going,” was all he said. He turned his back on the townspeople and

headed back towards the barn. Before he mounted his horse he wiped his hands; gasoline

made the reins slick. He gave his horse the order and set off towards his home. At the top

of the hill he stopped and looked back on the town. The church was in the West, quiet
and humble much like the rest of the town. In the East, the terrible fire stood up like an

entire host of demons that had sprung out deep from the pits of Tartarus. Though, to the

man, the fire had a strange appeal. It were cleansing, pure. They burst up and licked the

heavens with their beautiful red tendrils of flame. They seemed to call out to God, and

they certainly called out to the man, who longed to return to their power and warmth. He

looked down at the Pub, whose the lights still shone, challenging the brightness of the

fire. The man turned away, reassured, knowing that he would return.