The Curse of El Nino

“Come on Mitch, light it and let’s go.”

Mitch twisted the match in his fingers. The magic was about to happen. Just a simple stick with a bit of powder at the end but so much power trapped within.

The voice behind him pressed on. “Come on, quick, someone is going to see us.”

He smirked and continued his reverie.

Finally, he struck the match. The smell of sulphur, released from its prison, reached his nostrils. He breathed hard longing for every atom of the odour. He watched the flame dance; a beacon in the middle of the night. The flame seemed to hesitate but grew gradually and spread its aura around it. Mitch observed it consuming the little piece of matchstick he held straight up. He admired the tangle of yellows, oranges, and reds emerging from a hue of blue at the base. What a masterpiece! Every time he struck one of these little beauties, a new work of art emerged. The canvas was never the same twice and the movement of the flame changed the results second by second.

The voice fifty feet behind brought him to reality.

“Mitch, what the hell are you doing? Just light the fire and come down.”

The flame was almost on his fingers, the wood almost fully used up. He dropped the match. The ground around it quickly erupted into incandescence. With not an ounce of moisture left in it, the grass burst ablaze and shrunk to powder in seconds. The fire was hungry. It moved quickly. It circled around the ignition site, gobbling up every new twig in its path.

Mitch stodd still. The smoke rose, offering a new dance. He watched as there emerged a different segment of the same miracle. White, black and grey puffs cast out of the creative rainbow. He stepped back a little. New scents came out of the grass and small branches were being devoured by the fire. He absorbed as much as he could.

“That’s enough. If you don’t come now, I’m leaving. I don’t want to be seen here, and this fire is going to catch up with us if we don’t get out now."

From his crouched position Mitch raised himself. Slowly, reluctantly, he started backing towards the road. They were on a slant, so the fire moved uphill away from them. The truck was at the bottom of the hill; he stood about midway to the top.

He carefully came down, his eyes still fixated on the rapidly expanding illumination. Flames reached knee height and were intensifying. The spread accelerated. There were bursts when sparks reached condensed patches of grass and embers were flying to start new feeds. Mitch felt he was in a museum but it was closing time; he had to leave the artist to its sculpture. The fire would chisel, fashion, mould and reshape the forest to a new form, but he wouldn’t be there to witness it.

He stepped into the vehicle and thought. “What a sissy? You’ll never make a good criminal. It’s just not in you.”

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