Godric shot off the road he came by. Took the first turn hard—bumper careening past the post box—onto the nearest driveway before the flames. A pick-up truck was there, and he slammed to a halt before it, staring at the brickhouse beyond.

No lights were on inside, but Godric pounded on the door anyway. This brought no response, nor did his shouts of, "Fire! Fire! Fire!"

The ghostly inferno's glow swayed over the trees behind the house, but the flames themselves were not visible. It was not an immediate threat here, Godric decided, and if the owner wanted to be a stupid idiot he could afford for a few minutes to smarten up before the flames arrived to freeze-dry him in his sleep.

"Fuck," Godric muttered before dashing back to his car.

Screeched to a stop in front of the next house down the lane and honked the horn before leaping out and into wind and rain. Another small brickhouse again only menaced by the glow of invisible flames beyond the backyard trees. This time someone pulled the door open on the second knock and his first shout.

"What is the fucking matter with you kid?" said the man who answered. Chip crumbs were scattered down his shirt. "Heard you shouting a mile away!"

A plump woman peeked in from a doorway on the side of the hall, the glow of television on her face. Soft artificial murmurs drifted from behind her.

"There's a fire behind your goddamned house! A man injured too!" was all Godric thought to say before sprinting back to the car.

Grabbed his flashlight and then pulled a small fire extinguisher from the boot and ran back.

"What?" said the man as Godric ran—eyes wide—before darting further into the house.

"Call the fucking fireman," hissed Godric when he reached the empty doorway, "Get the fucking hose!" Both the man and woman had moved to the kitchen window at the far end.

"What is that, Walter?" said the woman. She was trying to remain calm, but panic hung at the periphery of her voice. "What's the glow? Why is it blue? That's not fire, is it?"

"Get the phone Kay," the man said back to her with a wavering voice. "Call the firemen."

Walter vanished and then reappeared in the hall with a fire extinguisher of his own, and Godric charged ahead.

He sprinted past their house and through a short, illuminated backyard, stopping only to click on his torch before the treeline while Walter rounded the corner of his house. Godric ran on into the woods ahead of him. Found a slight incline and plenty to trip on once the house was out of sight. A torch-lit oval of illuminated-ground kept his nose out of the mud as he ran. His only destination was the vague blue glow ahead.

Didn't even look up until that strange light began to cast shadows with the tree trunks around him. Godric paused—the fire was visible again.

Ahead of him, the woods terminated into a vast meadow that sloped into a gentle valley. Another clump of trees stood in the center. Dense and tight—almost an island unto itself, and within that was the fire.

Flames so blue they became purple at their core; licking high up into the heavens—exceeding the of height treetops even. Yet no smoke billowed up with it—and odder yet—nothing appeared to be on fire. The flames hovered meters above the ground, yet the trees that enclosed it like a lantern weren't burning. Instead, they cast black bars onto the meadow that surrounded it. Underneath the flame long, rhythmic shadows kicked up clumps of dirt.

Godric stared at this before something slipped out of the darkness a few paces ahead.

A man—neither the Roundhead nor Walter. A thin, scruffy man wearing nothing but tattered pantaloons held up by twine suspenders that dug into his shoulders. A cheap, green-brimmed hat rested on his head. Everything else about him—including his hatchet face—was splattered in mud. Oddly, mud bubbled over his left breast as though passing air.

Godric might've stared at that alone if it wasn't for what the man carried—a flintlock rifle. He raised the thing to aim when Godric shone his torchlight on him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Godric stared at him and growled. He looked like another re-enactor—some old-time peasant militia—maybe some kind of bandit. "Don't you see the fucking fire?"

The man lowered the rifle an inch and began to speak, but no words came. He'd smiled when he began, but that faded, and in an instant his lips contorted into an angry shout. Still Godric heard nothing. The Rifleman shut his mouth then and frowned.

Godric took a deep breath, said, "I'm not here to hurt you."

The Rifleman's tried to speak once again, but still no sound emerged. The rifle sank lower as his eyes began to shimmer.

"Fire trucks are on the way," said Godric. A branch snapped behind him. "The police will inevitably arrive with them," pounding steps now. "Keep that in mind. Don't do anything you wouldn't want them to know about."

"Hey, there!" shouted Walter, panting, as he smashed into the valley. The Rifleman's eyes went wide in fright.

"What're you—?" began Walter—a burst of white smoke erupting from the rifle cut him short.

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