ONE MONDAY MORNING

ONE MONDAY MORNING

Out in the bush where the old man lived with his dog, each day was much like the other. Each morning he rose and shuffled his way to the fireplace, pushed the old dog out of the way and stoked up the embers that had died down during the night. His routine on this wintery Monday morning was no different.

As daylight approached, the shadows reluctantly abandoned their grip on the hut and silently retreated.

With the fire stoked to warm the frosty air inside, man and dog slowly left the hut to attend to outside chores and bring in more wood – just like they did every other day.

In the fireplace, the logs gradually burned down to embers and ashes, crackling and sparking quietly as they reached the end of their usefulness. Pockets within the logs occasionally gave off a shower of sparks as the trapped gases and sap deposits ignited.

The fire crept closer to the small log buried deep in the ashes, took hold and burned fiercely until finally, with a small explosion of sap, a tiny ember burst into brilliance and shot free of the fireplace. Eagerly, greedily it reached for the edge of the tattered rug under the old man’s chair. It caught only a tiny cotton strand at the edge of it, but that was enough. The little ember was almost exhausted but it struggled desperately to survive and at last a tiny flicker of life reappeared, spread, grew and began to feed. It steadily devoured the loose threads of the rug, quietly creeping closer to the ragged blanket the old man put over his legs in the evening as he dozed in his chair.

Now greed overtook the young fire. The threadbare blanket hung over the side of the chair. Where it met the rug, the fire touched, tasted, and feasted. It was fierce in its greedy progress and quickly devoured the blanket and the chair. More, it needed more and it found it in the old wooden table, the flimsy curtains and finally the dry timbers of the hut itself. In its triumph, it roared with pride and danced, gleefully flinging its flowing red and gold robes around it.

The old man watched in horrified sorrow as his home of many years was taken by the flames. The firefighters were on their way, but too late. Too late!

Then the fire was free – free to run wherever it could find fuel to feed its insatiable hunger. It raced across the short grass towards the trees where it found a feast of dead twigs and leaves in the neglected undergrowth. Greedily it devoured all it could find. It sent its tentacles and minions for more, more, more. The wind it created with its heat and passion sped it quickly through the undergrowth, and then, seeking more, it leapt upwards into the canopy and the oil-rich leaves of the eucalypts and pines. They groaned and shrieked with agony as they exploded into flames to sate the fiery hunger. It roared its defiance and triumph towards the sky as its greed overtook it and it rushed headlong through the trees, devouring all in its path. It paid no heed to the wildlife and many were left dead or suffering and homeless in its wake.

The firemen were helpless to stop it. They were too few, their old equipment hopelessly inadequate and the fire was too fierce in the long, dry undergrowth. They could only watch it burn and try to prevent it from reaching the small town over the hill.

It was invincible! It could not be stopped! From its birth as a tiny spark, it had grown into an inferno - terrifying in its power. Trees and grasslands were its food and its hunger grew. It flew along a wide path of destruction leaving blackened ruination behind it. Its energy was boundless as it sped towards the distant fuel-laden mountains. Small waterways were no hindrance and it jumped them with ease until - - - The River! It came to the edge but however hard and fast it flung its red and gold tentacles it could not proceed.

It roared with fury. Its hunger and greed were still unsated and it wanted more. It writhed in the agony of its frustration. How could this be? How could something so silent conquer that raging fury? The fire tried to feed on it, but every taste ended in an agonising sizzle as the quiet water defeated its every effort.

The firemen seized their opportunity and attacked fiercely with bags, branches and knapsacks of water.

The fire was weakening and its power waning. Where was its fuel? It had devoured all there was to devour and it wanted more. It roared for more! It hungered! It did not thirst! The river was its mortal enemy.

It was dying of hunger. Its power was gone. Its beautiful red and gold colours were becoming nothing but dirty grey smoke and ashes that fluttered in the breeze it created to help its progress. Finally, even the breath of its softest breeze was gone and it died.

Even as it died though, things were changing. In the blackened pathway it left behind, seeds would soon be bursting into life - seeds that needed the fiery power and energy to give them that life. Soon there would be fuel again.

The battered, exhausted firefighters slowly returned to their vehicle to wend their weary way back to the station, each knowing that this was one Monday morning none of them would forget in a hurry.