In a dry field, a band of feral children crowd around a dim glow. The fire is small, but it’s the first they’ve ever made. Until now, most doubted it possible. Fire, from rubbed sticks? But the flicker and crackle is proof.
One child raises her voice.
“This is dangerous. It might set the field ablaze. Let’s stop.”
The others dismiss her.
“I’ve never seen a field catch fire.”
“This fire is too small to do anything.”
“If it gets bigger, we’ll be more careful.”
“If the field catches fire, we’ll learn to put it out.”
The children wonder how big a fire can get. They light a second fire, larger than the first. They light a third fire, larger than the second. The children see a fire’s size is limited by its fuel. For an entire afternoon, they gather kindling. The fourth fire is so hot that they can feel its heat on their faces. Word spreads to surrounding bands. Many come to witness the fire and enjoy its warmth.
A few times, an ember floats out to the surrounding field. Nothing catches fire.
“See,” the skeptical children say to the concerned girl. “Fire wasn’t as risky as you warned.”
Emboldened, a few children begin planning larger bonfires.
Some bystanders confess their discomfort.
“I think this is going too fast.”
“I thought we’d slow down, not speed up.”
“I don’t want to be part of this anymore.”
But the concerned children are outnumbered. Eager hordes have made their pilgrimage to the bonfire, visible from miles away in the night. Children excitedly discuss futures where no one sleeps in the cold.
By day, experimentation continues. The children learn to boil water and cook food. Knowledge of how to build a fire leaks out of the first group, and soon the grasslands are dotted by many fires each night.
One day, a storm comes. Gusts of wind topple a large bonfire. Nearby children rush over. The dispersed embers begin to cool and darken. The children feel relief. But on the far edge, fresh flames lick upwards. The field has caught fire. Terror strikes the children. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Everything is at risk. They try to put out the fire with dirt, but it defies them. Aware of the desperate stakes, the braver children stomp their bare feet upon the base of the flames. The air smells of singed flesh, but the fire is out.
With fresh terror in their minds and burns on their skin, they set out to warn others.
“Fields CAN catch fire.”
“We thought we were careful, but careful was not enough.”
“Fire is too dangerous to use.”
“This time we were lucky. What about next time?”
Those who hadn’t seen the event are hard to sway.
“It must not have been that bad if you were able to put it out.”
“You built a bad bonfire, and you paid the price with burnt feet. Our fires are built safely, so why should we give them up?”
“We agree fire has risks. That’s why we’ll start a fire brigade.”
“Fire is best fought with fire. Controlled burns can create firebreaks around our community.”
“Sure, we can stop, but what’s the point if everyone else is still burning away?
Great debates ensue. Some are convinced, and halt their fires. Others are hostile and build new fires out of spite. Most are indifferent, and accept mild measures that don’t stop heating and cooking.
Over the next months, wildfires erupt two more times, but each is extinguished quickly. The countermeasures succeed.
On the outskirts of one community, a former firestoker is unable to find work. More rules have meant fewer fires. He languishes in his straw dwelling. Depression swallows him. He loses the willpower to ferry his vegetable trimmings to the nearby pit, and instead chucks them out the window.
His once-patient neighbor is irate. The waste heap grows day by day. Not just taller, but wider. Soon it will encroach upon the garden. One day, it becomes too much. The neighbor snaps. He pulls a burning stick out from his home fire, stomps next door, and stabs it into his neighbor’s waste heap. The flame extinguishes with a sizzle. The neighbor huffs and walks away.
An hour later, the heap catches flame. Then the straw dwelling. Then the entire grasslands.
In the end, there is silence. There are no children. There are no second chances.
In a dry field, a band of feral children crowd around a dim glow. The fire is small, but it’s the first they’ve ever made. Until now, most doubted it possible. Fire, from rubbed sticks? But the flicker and crackle is proof.
One child raises her voice.
“This is dangerous. It might set the field ablaze. Let’s stop.”
The others dismiss her.
“I’ve never seen a field catch fire.”
“This fire is too small to do anything.”
“If it gets bigger, we’ll be more careful.”
“If the field catches fire, we’ll learn to put it out.”
The children wonder how big a fire can get. They light a second fire, larger than the first. They light a third fire, larger than the second. The children see a fire’s size is limited by its fuel. For an entire afternoon, they gather kindling. The fourth fire is so hot that they can feel its heat on their faces. Word spreads to surrounding bands. Many come to witness the fire and enjoy its warmth.
A few times, an ember floats out to the surrounding field. Nothing catches fire.
“See,” the skeptical children say to the concerned girl. “Fire wasn’t as risky as you warned.”
Emboldened, a few children begin planning larger bonfires.
Some bystanders confess their discomfort.
“I think this is going too fast.”
“I thought we’d slow down, not speed up.”
“I don’t want to be part of this anymore.”
But the concerned children are outnumbered. Eager hordes have made their pilgrimage to the bonfire, visible from miles away in the night. Children excitedly discuss futures where no one sleeps in the cold.
By day, experimentation continues. The children learn to boil water and cook food. Knowledge of how to build a fire leaks out of the first group, and soon the grasslands are dotted by many fires each night.
One day, a storm comes. Gusts of wind topple a large bonfire. Nearby children rush over. The dispersed embers begin to cool and darken. The children feel relief. But on the far edge, fresh flames lick upwards. The field has caught fire. Terror strikes the children. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Everything is at risk. They try to put out the fire with dirt, but it defies them. Aware of the desperate stakes, the braver children stomp their bare feet upon the base of the flames. The air smells of singed flesh, but the fire is out.
With fresh terror in their minds and burns on their skin, they set out to warn others.
“Fields CAN catch fire.”
“We thought we were careful, but careful was not enough.”
“Fire is too dangerous to use.”
“This time we were lucky. What about next time?”
Those who hadn’t seen the event are hard to sway.
“It must not have been that bad if you were able to put it out.”
“You built a bad bonfire, and you paid the price with burnt feet. Our fires are built safely, so why should we give them up?”
“We agree fire has risks. That’s why we’ll start a fire brigade.”
“Fire is best fought with fire. Controlled burns can create firebreaks around our community.”
“Sure, we can stop, but what’s the point if everyone else is still burning away?
Great debates ensue. Some are convinced, and halt their fires. Others are hostile and build new fires out of spite. Most are indifferent, and accept mild measures that don’t stop heating and cooking.
Over the next months, wildfires erupt two more times, but each is extinguished quickly. The countermeasures succeed.
On the outskirts of one community, a former firestoker is unable to find work. More rules have meant fewer fires. He languishes in his straw dwelling. Depression swallows him. He loses the willpower to ferry his vegetable trimmings to the nearby pit, and instead chucks them out the window.
His once-patient neighbor is irate. The waste heap grows day by day. Not just taller, but wider. Soon it will encroach upon the garden. One day, it becomes too much. The neighbor snaps. He pulls a burning stick out from his home fire, stomps next door, and stabs it into his neighbor’s waste heap. The flame extinguishes with a sizzle. The neighbor huffs and walks away.
An hour later, the heap catches flame. Then the straw dwelling. Then the entire grasslands.
In the end, there is silence. There are no children. There are no second chances.