Ribbon of red and orange swirl around him, swathes of slippery fabric that lick his legs and chest like real flames. On his head is a plume, like a peacock's crown but in gold and red and muted greys, the colours of a dying fire. He stands perfectly still, muscles and eyes unmoving, even when the ribbons begin climbing higher and higher, circling faster. Until they truly are fire. Where the ribbons stop and the flames begin is undeterminable but it is only moments before he is entirely engulfed in fire. His dark face is illuminated, then gone. He is invisible in the wall of fire. It begins to dwindle, calming until there are only flickering blue flames around a black pedestal where now stands a pile of grey ash. Many people wait a minute or two to see if he will emerge from some hidden compartment. When he does not they wander away, looking for something to take their minds off the disturbing event. Only those who stay until the wind swirls the ash into the air see his shoulders rise, pulling his head and body up with them until the ashes fall off him. He stands, once more erect, on the pedestal. Ribbons climb up his legs in a red dance but he does not move, though he shines brighter than before.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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