The Patron Saint of Fire

The wind and hail is blowing fiercely through the broken passenger door window, hitting Katie in the face in biting stings as she drives. She makes a hard right through the open gate, almost missing the turn as the brakes squeal and mud splatters up from the tires. She wipes her eyes, a combination of tears, dirt, and blood. It smears her cheeks in a dark crimson that glows, a break in the clouds sending the sun through the front windshield. The bullet is lodged in her right arm. She will remove it when they arrive at the house.

A feral cat darts in front of the car, its green eyes glowing. Katie slams on the brakes, the glass shards from the passenger seat lifting up and freezing midflight, unable to penetrate the thickness of the monsoon air. Those damn cats are everywhere. Katie told her aunt to stop feeding them. Darting away, Katie notices the visible rib cage, the ragged fur. Turning around in her seat, she gazes upon Lily, still sleeping soundly.

Lily is 5 now, old enough to remember the good but young enough to forget the bad. She knows her daddy loves her, feels his butterfly kisses that tickle her nose as she sleeps, but gone or perhaps never remembered is the night he was brought to his knees, overtaken by the framandi as they ravaged his body with bites, changing him. Lily was screaming, hands clawing at the car window. Katie wrapped her arms around the 4 year old, pulling her down into the back seat, the car glowing red.

After pulling up to the house, the car lets out a roar and then a sputter as she kills the engine. It grumbles as Katie kicks the heavy door open, the reverberation from the weight of the door startling the flock of redbirds in the cottonwood tree. The air turns hot, in spite of the icy slivers that are still falling, melting as they hit the hood of the station wagon. Katie fears the sun will set early that day, a red splatter on the horizon, flickering in a thousand flames as the redbirds rise and fly west.

A familiar feeling settles over her. The tire swing hangs from the tallest branch of the tree, rocking slowly back and forth as the storm subsides. The rope is tattered, the tire caked with mud, but it is holding strong. The squat adobe structure sprawls out across the desert, the only house for miles. The large cracks in the structure are evident. Katie wants to place her hands on the old clay, lean her body against the adobe wall and see if it crumbles in her hands or just falls to the ground.

Hearing Lily murmuring, she jolts back to reality. She peers through the window into the back seat. Lily is inhaling deeply and letting out sweet gasps, her warm breath piercing the cool air in little white puffs. Katie feels the pebbles that have crept through the holes in her sneakers, the rocks digging into the soles of her feet as she walks toward the house. The smell gets stronger as she nears the front door, the cool breeze sending a putrid, sweet odor up her nose. Katie fights the regurgitation of the old can of ravioli she and Lily had wolfed down for a late lunch. They were starving, and the abandoned general store they discovered on the outskirts of Las Cruces was a godsend. Lily helped her carry the box of food to the car, squealing with delight over the canned peaches and frosted toaster pastries. Peeling out onto the road she heard the crackle of the window shattering and the felt the scorch of bullet piercing her arm. The store owner chased close behind, firing his rifle and narrowly missing the back window. The store wasn’t abandoned after all.

She pulls the blood stained bandana from her back pocket and wraps it around her nose and mouth, forming a knot at the back of her head. She knew Maria was dead before she opened the door. A swarm of flies hovers over the dining room table, and Katie recognizes the turquoise hair comb meticulously placed on the crown of Maria’s head, holding back the silver curls streaked with blood. Katie remembers sitting at this table, watching her aunt chop up the tomatoes, the onions, the roasted green chilies for the enchiladas made every Sunday. Katie crosses the room and stands over her, a sliding of the hand closing her hazel eyes for the last time.

Katie used to cry at the drop of a hat. Her favorite television drama, even the sappy commercials choked her up. She held back tears when her students created cards on hastily folded construction paper, the untidy scrawl strewn across the page, a sea of hearts and flowers and rainbows. She tries to cry as she looks down at Aunt Maria, but figures all of her tears have dried up.

Maria’s throat is slit, a clean cut across the jugular. There are bite marks on her neck and arms, blood dried around the edges. Those who can’t be turned are murdered, but their homes not set ablaze for fear of retribution from St. Catherine of Sienna. For those that cannot be turned have her blood flowing through their veins.

Katie lifts Maria up, wrapping her arms underneath the arms of her aunt, Maria’s head resting on Katie’s chest. She slowly steps backwards, lowering Maria to the ground in a thump, rattling the old hardwood floors. Dragging the body through the kitchen and out the back door, she will leave her there until morning, for the sun is about to set.

