The Campfire
David Brendan Hopes
In the world as it was then, little flame-spirits came into being when a spark of fire was struck, and went out of being when the spark flickered out. During a forest fire or a great celebration with its torches and bonfires, millions and millions of the fire spirits would come into being, and dance joyfully one with the other, intermingling, separating, rejoining in an ecstasy of changefulness hardly imaginable to other creatures. In many ways it was a delightful existence, though the delight was inevitably saddened by the knowledge that the moment would be brief, and the fire spirits would pass out of this world, they knew not to where. People who were not themselves fire spirits didn’t notice this so much, but the spirits themselves carried the burden even in the moments of their greatest radiance. They tried to be philosophical about it. Poets among them presented stories of kingdoms of eternal fire which greeted them when this transitory life was over, but this didn’t comfort the skeptical, or those didn’t know how to listen to poets, and, in any case, nobody was sure. They lived their brilliant existences and passed away, and those they left behind hoped everything was for the best.
It happened that deep in the forest a band of hunters had encamped for the night. They had built a bonfire to keep off wild animals and satyrs and the like, and the shadows which were almost as frightening. The hunters laughed around the fire and told stories of the adventures of the day. They heard the roaring and crackling of the flames, of course, but it didn’t occur to them that they were voices like their own. Most of the voices were exultant and joyful, but every now and then, from the dimming red rim, or from a spark rocketing off alone into the darkness, would come a sigh of sorrow and regret, and then there was silence.
The men were carousing so loudly that they didn’t hear footsteps–though one would hardly call them “footsteps”-- coming from the forest. The footsteps were very quiet, but they might have been heard if it weren’t for the singing of the flames and the bragging of the hunters over this and that deed which had grown mighty with time. So all were taken by surprise when a figure stepped into the circumference of the firelight. The hunters grabbed for their weapons, screaming and tumbling over each other, but even if they had reached their weapons quickly it would not have availed them, for the figure was the god Aengus Og.
Now, a god walking by night in the wilderness is liable to look like anything. In this case, it took Aengus a few seconds to realize where he was and to condense into man-shape from the form he had been moving in, a mighty stag of the world’s rim, its silver antlers hiding the stars. As they watched, paralyzed with terror and the power of the god, the men saw the beast become a shining man, and the canniest of them guessed whose presence they were in.
The leader of the hunters bowed so his forehead touched the ground. “Aengus the Young, “ he said “Lord of Night, welcome to our camp. Please take the seat nearest the fire.”
This turned out to be exactly the right thing to say. Aengus came forward and sat by the fire as he was bidden. Even shrunk down into man shape he towered above any of them. He was so heart-stoppingly, breath-catchingly beautiful that even those who were not interested in such things in ordinary life stared helplessly at the glory of his form. This glory was accentuated by the fact that he was naked, and a scent came from like wind beating the crowns of trees under moonlight.
The god did not speak, but the hunters brought forth from their packs fruits from their orchards back home, and haunches of the red deer they had slain in the forest, and which they had been roasting to a dripping, golden perfection. The god set aside the meat and did not touch it, but he held a dark red apple to his face, sniffing, and then taking a mighty bite.
“Ah,” said Aengus Og, “delicious. A blessing on these orchards and all who tend them.”
The hunters heaved as one a sigh of relief, for the voice was gentle, and it was clear the being was not going to snuff out their little lives, or turn them into beasts, or anything it probably could do if it wanted. Aengus sat by the fireside and ate one apple, and then another, looking like a statue of gold with the firelight playing on his white body. Gradually the hunters lost their fear. Though none of them presumed to speak again to the Lord of Night, they contented themselves by sitting at a respectful distance and staring. One does not known when one will get one’s next glimpse of god, so it is best to take full advantage. Aengus passed the platters of venison back to them so they could finish their supper, which they did, and soon, partially through fullness and partially through the strange murmuring of the god in the firelight, the men became drowsy and longed for sleep, and then, huddled together like a litter of puppies, they slept indeed.
Out of the deep silence then, Aengus the Young said to the fire spirits dancing before him, “I heard you calling from far away, when I was on the world’s rim, alone in delight upon the mountains. All right, I have sung them to sleep. Say what you want to say to me.”
The leader of the fire spirits leapt forth. He touched his scarlet topknot to the earth to honor the being who had heard their voices.
“May we ask, sir, are you a god?”
“I am.”
“We have heard of gods, but not many of us live long enough to see one. We are not disappointed.”
The fire spirits behind hissed assent, and Aengus nodded to acknowledge the compliment.
