Forged in Fire
CRACK!
A branch snapped beneath Collin’s foot, and he clung tighter to the rough bark. The old oak tree groaned under his weight, threatening to break, but he didn’t stop. He had to see it for himself.
Higher and higher he climbed, ignoring the sting of bark-scraped palms. His mother’s warning echoed in his mind, “Don’t climb too high.” But curiosity burned hotter than fear.
At last, he reached a break in the canopy. He shoved his hair from his eyes and peered northward. Smoke veiled the normally clear sky, thick grey plumes billowing to blot out the stars.
The scent of ash burned his nostrils—acrid and choking in his lungs. His breath caught in his throat as he wiped the tears from his azure eyes.
North Town was on fire. Would the beautiful lake burn away? Where would Father teach him to go sailing? Would Mother still be able to buy her shoes from her favorite cobbler shop? Where would the animals go if the forest burned?
Then—a creak below. A soft thud.
“Collin, sweetheart?” His mother’s voice floated through the branches. “It’s time for bed.”
Still frozen with worry atop his perch, he whispered, “North Town is on fire.”
“Yes, my love. Come down now. Or I shall send your brother up after you.”
Collin hesitated, then glanced back once more at the blazing horizon. He wasn’t ready to come down. Not yet. But Mother’s voice was warm and sure and safe. He climbed down, yearning for the feel of her comforting touch.
The ground welcomed him with lush grass and rich soil. Around him, the meadow gladly offered its gifts. The crickets sang a symphony of love songs in the tall grasses, and the soft breeze whispered through the treetops, accompanying the jovial melody in perfect harmony.
It was a land that lived and breathed, a place where the sky and earth were entwined in an endless dalliance, where starlight serenaded the night. But tonight, the heavens were veiled in smoke, the meadow’s song muted in uncertainty.
“There’s a fire,” he said again, his voice trembling.
Squeezing his hand, she led him to their cabin. "It’s nothing for you to worry about, my darling.”
Their cozy house sat in a narrow meadow, cradled by forest and watched over by a towering oak. Its branches shaded the roof in summer and held warmth close in winter. A crooked fence carved out a wide and wandering yard.
Now in spring, the yard brimmed with wildflowers—bright, untamed things—and soft grasses that shimmered in the breeze. Each season brought its turn: sun-thick summer blooms, autumn’s quiet gathering of strength, winter’s hush beneath snow. And then, always, the first golden breath of spring.
Inside the little cabin, Collin’s mother tucked him into bed beside his brother. She drew the curtains, closing out the hazy night sky. Her touch was soft and sure as she combed her fingersthrough her son’s hair, a quiet rhythm that eased him toward sleep.
“Don’t forget to say your prayers,” she whispered.
Collin frowned. “Why must we pray?”
"Because it helps to say your worries out loud.”
“Mam”—Collin grasped his mother’s hand—“can you tell me the story of our mountain?”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, making it groan beneath her weight.
“You’ve heard that story a hundred times, my love,” she said with a sigh—half exasperation, half affection—but she couldn’t hide the smile curling at the corners of her mouth.
“Close your eyes, darling...”
“My father told me the story of how our mountain came to be. Long before I was born, before his father and his father’s father, when the world was still young, a jagged piece of land broke through the surface of the sea. Formed in the clash of fire and water, born of terrible violence, the great mountain rose slowly from the deep, vast ocean.
“At first, only birds found their way to this lonely place, but they came bearing seeds from distant lands. Before long, towering trees rooted themselves in the rich volcanic soil, and the mountain was cloaked in growing things.
“Then a great sheet of ice covered the earth. Land-loving creatures crossed that frozen sea and found their way to the mountain’s edge. When the ice began to melt, it left deep scars—carving lakes, valleys, and jagged cliffs into the stone.
“The people who had journeyed over that ice gave this place a name, Crimisa. Life here was hard. The shifting seasons were wild and cruel, and many lives were lost at first. But they were strong, those first settlers. Hardy and stubborn. The ones who survived scattered through the mountain range and built theirhomes in its folds, founding the many villages that still stand today.”
