The Spark of Memory

“Fire, is memory.”

Oleander had heard that once before. Or was it after? He wasn’t quite sure of anything. Not even his name.

The man who considered himself Oleander blinked, and tried to steady himself. He didn’t float so much as flit. Picked up by an invisible wind, tossed from one end of a dust storm only to be caught by another gusting and thrown asunder.

Such was his life, or was it his death. Was it truly his anything?

For Oleander, the disorienting nature of existence was the fact that he wasn’t sure if he truly existed. As the moments passed, he tried to recognize and reorganize his thoughts, if there were any.

A spark crackled, and sent him spiraling upwards. The smell of burnt iron and oakwood filled his senses. He calmed, and remembered. Oleander…no, it was Ole Anders. That was the name people had for him. Way back in the square.

Ole Anders. The village stooge, the lovable bumpkin. He’d known how best to traipse through the dirt street, causing passerby to laugh and present a coin for the humor. How to waggle his ears, and ruff like a dog to children. They’d scream, pretending to be scared merciless. And fathers would scold the children for cowardice, while mothers would give Anders a knowing smile and a coin.

Anders tried to look down at himself. He was almost certain he’d had a body when he had been known. Not a particularly handsome one, but stout curves that accentuated his perceived idiocy. That was part of the trick. For Anders was not just an idiot. He was a village idiot, and it took quite a lot of smarts and knowhow to pull off a proper dumbing down.

“Fire is not just sound. It is light, it is touch. And, in the right hands, it is taste and smell.”

Ole Anders was caught up in a whirlwind. The smell of burning oak was suddenly mixed with something else. Pine! Good, hearty, northern pine! Harvested in the first frost, with holly berries tucked beside. The spice only added to the crackling smell.

Oh, it took him back. Back to Hollenday. Back to Viera.

That was a thought. Viera Innistree. That lass always laughed at his terrible jokes. She must have been…thirteen, fourteen? Old enough to know how useless an idiot might be, but too young to care. She always had a kind word for Anders as he rolled through town. If he wanted to scream, she’d scream right along with him. He chased the mayor through the street, she chased her mother as well.

Viera was one of the few people who never let Anders feel stupid. That an idiot was a calling, not a description.

Anders was wondering just what life had taken a turn for him. Thoughts and dreams were poring through his shirt, poking holes. They sparked about him, small memories and big. Some the shape of dogs and rabbits, others bigger than whales that threatened to consume the old man. They loomed above him, glowing a harsh and ominous red.

Anders tried to remember how he had gotten in this predicament. It didn’t seem particularly nice, or fair, but perhaps there was an explanation. Perhaps on Hollenday?

Hollenday. The shortest day of the year, when the whole town was filled with candlelight and magical conjurings. Everyone chased away the darkness by giving gifts, and bringing people together in the spirit of warmth and harmony. It was a happy time, a celebration.

Of course Anders was not invited. He was the village idiot, a job he excelled at. And while children loved him, parents and more specifically adults found him most taxing. There’d be a gift left for him…somewhere. Perhaps in the snow by the fountain. Or in the outhouse.

Most years Anders didn’t care. He usually crashed the party. Smashing about with moose antlers, or roaring through, bleating out Hollenday songs in a sonorous roar. Children laughing, wonderful Hollentide. But this year was different.

This year, Viera was supposed to be presented. As a woman of the town. Someone who was becoming Somebody. And Anders didn’t want to miss it.

He had watched over her. He stood behind a trash can in an alleyway, trying to keep himself out of sight. No need to embarrass her by showing his face. No need to let her special day be ruined.

But someone else had wanted to ruin it. Several boys, leering at her. They shouted rude things at Viera, and made gestures that Anders certainly had never taught them. Viera shouted back a range of insults, some of Anders’s best. He smiled as the boys turned beet red. And stood up when they threw snow.

He shouted at the boys, and screamed. Waved his arms about like a madman. Get away from the girl! Let her have her moment, you ninnies!

But the boys were older. They didn’t pretend to be afraid of Anders, not anymore. And his antics didn’t charm them. They weren’t funny. They were stupid. And the boys decided to teach Anders a lesson.

Anders remembered the kicks. And the blows. And a sharp piece of metal sailing towards his head. And then Viera screaming, as footsteps ran off into the night.

Strange. This wasn’t a good memory. Nor did it have fire. Why did he think of it?

Perhaps because of the fires that he and Viera had always shared. For many Hollendays before. The best nights of the year.

And as Viera danced around the fire, she thought she could see dear Old Anders. Dancing right beside her. Viera was older now. Streaks of white in her hair. She doubted Anders would even recognize her now. But she hoped his spirit came by to visit for Hollenday. If only for the glimpse of a treasured dream.

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