The Firefarer

Part Three/Chapter Two: The Cartographer

Muna could never quite describe what happened next. The air grew unbearably hot ˗ so hot that paint melted on the canvasses around her, pooling in slow, fat drops onto the floor. Hori was screaming, her vision grew faint, the room slipped into a dizzying spin around her head. And then she was no longer in Artemisia's studio at all. She had travelled beyond it, was above the town, above the lands of the Pagi and Ahi, floating over the sea, spiralling ever upwards until at last she was amongst the stars. They soared and looped around her and she amongst them, a furious wave of darkness succeeded by a surge of light.

But then, suddenly, that all stopped, and she felt herself tugged downwards, as if unseen hands were clutching at her legs and feet, pulling her towards the earth. She sped through clouds, over rooftops and she was back once again in the cluttered little attic, drawing in desperate mouthfuls of air. She was aware that the heat had lost its intensity, that in fact the room seemed cool, yet in even greater disarray. Statues lay overturned and upended. She caught the ashy, acrid scent of burning wood and saw that the easel bore singe marks and that smoke was now drifting upwards from Artemisia's limp, lifeless body. She lay beneath the wreckage of her canvas, her head cloth loose and smouldering, strands of grey hair shrivelled and shrunk from the heat. A length of rope coiled around her neck, her lifeless fingers clutching at it as if still prising it from her throat. And standing above her, a tarred end of the cord still in his hands, was the old Pagese sailor Muna had seen earlier in the harbour.

Hori squealed, leaping at her with outstretched arms and knocking her from the chair. She landed amongst a shattered pile of portraits with her brother on top of her, and he clung to her for a few moments, his skinny arms and legs twisted around her own.

"Muna! You vanished! I thought you were gone!"

"I'm back now," she breathed.

"The man killed the bad lady. He strangled her."

"I know, Hori." She sat up, keeping him in her lap. "Thank you," she mouthed in Ahi to the fisherman.

With a strained, toothless grin, he walked two fingers through the air, and she realised that he must have followed her. He pointed to Artemisia's prone body, and then to the chaotic mess of paintings and sculptures.

"I know," Muna whispered. "I understand now."

The old man extended a hand and she took it, allowing him to drag her to her feet, his grip warm and rough. He uttered a few words in Pagese, but she shook her head. "I don't speak your language."

Shrugging, the old man beckoned towards the loft trap. Muna nodded, pulling Hori along behind her, still shaky as she descended into the lower room. Something plagued at the fringes of her confused, shattered thoughts. The fisherman must have broken Artemisia's spell when he strangled her. But the room had been thick with another power ˗ with that of the Firefarer's destructive fury. And yet here was Hori, still conscious, displaying none of the exhaustion which usually followed such an outburst.

"Hori," she whispered up to him, stopping on a lower rung. "Did you get angry back then, when Artemisia tried to trap us?"

"Yes." He peered down at her through the gloom. "I thought she would make you disappear forever."

She searched the dark wells of his eyes, but read nothing in them. Perhaps, she thought with sudden hope, he was beginning to control his terrible gift.

They stepped down into the dim little room below with its dusty paintings and sculptures. How she wished she could set them free: all those children, all the men and women, all the animals entombed in paint, in wood and in stone. With a few shuddering creaks of wood the old man dropped down, supple and spritely in spite of his worn, weathered appearance. Muna was now aware of shouts and a rush of voices out in the street, of fists thumping on the door, and then it flew open, a shaft of light slicing through the haze and dust. She raised her hand to her brow, shading her eyes against the brightness as a group of Pagi spilled into the room ˗ sailors and fishwives for the most part ˗ their faces flushed with fury. They pointed upwards at the studio, babbling in Pagese, the wild melodies of their language confusing her further.