“You see us, god of the ancient world, in our glory, leaping and dancing. But when the wood the hunters gathered is spent, when the dews of morning come, we are snuffed out. We are as nothing.”
Aengus answered, “You see me in my glory, leaping and dancing. But when many ages of ages are spent, when the dews of the Unlooked-for Morning come, then I am snuffed out. Then I am made as nothing.”
Aengus rather imagined that would be the end of the conversation, but the fire spirits stood their ground, in respectful silence, but not giving way, not going back to their leaping and dancing.
“Unless I am mistaken,” said Aengus the Young, “you do not consider yourself answered.”
The chief of the fire spirits said, “You are not mistaken, god of the ancient world. We are not animals without conception of the passage of time, without knowledge of what comes into being and what passes away. You are proud of being reconciled to mortality. But you speak of ages and ages and worlds and worlds, and perhaps you will be weary when your time comes, weary and longing for rest. We are never weary. We never long for rest. We endure but for a moment or an hour or a night, and we know what a moment is, and an hour, and a night, and it fills us with despair.”
Aengus understood. He nodded to the fire spirits and said, “What would you have me do?”
Now, had they not been intent upon each other, the god Aengus and the spirits alive in the hunters’ fire might have heard yet another rhythm of footsteps coming from the dark of the forest. The footsteps were light and tremendous at once, in a way that is difficult to explain. When the walker was very close, Aengus heard him, and turned to look where he approached, and the fire spirits turned too.
Out of the shadows stepped a small man, bent, fragile, but also coming at a considerable pace, and one was able to perceive he had come from very far away. One could look at him a long time without being able to say, once one had looked away, exactly what one had seen. He was like a mountain that changes as the clouds and the racing lights pass over, but it yet the one sole mountain. He was wearing a golden garment which left one shoulder bare and which, in the firelight, looked almost as if it were made of fire. The god Aengus the Young bowed so that his forehead touched the ground, and he said, “Siddhartha Gautama, Compassionate One, welcome.”
The fire spirits bowed too. The new visitor did not look like a god, but a god was bowing to him, so they assumed he was a greater being yet, the likes of which they had never heard.
The new visitor said to the fire spirits, “I heard you from far off, when I was wandering the edge between worlds. I have heard you speak to Aengus Og, Lord of Night. Now both of us have come, and you are likely to have two answers. Is that not better than one, however good the one was? What would you have us do?”
The chief fire spirit perceived that the Compassionate One already knew what he was going to say, but that it was important to repeat it nevertheless, and so he did. When he was finished, there was silence at the campfire for a while, except for the roaring and crackling of the fire spirits, who were not actually impatient, however tempestuous their actions might seem. They waited. They watched. Their fate was in the hands of two beings seated cross-legged in the dancing light. Yet the beings were not looking at them, but at each other.
Aengus Og and Siddhartha Gautama regarded each other across the dancing fire. The god’s eyes gleamed like a hunting cat’s. The Buddha’s eyes were dark pools into which all things fell and were extinguished. The forest and the fire-hung dome above the forest went silent, waiting.
As the crescent moon broke through a tangle of leaves, Aengus Og, Lord of the Night, and Lord of Morning, said, “Thee I honor, Lord of Resignations.”
The moon shivered when a breeze blew the leaves. Gautama Siddhartha answered, “Thee I honor, Lord of Affirmations.”
Aengus cried out with a flame of fire around him, Generation!
Gautama Siddhartha cried out with a river of dark around him, “Extinguishment!”
Deep under the breath of the world Aengus Og sang, Joy.
Deep under the breath of the world Gautama Siddhartha sang, peace.
The two beings bowed to each other in the firelight, with foreheads bent to the black earth of earth. They did not move for a long time. Their mouths lay against the earth. Each was singing something into the deep beyond all deeps.
The fire spirits didn’t know exactly what was going on, but they heard the harmony of the singing, like the sound of dark and everlasting fire, and some of them felt hope rising inside them, and some of them felt acceptance.
The chief of the fire spirits woke from the trance cast by the communion of the mighty beings. He danced first before the god and then before the saint. He cried “You have heard us!” Behind him, all the dancing fire spirits cried at once, “You have heard us!”
Had the hunters been awake they would have seen a remarkable thing. They would have seen their campfire divide in two, as a mother divides a daughter’s hair to comb it into strands. One of the halves leaned toward Gautama Siddhartha, bowing to him to the very ground as it approached his outstretched palms. One of the halves leaned toward Aengus the Young, bowing to him to the very ground as it approached his outstretched palms.
