God of Fire, God of Wood, God of Nothing At All

It was Nowruz when the retired fire god made the biggest mistake of his life. “Have a good day, Roland,” his wife said, handing him his sack lunch. She kissed him goodbye, quickly swiping her lips with a cool rag to prevent singeing. 

Roland the retired fire god stood behind the post office counter. It seemed like yesterday when he was annihilating forests and igniting cities with his red fingers and glowing mouth. Good times. Dreamily he smelled some letters. What a picnic he would have had with them in the old days.  

“Perkins! Stop licking the envelopes!” shouted his supervisor.  

Roland hastily took the letters out of his mouth and threw them into the sorting bins, mumbling apologies. It wouldn’t do to get fired. After their brief separation, and months of pleading, Darya had relented and moved back home. Her terms of return had included this desk job and couples therapy. “One day you’ll thank me,” she always said after their sessions. 

Ever since the yule log incident the retired fire god had been relieved of his duties. The curtains had been repaired, the rug replaced, and the cat’s fur had nearly grown back. Despite that, Darya forbade him to perform his life’s work any more, even something so small as lighting the stove. Now instead of consuming paper, he sorted it.

“You’re mail delivery today,” the supervisor barked at him, hanging up the phone. “Johnston’s wife just went into labor.”

Labor. Good for Johnston and his doughy, freckled wife, though their offspring would likely resemble a ciabatta with raisin eyes. Darya had wanted kids. But on their wedding night when he finally kissed her she screamed, scorching under his lips. He’d tried everything, wearing gloves, bathing in ice water, but each time he touched Darya her pale skin reddened and blistered. Finally they had to settle for an elderly cat with apocalyptic breath and a pitcher of water on the nightstand in case of accidental contact.

Roland strapped on the mail sack and strode off in the heat. The midday sun made him come alive in ways he was no longer allowed to discuss in therapy. Warmth woke his skin and bones, cleared out old ashes and prayers. He closed his eyes; his feet dreamed the ancient dance steps.

The Persian family had set dinner out in the garden: chicken with pomegranates and walnuts, stuffed dates and fig cakes. Shrills of laughter woke Roland from his reverie, and he came forward to drop mail into the gaily painted box. The younger women ran towards him. “Uncle, dance with us,” they said; smiling, he turned away, but the patriarch saw him and insisted he stay, handing him a plate of food. “And jump the fire, too,” he said, pointing through the trees.

Fire. Through the swaying branches a seductive gold bonfire danced: his Achilles heel. He knew the danger but the crackle of the flames licked at his senses, overriding reason, and he picked his way through the dry pines and joined the circle. Five minutes, he told hmself. He would leave before his temperature rose. The young people made lists, threw them in the fire, then jumped over it. “What do you want to release? Write it down, give it to the fire,” the patriarch said, and handed him a slip of fresh creamy paper. Roland crushed it to his nose, savoring its clean scent.

An ember flew out and landed on his arm, and instinctively he ate it. The fire spread her seductive golden arms wide to him. Memories of her embrace, her hot breath tonguing at his skin  and his body dissolving under her parted lips enveloped his senses. “Go,” the patriarch urged, and “jump! jump! jump!” the young women shouted, and before he could stop himself Roland threw his crumpled list into the flames and leaped.

Afterwards, when the fire trucks had gone and his wife had packed her bags and left, Roland crept back to the still smoking circle. The Persian family was safely asleep in their beds and so no one saw when the ancient ways, so long hidden under marriage and legal obligation, began to stir the lava back into his veins, whispering, insisting, then finally shouting till at last he stood, filled with gratitude and resignation. “Thank you, Darya,” he said, and he began to dance.