Facing The Flame

• Amber Zhao, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2022

The path is easy to find. Ringed by rough-hewn pebbles and willows bowing their downy heads, as if acknowledging the sorrows buried deep within the soil. Everything-the traffic and people and the grief that washes over me like a river wave-fades, replaced by birds stilled in their branches and the slow, rhythmic gurgle of the creek.
Her grave: Veronica Hope. Two dates. A birth.
And the day I remember.
Mrs Hope was beloved. She gave wise advice and listened carefully to our schoolgirl worries ( mine was a lack of direction ). She always made our days brighter with her flame-coloured mane swirling with her laughter, her talk.
It was sweltering that day, I remember, as we marched through a preserved forest simmering with heat. The fields crackled with tension, dry winds sweeping through like ghosts.
I was chatting when Mrs Hope ground to a halt.
The dust flickered. My heart went utterly still, a gun cocking to be released.
There it was: a curl of blue flame.
The fire, as if spotting the terrified class, sprinted our way-and an extraordinary scream tore from Mrs Hope’s lips.
‘Run!’
I barrelled through the trees as a tremendous roaring, like thunder, filled my ears. My heart jackrabbited; the class hurtled onto the bus, wild-eyed.
But the fire licked across the landscape and paused, a hungry dog slurping at its jowls-and continued to hunt.
My eyes closed. Tell my parents I love them-
Then I glimpsed Mrs Hope, guarding us. Her features were fierce, smudged with blood and ash as she shouldered a fire extinguisher, spraying a ferocious line of water into the flame. Making a last stand. The air filled with blood and ash.
The fire truck roared around the bed just as I slid into darkness.
It was too late to save Mrs Hope, though. Her lungs-battered by exhaustion and smoke-gave out. Not even she could stop it: Mrs Hope, who had shown the most bravery I had ever seen; who had saved twenty-eight children from death; who was commemorated with a little maple tree.
And I finally sob. Ever since her death, I’ve bottled up the guilt. I might have been able to save her. Now her husband is hollow, her children are distraught, and all her parents do is cry.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hope,’ I whisper. ‘I couldn’t save you.’
Nothing. But a voice, kind and understanding: She died protecting you: the children that she loved to teach. She was a hero.
Let go.
‘I forgive you.’ For protecting us when life is so hard sometimes. ‘I forgive myself.’
I know what I want to do now. I want to be a teacher.
For the first time since Mrs Hope’s death, I feel glad to be alive. I sit there in a golden shaft of sunshine, heart swelling with gratitude for the mentor who gave her life to protect us, her knowledge passed through generation after generation like a blazing candle.
And the maple tree is in full bloom.