Asleep through the Dialogue or not, the hunters at waking did see a remarkable thing. The trees around them throbbed with tanagers and goldfinches, kingfishers and cardinals, birds the color of flame. These were the fire spirits who had come to Aengus Og and put on generation, so to last to the ending of the world. But around them, where the fire had been, lay a circle of pale ash, lifted, then blown to nothing by the dawn wind. These were the fire spirits who had gathered to the Gautama Siddhartha, the Compassionate, and had gone no one could know where.
It happened that deep in the forest a band of hunters had encamped for the night. They had built a bonfire to keep off wild animals and satyrs and the like, and the shadows which were almost as frightening. The hunters laughed around the fire and told stories of the adventures of the day. They heard the roaring and crackling of the flames, of course, but it didn’t occur to them that they were voices like their own. Most of the voices were exultant and joyful, but every now and then, from the dimming red rim, or from a spark rocketing off alone into the darkness, would come a sigh of sorrow and regret, and then there was silence.
The men were carousing so loudly that they didn’t hear footsteps–though one would hardly call them “footsteps”-- coming from the forest. The footsteps were very quiet, but they might have been heard if it weren’t for the singing of the flames and the bragging of the hunters over this and that deed which had grown mighty with time. So all were taken by surprise when a figure stepped into the circumference of the firelight. The hunters grabbed for their weapons, screaming and tumbling over each other, but even if they had reached their weapons quickly it would not have availed them, for the figure was the god Aengus Og.
Now, a god walking by night in the wilderness is liable to look like anything. In this case, it took Aengus a few seconds to realize where he was and to condense into man-shape from the form he had been moving in, a mighty stag of the world’s rim, its silver antlers hiding the stars. As they watched, paralyzed with terror and the power of the god, the men saw the beast become a shining man, and the canniest of them guessed whose presence they were in.
The leader of the hunters bowed so his forehead touched the ground. “Aengus the Young, “ he said “Lord of Night, welcome to our camp. Please take the seat nearest the fire.”
This turned out to be exactly the right thing to say. Aengus came forward and sat by the fire as he was bidden. Even shrunk down into man shape he towered above any of them. He was so heart-stoppingly, breath-catchingly beautiful that even those who were not interested in such things in ordinary life stared helplessly at the glory of his form. This glory was accentuated by the fact that he was naked, and a scent came from like wind beating the crowns of trees under moonlight.
The god did not speak, but the hunters brought forth from their packs fruits from their orchards back home, and haunches of the red deer they had slain in the forest, and which they had been roasting to a dripping, golden perfection. The god set aside the meat and did not touch it, but he held a dark red apple to his face, sniffing, and then taking a mighty bite.
“Ah,” said Aengus Og, “delicious. A blessing on these orchards and all who tend them.”
The hunters heaved as one a sigh of relief, for the voice was gentle, and it was clear the being was not going to snuff out their little lives, or turn them into beasts, or anything it probably could do if it wanted. Aengus sat by the fireside and ate one apple, and then another, looking like a statue of gold with the firelight playing on his white body. Gradually the hunters lost their fear. Though none of them presumed to speak again to the Lord of Night, they contented themselves by sitting at a respectful distance and staring. One does not known when one will get one’s next glimpse of god, so it is best to take full advantage. Aengus passed the platters of venison back to them so they could finish their supper, which they did, and soon, partially through fullness and partially through the strange murmuring of the god in the firelight, the men became drowsy and longed for sleep, and then, huddled together like a litter of puppies, they slept indeed.
Out of the deep silence then, Aengus the Young said to the fire spirits dancing before him, “I heard you calling from far away, when I was on the world’s rim, alone in delight upon the mountains. All right, I have sung them to sleep. Say what you want to say to me.”
The leader of the fire spirits leapt forth. He touched his scarlet topknot to the earth to honor the being who had heard their voices.
“May we ask, sir, are you a god?”
“I am.”
“We have heard of gods, but not many of us live long enough to see one. We are not disappointed.”
The fire spirits behind hissed assent, and Aengus nodded to acknowledge the compliment.
“You see us, god of the ancient world, in our glory, leaping and dancing. But when the wood the hunters gathered is spent, when the dews of morning come, we are snuffed out. We are as nothing.”
Aengus answered, “You see me in my glory, leaping and dancing. But when many ages of ages are spent, when the dews of the Unlooked-for Morning come, then I am snuffed out. Then I am made as nothing.”
Aengus rather imagined that would be the end of the conversation, but the fire spirits stood their ground, in respectful silence, but not giving way, not going back to their leaping and dancing.