Turning the faucet on at the kitchen sink, she prays the well has not dried. It runs freely, and she unties the bandana from her head and uses it to scrub the blood and dirt from her face. Looking out the kitchen window, she sees the tire swing bobbing back and forth, a lone redbird perching on the branch above the swing. The storm has cleared, the air is drying, and God is beginning to paint the sky a pale pink with a little purple thrown in. She doesn’t have much time.

Opening the back seat door and lifting the sleeping child from the threadbare seat, Katie grabs the blanket, a soft, pink artifact adorn with faded unicorns. She swaddles Lily tightly and carries her into the house. Walking swiftly through the dining room, she covers her daughter’s nose with the blanket, the smell of death still strong in the air. She heads down the dark hallway to the far back bedroom, Katie’s bedroom.

She places her daughter on the patchwork quilt that still covers the bed, Lily wrapped tightly in the blanket. She enters the kitchen and pulls Maria’s favorite carving knife from the wooden block, testing the blade by poking her finger lightly and drawing blood. She rinses it in the sink, and pulls the lighter from her pocket. Brushing the fire over the blade, she swallows hard, and thrusts the knife into the open wound, moving in a downward motion. She tries to steady her left hand by visualizing slicing a steak, or a fat, juicy tomato. Dropping the knife on the table and sticking her fingers in the jagged hole, she digs around in the flesh, tears streaming down her face. She bites her lower lip so as not to scream out. Spitting the blood from her mouth, she pulls the bullet out and drops it on the table. Scouring through the cabinets, she tries to remember where Maria kept the secret stash. She rummages under the sink and spies the vodka, next to the dried up bottle of toilet bowl cleaner. She pours it on the wound, biting her lip again. Taking a swig of the vodka, she makes her way to the bedroom where her daughter sleeps, sitting down on the bed. Looking out the hazy bedroom window, the mountains are dusted in crimson and indigo. The sun is ready to sleep. It is time. Untangling the gold chain from around her neck, she lifts the heart shaped locket from in the crook of her breasts. She digs her nail in between the narrow slit in the gold, gently prying it open, its edge encrusted in dirt and sweat and salt.

“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” says Katie, whispering the words of St. Catherine.

The heart begins to glow, just a flicker at first, and then a bright red that envelops the room. Lily scratches at her nose and her eyes flutter, letting out a deep sigh. Taking the sewing kit from the side table drawer, Katie sits on the chair next to the bed, the edge of needle catching fire as she sterilizes it. She carefully stitches up her wound, remembering what her aunt had taught her about using a single strand to distribute the tension evenly, making it strong.

The locket is their only protection. Catherine had it made for her daughter, Isabella, who was kept a secret as she was conceived out of wedlock and after Catherine had entered the Dominican Third Order at the age of 18. Isabella’s father was a blacksmith and upon Catherine’s request had made the heart shaped locket.

“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” Catherine whispered to her daughter as she placed the locket around the babies neck.

Isabella was protected from fire, famine, and all intended harm from man or beast. When the locket is open, the wearer is protected as well as the soul the red light shines upon. She handed the child to the blacksmith, never to see her again. Katie now looks down at the open heart, the ray of light casting a shadow on her sleeping daughter. Lily will someday be keeper of the locket, and pass it down to her first born child, as has transpired through time.

Curling up next to Lily, Katie closes her eyes. She dreams of the warnings, the forests ablaze, the rising oceans. When all of the coastal regions became uninhabitable, refuges started fleeing to the barren, landlocked regions. Then the framandi arrived, slowly at first. They looked just like us, but they were smarter, more creative, and open to new ideas. They worked as environmentalists, for the government, for the water authority and the natural gas companies. But no one listened. They tried to help. They tried to change things. But humans were invincible, and global warming wasn’t real.

They will burn the planet and start over. They transformed themselves back into the creatures they were before. Tall, lanky, milky white bodies with large oval eyes and shocking red hair. The framandi can only come out at night, the one defect in their true form. Their bite will turn humans against their own kind. Once turned they will want to burn everything, destroy it all.

The sound of hail hitting the window awoke Katie. She thinks of Maria lying dead in the backyard of the house, the woman who raised her after the accident. She thinks of Peter. They knew they had to leave Albuquerque. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were burned down, the inhabitants either turned or dead. They were running out of food. Maria lived in a remote area outside of Mesilla. They had to try.

Peter is gone but his daughter is alive, in this room, protected by her mother and St. Catherine of Sienna. Katie will fight. She will fight for her daughter. She will fight for her planet. She will find the others, those who have the blood of St. Catherine running through their veins.