Blaise.

The name had been seared into the minds of the country, as if they were a herd of cattle and he was the brander.

Blaise, the man with the fire. The tamer of flames. The Phoenix.

People came far and wide to see this sideshow of a man, to watch as the flames lovingly licked his sculpted arms, his nimble hands. To watch as he sparked life from the ashes of darkness. To watch as his soot stained face was illuminated by the embers that danced for him. It seemed as though everyone had become engulfed in his fiery aura.

It was said that he frequently jumped from one show to the next, never staying in one place for too long. One day here, the next day gone. No ringmaster minded too much. In fact, they welcomed him with greedy eyes and covetous hands. This circus hopping of his ignited a sense of mystery, alluring audiences who craved to know more about him.

It was on rare occasion that anything of importance occurred in our small village, so when word arrived that the Dervishi Brothers, Blaise's latest three-ring, were coming to town, rumors flared and were alight in every household. Posters were plastered on every pole, every door, every crumbling wall. One syllable thrummed in the minds of every citizen.

Blaise.

Blaise.

Three days. Three days were all we had to prepare, as if it was our duty to set up tents and haul carts and sweep performers to their places. Already the calliope was whistling its whimsical tune into my ear. With fiddling fingers and tapping toes, I found myself almost feverish with excitement.

Day one passed in a frenzy. With so much to do, no one could focus on the task at hand, and as a result, nothing got done.

Still so much to do.

Sweep. Pull weeds. Wash clothes. It became the rhythm of the second day.

Sweep.

Pull.

Wash.

I was grateful to have something occupy my trembling hands. As they worked along the broom, the leaves of the invaders, the soapy mess of rags, my mind spun in innumerable circles.

If you had asked me how I spent the day before the circus arrived, I couldn't tell you. It was as though someone had held my memories above a lit match and turned them to ashes. From those ashes sparked new memories, memories that would be made the next day. The day I met the Phoenix.

I could tell you about the elephants, how their feet made the whole earth tremble and how their trunks filled the air with a trumpet that rivaled even those of the men of Jericho. I could tell you about the trapeze artists, how they soared through the air mistaken for birds and how their fragile fingers clenched the bars with the strength of a lion's jaw. I could tell you about the ringmaster, how his round belly seemed to bellow out cries of merriment and how his mustache quivered with each chuckle that escaped his body.

But I won't.

I could tell you about Blaise, the man with the fire. How every word ever spoken about him was truer than truth and how the flames obeyed their master in every sense of the word.

And I will.

You see, fire has a mind of its own. I learned that as a child. Fire is a poison, fire is a savage, fire is a vandal. It hurls itself at homes and creeps its way from the ground up, inhaling everything in between. It devours books and beds and clothes and tables. It has no mercy.

Or so I thought.

As the man with the fire stood in the center of the crowd of awed villagers, I shoved my way forward. I had to see him. Had to. I was small for my age, which made it easier for me to slip between people. Once I was able to poke my head through, with my arms and legs and the rest of me, my breath was swept away by the sight before me.

A soft face, shadowed in the dusk of the night, yet illuminated by the few tongues of fire in his hands. He was still for just a moment, and in that moment, every sound hung suspended in time. Suddenly, the few tongues became many, wrapping themselves around the Phoenix's wings, extinguishing the enveloping darkness beginning to shroud our eyes. They danced for him, twisting their way around each other, around the man, around the stars. A soft crackle became a roaring blaze, exposing his shaggy black curls and soot stained chest.

It was over in a moment. It was over in a thousand years.

He bent at the waist, his singed and tattered black pants rising up just above his ankles. A deafening applause shook the quiet air. Clapping and whooping and cheering and whistling.

Except I heard none of it.

All that filled my ears was the sizzling embers that lay on the bare ground. The wrinkle of the fire tamer's eyes as a grin spread across his scruffy jaw. The sound of the night like cotton, waiting for the flames of the next morning's sun to set them afire.

And on that day, the day I met the man with the fire, I realized what fire truly is and what fire will never be.

Fire is a creature.

But never a destroyer.