Keeper of the Fire

For many particular reasons, I felt the strong urge to get away from the urban sprawl that had been creeping upon my small Southern town, a once forgotten place, now made famous by a delightful magazine article declaring her the best small town in America. Her doom sealed forever, invaded by hordes of Yankees, Californians, and other culture-less tribes flocking to her, unable to understand that which had preserved her beauty for so long, all wanting her to have the look and feel of the generic places they just escaped. She has become only a ghostly haunt of what made her special. This is my plight, my reality, and my need for momentary escape. 

I eased into my old Ford pickup, shifted its three-on the-tree gear column into drive, drove down the snow-covered dirt roads, in amongst the pines and creeks. Familiar ground, sights and sounds that put my mind at ease. My respite, escaping into the backwoods onto land my family had owned for generations, every acre of it I believed I knew, until today.

The sun was getting low, the cold was crisp in the air. My day had been so enjoyable. I decided to spend the night in a woody repose, not wanting to relinquish my solemnity. Pulling off the road, I made my way down to the bank of a stream. The rambling sounds of clear cool water rushing over weathered ancient stones makes for a relaxing campsite. And though I had been here dozens of times, something felt unfamiliar, uneasy, as if I were not alone. 

Dismissing these thoughts, assuring myself to the contrary, I settled in for the evening. Everything was in place, a little deer jerky, a little whiskey, both enough to satisfy my cravings for the night. My campfire set, my sleeping arrangements procured, and the stars in the night sky to illuminate my imagination until uninterrupted sleep consumed my soul. But it was not to be. 

Drifting off to sleep, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something, then heard something, the sound of footsteps in the snow. Across the stream there was the flicker of a small fire, not hardly big enough to keep a body warm in this cold. Who was there, why were they on my land, were they friend or foe, and what was I going to do with this disturbance? I moved to investigate. 

An old man sat quietly; the snow-covered forest enveloped him like a comfortable blanket. Although I had no recollection of him as my kin, it appeared he was in no strange place. His hair was white, his coat and pants were woolen and grey, and laying on a large rock to his right, a cavalier hat with peacock feather and a sword without a scabbard. He sat quietly tending the flame, and just as I was about to speak to him, he said my name. His voice was familiar, I can’t explain it. “I knew it would be you,” his deep Southern voice spoke in haunting tones. “Pardon me, sir,” I respectfully returned his call. Later I would discover that he had been there for decades, placed for purpose, an angelic herald of what is, what was, and what is to come. 

“Yes, son, I’ve been watching you from before you were born, just as I watched your father, and your father’s father.” His head dipped, his hand tended to his fire, and he hummed an old familiar tune. I sat astonished but knowing in my deepest soul that the hand of Providence had guided me that night. But why?

As if he knew what I was thinking, he answered all my unspoken questions. 

“You are here, because I must fade away, my time to tend this flame is over. I was given this duty decades ago, by better men, stronger men, gallant men, braver men, and more faithful men. Men that stood fast to the call of our people. They did not waver, nor yield when tested. I was young then, not much more than a boy, but they saw something in me. Though my frailty was evident, I was given a sacred honor, a task, and now I must pass it on to you.” 

Through the night, into twilight, we engaged in what can only be described as a mystical conversation. He was the last, divinely preserved and empowered to keep the hope of our people alive. He had looked on and sparked a flame in those possessed with the fortitude, steely constitution, and passion for the people of the South, a love that transposed into more than just words. He recounted many who’s hearts were cleansed in the celestial flames of the coals he tended, empowering them beyond their own human abilities, ensuring the future our ancestors desired. These words and our meeting are the fulfillment of his purpose, and the beginning of my destiny. 

As the dawn approached and slumber weighed too heavy to continue, my eyes closed in rest for just a moment, hoping to continue the conversation in the morning. In my dreams, all the events we had discussed played in vivid display, as if I were watching them in real time, those in the past, those happening now, and most importantly those events that my faithfulness would propel into the future. What a beautiful, wonderful, and terrible night.

As dawn broke, that fire that was barely large enough to keep us warm through the cold night, was now raging beside me. The old man was gone, no tracts in the snow to justify a search in any direction. Left behind, a woolen grey coat, a hat, the sword that rested on the large stone, and myself. My eyes now open, my gaze truly fixed, and a fire to keep ablaze, until one day our people would have no need for a keeper of the fire. 

Deo Vindice!  

God save the South!