Ashes of Salvation by Kami Boedigheimer

A shadow formed on the paper. Burnt sienna and phthalocyanine blue formed his burned silhouette. Soon, the canvas was nothing but shadow.
“It’s dark. It’s cold. Why not go for a walk?”
Ignatius looked up from his painting. The lights were blown out. Someone was standing in the doorway, but it was too dark to see who was. Casting his painting knives aside, he got up and started for the door, pausing in the frame. The figure had retreated down the hallway. He took another step forward. The figure moved another step back. Feeling frustrated and unwilling to play its game, Ignatius returned to his study and relighted the candle.
“It’s dark. It’s cold. Why not go for a walk?”
The figure had returned to the door now that Ignatius was sitting comfortably in his armchair, and its monotone, hollow voice eviscerated the room, depriving it of light and, again, he couldn’t determine its identity.
Getting up once more, knife still in hand, Ignatius attempted to approach the figure. The closer he got, the further it went. An idea struck him. Following the figure, he chased it down the hallway and into a room at the edge of his studio. He was feeling proud of himself; the figure had no way to escape now.
“Who are you?” Ignatius whispered.
If the figure heard him, it said nothing.
A rubious light flashed through a window adjacent to the figure. Getting more irritated with the figure with each passing moment and intimidated by the light, Ignatius took a step towards it. Again, it took a step away.
“Tell me.” Ignatius growled.
The figure took another step away from the angry man, even though he didn’t move a millimeter. With his fury ignited by the figure’s silence, Ignatius mustered all the force he could, raised his arm behind his head, and flung the knife at the figure. It passed right through, and rather than impaling the figure, it merely hit the wall and fell to the floor. The figure vanished.
Ignatius ran to the space the shadow had occupied seconds before and picked up his palette knife. A movement outside the window caught his eye: Amidst the red light, the figure reappeared. He opened the window and, casting both his knife and caution to the wind, Ignatius leaped out. Falling two stories, and landing at the figure’s feet, pain shot up Ignatius’s leg.
As he landed, the house ignited. It was too quick for him to react. For every bit the flames advanced, he stayed frozen, despite the heat, entranced.
“The walk,” murmured the figure, “We must take a walk.”
The figure wasn’t retreating from Ignatius anymore. Its darkness empowered by the light, it loomed over him. Despite the flames devouring the sky, the figure had no features, no definition. It etched the world in charcoal as it dragged Ignatius into the abyss.
He opened his eyes to charred ground and an isabelline sky. Looking around, the figure was nowhere to be seen. He had moved too quickly searching for the figure, and his head hurt like someone was scraping the interior of his skull with a painting knife. Speaking of, his knife laid a few meters away. It was completely perpendicular to the ground, as if someone had attempted to stab it. He crawled to the knife and removed it from the pile of ash it was nestled in. Everything was dark.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Startled, Ignatius scanned his surroundings. Despite its voice, the figure was nowhere to be seen. He stood up, dismissing his leg pain, growled, and began wandering down a barren road leading away from the mound of blackened rubble that was once his home. Everything that mattered to him was destroyed. He was empty.
He was free.
A few kilometers down the road, he came upon a small cottage. Laughter rang through the air and temporarily lifted Ignatius from the abyss the figure had trapped him in. It was happy.
“Closer.”
Ignatius questioned the voice no more. Not even bothering to search for the figure. He crept towards the house. Through an open window, he could see a stout, silver woman facing away from him, cradling an infant. Swaying from side to side near a kerosene lamp hanging from a ceiling, she was humming a lullaby.
“Free them.” The figure’s voice came from behind his eyes.
“What from?” Ignatius whispered, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the two.
“Can’t you see?”
This time, the figure’s voice came from within the house. The shadow loomed over the woman and child, enveloping them. Neither noticed. The lamp overhead began swinging, and Ignatius understood. Just like before, he raised his arm behind his head and flung the painting knife at the figure. As expected, it sailed through the figure, but it severed the twine supporting the lamp. It crashed to the ground and the glass shattered with a clatter. It took less than a second for the blaze to begin.
The baby wailed, dragging the woman out of her tune. The house offered little means of escape, with only one exit and a few small windows. She retreated towards a cellar door in the corner. The flames crept towards her slowly as she struggled to one-handedly open it.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
The shadow drifted towards him, staying out of arm’s reach, but screeching from within the house distracted Ignatius. Just barely on the outskirts of the flames was a caged quail. Ignatius was compelled towards it. Staggering like a madman, he meandered towards the window.
It was a tight fit, but after a moment of uncomfortability, he had squeezed through the window. He didn’t care about the flames, the woman, or the child. The quail was suddenly all that mattered. He crossed the room, going through the inferno like it was nothing – and he felt nothing in the abyss, nothing but desperation. The uplifting feeling had left his battered body, like the fire had escaped the shattered glass.
The quail was still screeching, still caged.
“The walk!” The figure’s voice interrupted his haze, but Ignatius did not turn around.
He broke the feeble, wooden cage open and grabbed the cowering quail. For a moment, despite the flames creeping around Ignatius’ feet, they were frozen in time. It nuzzled its face into his palm.
“Leave the quail!” the shadow hissed.
Darkness blocked his path and the woman turned around to face him, tarnishing any hopes of escaping unnoticed. She had an ancient physiognomy, shining with sweat, with singed, silver strands hanging off her head in clumps. The door would not open, and the infant was a limp lump in her arms. They were giving up, aware that these breaths would be their last, that they would never devour the quail, Ignatius’ quail. She thought to live was to be saved, and Ignatius pitied her. She did not beg for him to spare her life. Her eyes burned fiercer than the conflagration destroying everything that mattered, but she had not the energy to power the rage.
As he was turning to leave, he noticed a metallic glint under the woman’s bare foot: his knife. Her eyes followed his, and she suddenly possessed everything. He could feel the shadow resisting him, but he headed towards the woman, clutching the quail to his chest, ignorant of his burning flesh. She had put the baby down to grab the knife. This shift in priority amused Ignatius. He would save them anyway.
She held his knife, the very object that had enabled the burning down of her home, and gave Ignatius a dangerous look. The knife gave her momentum. He closed the free hand around her wrist and growled like a beast. She didn’t flinch.
“Save me.” Her voice was as hollow as Ignatius felt and lacked everything, as if she thought he wouldn’t.
“I will.”
In a stroke of arbitrariness shrouded in fate, he forced her backwards, threw her into the hellish fire. Her eyes widened as she fell, and as she realized what he had done, she closed her eyes and threw the knife. It lodged into his chest, barely missing the quail, but it didn’t matter what she tried to do; he saved her.
The burning man left. He left the baby resting on the closed cellar door. In due time, it would be saved as well; the flames were already in action. He brought the quail with him. It would be his new companion. He had saved the woman and the infant, but there were others. What else w0uld he do now that his home and studio was incinerated? Now, the world was his canvas. Armed with his painting knife, his only remaining possession, and the shadow borne of his canvas, he set out on the road again, waltzing along the periphery of good and evil, saving the ignorant, dragging them into the abyss.