The Fire
By James Keen

I noticed them as I passed, wandering the darkness of the moonlit wooded passage, the dry chill of the years final breath, fading.

What happened to that dark, dead spot I remembered, danced upon now by nine, around that yellow-heated pit of flame standing they were, straight, tall, shining, proud, as though in honor, mesmerized by flickering, brilliant light.

Forming a circle, shoulder to shoulder, faces bright, sparks rising above, as though in answer to an ancient battle cry; stepping back now, drawing horns.

Holding high, offering them to something, the air, darkened by smoke, ashes drifting, leaping around them in the wind; speaking now, words - louder, as though ..

In awe to the sudden appearance of, in their midst, the rising shadow, mystifying; leaping over now, the edge, bodies twisting - others, bringing gifts, offering to something, hidden still inside that hot swirling mass, and drinking now, deep draughts of golden-honeyed brew; I realized, at last, the sight, as privileged, I was, to share, unbidden, this most sacred vision, of those before, now, and yet to come, honoring the old ways, deeds never forgotten, but burned, etched in the fire of memory, forever.