“Unless I am mistaken,” said Aengus the Young, “you do not consider yourself answered.”
The chief of the fire spirits said, “You are not mistaken, god of the ancient world. We are not animals without conception of the passage of time, without knowledge of what comes into being and what passes away. You are proud of being reconciled to mortality. But you speak of ages and ages and worlds and worlds, and perhaps you will be weary when your time comes, weary and longing for rest. We are never weary. We never long for rest. We endure but for a moment or an hour or a night, and we know what a moment is, and an hour, and a night, and it fills us with despair.”
Aengus understood. He nodded to the fire spirits and said, “What would you have me do?”
Now, had they not been intent upon each other, the god Aengus and the spirits alive in the hunters’ fire might have heard yet another rhythm of footsteps coming from the dark of the forest. The footsteps were light and tremendous at once, in a way that is difficult to explain. When the walker was very close, Aengus heard him, and turned to look where he approached, and the fire spirits turned too.
Out of the shadows stepped a small man, bent, fragile, but also coming at a considerable pace, and one was able to perceive he had come from very far away. One could look at him a long time without being able to say, once one had looked away, exactly what one had seen. He was like a mountain that changes as the clouds and the racing lights pass over, but it yet the one sole mountain. He was wearing a golden garment which left one shoulder bare and which, in the firelight, looked almost as if it were made of fire. The god Aengus the Young bowed so that his forehead touched the ground, and he said, “Siddhartha Gautama, Compassionate One, welcome.”
The fire spirits bowed too. The new visitor did not look like a god, but a god was bowing to him, so they assumed he was a greater being yet, the likes of which they had never heard.
The new visitor said to the fire spirits, “I heard you from far off, when I was wandering the edge between worlds. I have heard you speak to Aengus Og, Lord of Night. Now both of us have come, and you are likely to have two answers. Is that not better than one, however good the one was? What would you have us do?”
The chief fire spirit perceived that the Compassionate One already knew what he was going to say, but that it was important to repeat it nevertheless, and so he did. When he was finished, there was silence at the campfire for a while, except for the roaring and crackling of the fire spirits, who were not actually impatient, however tempestuous their actions might seem. They waited. They watched. Their fate was in the hands of two beings seated cross-legged in the dancing light. Yet the beings were not looking at them, but at each other.
Aengus Og and Siddhartha Gautama regarded each other across the dancing fire. The god’s eyes gleamed like a hunting cat’s. The Buddha’s eyes were dark pools into which all things fell and were extinguished. The forest and the fire-hung dome above the forest went silent, waiting.
As the crescent moon broke through a tangle of leaves, Aengus Og, Lord of the Night, and Lord of Morning, said, “Thee I honor, Lord of Resignations.”
The moon shivered when a breeze blew the leaves. Gautama Siddhartha answered, “Thee I honor, Lord of Affirmations.”
Aengus cried out with a flame of fire around him, Generation!
Gautama Siddhartha cried out with a river of dark around him, “Extinguishment!”
Deep under the breath of the world Aengus Og sang, Joy.
Deep under the breath of the world Gautama Siddhartha sang, peace.
The two beings bowed to each other in the firelight, with foreheads bent to the black earth of earth. They did not move for a long time. Their mouths lay against the earth. Each was singing something into the deep beyond all deeps.
The fire spirits didn’t know exactly what was going on, but they heard the harmony of the singing, like the sound of dark and everlasting fire, and some of them felt hope rising inside them, and some of them felt acceptance.
The chief of the fire spirits woke from the trance cast by the communion of the mighty beings. He danced first before the god and then before the saint. He cried “You have heard us!” Behind him, all the dancing fire spirits cried at once, “You have heard us!”
Had the hunters been awake they would have seen a remarkable thing. They would have seen their campfire divide in two, as a mother divides a daughter’s hair to comb it into strands. One of the halves leaned toward Gautama Siddhartha, bowing to him to the very ground as it approached his outstretched palms. One of the halves leaned toward Aengus the Young, bowing to him to the very ground as it approached his outstretched palms.
Asleep through the Dialogue or not, the hunters at waking did see a remarkable thing. The trees around them throbbed with tanagers and goldfinches, kingfishers and cardinals, birds the color of flame. These were the fire spirits who had come to Aengus Og and put on generation, so to last to the ending of the world. But around them, where the fire had been, lay a circle of pale ash, lifted, then blown to nothing by the dawn wind. These were the fire spirits who had gathered to the Gautama Siddhartha, the Compassionate, and had gone no one could know where.
