The fire that burned the dead

Fire, emerging from what seemed to be the core of the earth. The distant screams that gave my skinless bones goose bumps.

Maybe I should introduce myself.

I am death.

Many fear me, hate me, most beg for me to turn my back when they see me, but it is not up to me. I have been sent to work, and this is my only purpose throughout the human civilization. I guess you are wondering, wondering if there is a God, heaven and hell, and that you are hoping that I am here to answer these questions. In that case I am afraid I have to disappoint you, seeing as I am not here to talk about what lives beyond the human world. I am not even here to share the pain that I have to live with, or die with, throughout every day of my waking immortality. I am here to pass on the story of the baker. The man every inhabitant of London despised, the man that caused the enormous amounts of pain, even the earliest stages of famine occurred, looking at the results of the mistake he was accused of making. It was many years ago, far beyond my memory. A great deal of my life was dedicated to collecting many souls in the busy town those nights.

My discovery of the tragedy started when I felt the soul calling for me, and I appeared in a bakery. The flames were fuming, and the smoke had poisoned his otherwise healthy lungs. I picked him up and held him, as souls where held like a baby in my arms. That’s what all souls look like, as if they were babies. It is a well-known expression that, in the end you start thinking of the beginning. I guess humans know more than they think, or maybe more than they want to know…

Oh, I’m sorry, I drifted away. Where was I? Oh yes, the bakery.

When I was holding him there in my arms, I felt something. It was an awkward feeling, considering it was one of the first times I had ever felt anything. It had happened before, but only ever have I felt the fear. The fear of myself, glowing in other peoples eyes.
This time I sensed he was worried. Worried for what he had left behind. A disaster.
Humans were dying, toppling over my feet. He was asking me to put out the fire. But I couldn’t. It is not my job to interfere with fate, it is fates job to interfere with me. I left, but not before long I found myself at the same place, London.
I was collecting souls like there was no tomorrow…

Nobody hears my jokes, so I will never know if they are funny to others. I only account for myself. Sometimes I wonder what it is like being on the other side of me. Facing the end, being only able to blame it on the one person in front of one at that very time. Death.
I am terribly sorry, I drifted away again. I am so used to being alone with my


thoughts, that I never learnt how to have an ongoing conversation with
somebody, or in this case, how to tell a story.


Back in London, the only sounds ringing the streets, were the shrieks of fear,
and the low bellows of grief. The fires had spread to an uncountable amount of houses. And the flames were lighting up the sky. On the other side of the Thames, people were watching, waiting for the wind to change and destroy their property. Waiting for fate.

Half of London was burnt down, and many, many were killed. One of the busiest nights I have ever experienced.

The population came to the conclusion that the baker had forgotten to put out the fire when he left, and that he was the responsible one. They all hated me for taking him, for they claimed they would rather give him to me themselves.
The fire was supposably spread by sparks, which had travelled with the wind to burn away each splinter in the wooden houses. The speculations of how the fire had spread were many. Yet I cannot help you separate the truth from the lies, but even through all these speculations they never doubted what the origin of the fire was, the one thing they got wrong:

When the baker was done baking the day’s bread, the fire from the oven had almost died out.
He left it there, to strangle itself, as he did every day. He picked up the loaf and locked the door for the little bakery, and set off. Around half an hour later he arrived at his destination, and started whispering to a pile of rubbish. The rubbish was right by London Bridge, and you could hear the water thundering

underneath. There wasn’t one bypasser that reacted to the whispering, the streets were filled with lunatics those days. After a couple of minutes the rubbish started moving, and out emerged a little hand. The baker placed the bread in the fragile hand, and it was quickly snatched into the rubbish load. The baker sighed, and asked how he was doing. A faint whisper revealed that he was a young boy.
-“Toby?”
The young boy answered and started talking softly. The police had wanted the boy – Toby, for quite some time. Yes, I remember, I came for his parents many years ago, and he is still wrongly accused for their murder. It seems humans do a lot of that, accusing I mean.
Well, he was most certainly not responsible, and he had to spend his time grieving amongst a rubbish pile.
The baker had known Toby since he was a baby, as he and his family used to live next door to the bakery. So the baker felt responsible to take care of Toby. He had done so for several years.

Meanwhile at the bakery, the door had been smashed to pieces, and policemen where staggering around, trying to find evidence of Toby. They were following a witness statement. The fire had not yet died, and the draft from where the doors ghost stood was gently breathing life into it again. When the policemen left, the sparks burst into flames, and lit up the bakery. The baker came back horrifyingly astonished by the red sight in front of him. In his desperate battle to defeat the flames, his lungs were slowly dying, and he collapsed, leaving the city to burn. The policemen were not aware of what had happened before the flames where roaring through their own valuable possessions…


The End.

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