Firestarter

 

Firestarter

Noel Laflin

10-07-24

This is dedicated to the memory of Fred LaVelle - and inspired by an old camp promotional photo and one-time postcard you could buy at the trading post. I only wish he was here to read this himself - as I remember him one star-filled, blazing campfire night long ago - young, like all of us once were in the previous century.
He'd probably laugh before diplomatically pointing out all spelling and punctuation errors, inconsistencies, exaggerations, etc. But then again, maybe he is here - at least in young ninja spirit and wise beyond his years, bow in left hand, right hand on heart, horn-rimmed glasses back in place, an old tattered flag draped across his shoulders, a dog-eared book of poetry in his back pocket, a pipe held firmly in place between clenched teeth - the glowing bowl facing downward, just in case it rained ...




The brilliantly lit meteor-like arrow shot out of the dark and passed over the heads of both young and old alike.

Whoosh!!!

And where the hell did that come from, one might justifiably ask?

Well, hang tight and I'll tell you.

But first, there was an audible hiss and a collective intake of breath from two hundred souls seated about the hillside, as the pointy-tipped metal fireball sped over caps, hats and bare heads indiscriminately.

And it was most fortunate indeed that no one stood at that precise moment in time.

The archer, a bold blond ninja dressed all in black and hidden behind thick thorny buckbrush at the top of the ravine, shot true - shot well - aiming carefully - and most skillfully above all those heads resting atop bodies (both young and old) seated comfortably, or not, should one's ass be resting against an unfortunately placed knotty log impalement ... but I digress
.. oh, yes, boys and men were seated upon roughly hewed logs haphazardly spaced and staked into place, terracing ever downward.

The mysterious marksman, still hidden above, a modern day William Tell (minus the apple), smiled as his intended target - a kerosene-drizzled tinderbox of logs carefully laid out in criss-cross fashion on the hard packed sandy stage below, surrounded by a circle of fire blackened stones - suddenly burst into flame.

Presto!!!

And the assembled crowd cheered most enthusiastically!

He lowered his bow, put his glasses back in place (now looking more like Clark Kent, rather than SuperNinja) and stealthfully crept back into the woods. He would need to shed the dark costume behind a stand of oaks as the one and only phone booth was in the upper parking lot and too far away to be of practical help for lightning fast wardrobe changing - and fit back into his everyday expected Scout atire before nonchalantly heading down through the still stunned crowded rows of both young and old (some in caps and hats, and some without), in order to lead a song, and later tell a story. And maybe even burn a flag by evening's end - directing four lads (I might even have been one of the lucky four) to lay an old frayed piece of faded cloth containing just forty-eight stars and thirteen faded red and white stripes in dying glowing embers - embers he'd earlier helped to create.

But until that moment, another Friday night campfire successfully roared and blazed to life!

And no one died in the process.

Super heroes, especially those with trusty bows and flaming arrows, always saw to that – and always hit their mark.