Genie in the Flames - 1. Chapter 1

The flames flickered reds and oranges, casting a warm glow across the hearth and the old, overstuffed armchairs. The colours of the room were muted beneath the hazy light. A boy stared into the flames intently, headless of the heat warming his porcelain face.

“I wished upon a star last night.” He mumbled to himself, sitting down on the mat in his pajamas. “I wished I had someone to talk to, about, you know . . . things.” The boy’s blue eyes glistened; he told himself that it was just the heat stinging his retinas. He remembered a sharp voice. ‘Big boys don’t cry.’

The flames popped and cracked quietly in reply. He smiled sadly. “I like talking to you. You listen to me. But it’d be better if you could talk back, you know? I get lonely.”

The boy pulled a little hunk of cheese from his pocket and stared at it. Eventually, he nibbled at it and then he looked guilty. He put the cheese aside and pushed another stick onto the fire. “Sorry, I forgot to feed you. I know it’s rude to eat in front of people who don’t have food.”

The fire engulfed the stick eagerly.

“I know wishing stars are just . . . .” He sighed and nibbled his cheese. “Well, they’re fake Mama says. Pa said it was ungodly to wish. I should pray instead. I didn’t think God would like my prayer. He doesn’t, you know, like boys like me.”

“Boys like you?”

The boy dropped his cheese, jerking away from the flames. “Who spoke?” His wide eyes tried to peer into the corners of the shadowy room. Had his father discovered him? That voice didn’t sound like him.

“Me. I did.”

The boy’s eyes turned towards the direction of the voice. Flames danced, popped, crackled. Heat and orange light bathed his face. “Who is me?”

“The fire, silly.” The flames twisted into a shape. A person in the flames. A tiny boy like the dolls the rich girls in town pushed in their little prams.

“Are you a . . . genie?” The boy leaned closer, flinching at the heat. The person wasn’t in the flames. He was made of them. Flickering and shimmering. Reminding him of the haze that hung over the road in summer, when things seem just a little bit unreal. Blurry edges making it look as if the wind might blow the world away.

“I am.” The flame boy smiled. “Careful, don’t burn yourself.”

“Do you give wishes? Do I get a wish?” His eyes sparkled. For a moment the heat didn’t matter with this fantastic mystery in front of his eyes.

“Not that type of genie.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slumped. Suddenly the heat did matter and his skin was uncomfortably dry, so he shuffled back.

“I’m Yaidul. Who are you?” The genie twirled in around the flames, smiling brightly. It wasn’t quite like a human smile, when his face flickered and writhed as he did it.

“Jo.”

“Jo is a lovely name. Did I say I’m Yaidul?”

Jo giggled. “You did. You’re awfully forgetful for genie.”

Yaidul’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Do you know many genies? Maybe we are all forgetful.”

Jo’s face turned thoughtful. He shook his head, shaggy brown hair flopping over his forehead. “I guess I haven’t.”

“Same. I’m so glad we have something in common.”

“How can a genie not have met many genies? Don’t you like, come from genieland or something?”

The flames stilled their movements, standing like icicles dyed orange. Jo wondered if that was how flames thought. Then Yaidul shrugged again. “I don’t know. I don’t remember before you were talking to me.”

“You don’t have a family?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Do flames have families?”

“Maybe the matches are your father?” Jo pointed to the box sitting on the hearth.

Yaidul turned his flame body towards the box with the drawing of a candle’s flame on it. It looked more like an orange raindrop, he thought. But what was a raindrop? “It doesn’t feel like it. I think you made me. You said you wished for someone to talk to, and here I was.”

“Oh.” Jo closed his mouth. Opened it to speak. Closed it again when he thought better of what he’d wanted to say.

“You didn’t say what you wanted to talk about. I’m here, we should talk.” Yaidul flickered through one of the logs on his fire. “It is boring not talking.”

“Well. Can you keep a secret?”

“Who would believe a fireplace?”

Jo nodded at that good point, and offered Yaidul another stick. The flames engulfed it when he dropped it into the fire. “Well, my Pa says I’m sick.”

Yaidul flickered darker orange. “Oh. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m not sure I’m really sick though. But maybe Pa is right, and Ma agrees with him too.” He plucked at the hem of his pajama pants, where it flared out around his ankles. A loose thread slowly came undone between his fingers. “I like boys.”

“Why does that make you sick?”

“Well, I mean. Like, not like boys as friends. Well that too. But you know. I want to . . . when I grow up I . . . .” He leaned closer to Yaidul and whispered. “Fall in love with another boy.”

Yaidul turned a pale yellow as he burned on the stick. “I’m confused, Jo. Why does that make you sick?”

“It isn’t normal, and it is a sin.”

“But you can’t help it. Do you think I’m sick because I’m made of flames?”

“No. You’re just . . . you.”

“But normal boys aren’t made of flames.”

Jo’s fingers stopped pulling on the thread, his face frozen. He blinked slowly. “I . . . .” He wet his lips and smiled. “That makes sense Yaidul.” Jo wanted to hug his new friend but he was flames so that wouldn’t work. So he added another stick. Stifling a yawn with his hand.

“You should sleep, Jo. You’re tired.”

“I know.” Jo stood up slowly. “But I’m happy. Thank you Yaidul.”

“I’m glad.”

Jo paused by the door of lounge room and looked back at the orange glow. “Yaidul? You’ll be here tomorrow, right?”

Yaidul was indistinct in the flames, but Jo saw he smiled. “I’ll be here as long as you need a friend to talk to, Jo.”