The Still Flame
Psalm 46:10 (NIV)
"Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."
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Night had pressed itself deep into Mahogany. The fires in the hearths had died to whispers; the sky hung heavy and low. Only the sound of wind moving through the mountain trees broke the stillness.
Elena lay restless on her mat. Sleep came and went in waves, shallow and uneasy. Something stirred in the air—a weight, a nearness. Her heart began to race, not with fear, but recognition.
Then the air shifted.
A thin flame flickered in the corner of the room, though no lamp had been lit. It danced quietly at first, trembling against the darkness. Then it grew, bright and alive, until the whole room breathed in orange light.
Elena sat up, eyes wide, but the fire did not burn the walls or the mat beneath her. It pulsed gently, almost in rhythm with her heartbeat. She felt warmth spreading through her chest, through her veins.
"Elena saw the raging fire," she whispered to herself, recalling Julia's teachings, "but His voice was not from there…"
And then, she heard it—the voice.
Not from the flame, but from within her.
A resonance soft as breath, deep as earth.
"Do not fear the heat, child of flame. The fire outside is not the one that refines. I am in the quiet that remains when the burning ends."
Elena clasped her hands, trembling. "Lord… the mountain shakes again. The hearts of the people waver. What should I do?"
"Be steadfast. Do not fight with fear. The storm will come, but speak only when I give you the words. Patience is your shield. I will move through your stillness."
The fire around her roared suddenly, its brilliance swallowing the room. She covered her eyes, yet the voice remained calm, steady.
"Tomorrow they will rise against the light. They will speak lies in My name and twist hearts with doubt. But you must answer with truth. The words will not be yours, but Mine. Be still, and I will speak through you."
The flames began to dim, shrinking back toward the corner.
Elena whispered, "I am afraid."
"Even fear can burn clean when it is given to Me."
The last ember flickered and went out. The night returned, soft and thick. But her chest still glowed faintly—an echo of warmth that refused to leave.
She pressed her hands together, whispering, "I will wait, Lord. I will wait."
---
Dawn came slow, painted in gray and pale gold. The air smelled of wet leaves and wood smoke.
In the courtyard, Liron—Elena's young uncle—was already awake, tending the small fire beside the well. He was humming softly, his voice low but sure. It was an old psalm that Julia sings after dawn.
He began to recite, his voice growing clearer as the mist thinned:
"The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?"
His voice echoed softly through the waking village, threading through the morning air. It was neither boast nor sermon, but something simple, steady. A song of remembrance.
Elena stepped into the courtyard, the remnants of her vision still clinging to her like smoke. She didn't speak; she only listened. Each line of the psalm seemed to settle the unease in her chest.
When Liron noticed her, he smiled. "You didn't sleep."
She shook her head. "I dreamt of fire again. But this time, His voice came from the quiet."
Liron nodded slowly, as though he understood more than he said. "Then it means peace, not ruin. Stillness before the day."
Julia joined them soon after, wrapping her shawl tighter against the chill. Ernest brought water for the horses; the children followed, blinking sleep from their eyes. The morning felt fragile, like glass.
No one yet knew what was coming, but even the birds seemed to sing softer that day.
---
By midmorning, the village square had gathered its usual hum of chatter and movement—but beneath it ran a thread of unease.
Teuwa and Regbolo moved from house to house, their words quiet but sharp.
"They say the girl calls fire from heaven," Teuwa told a group of farmers near the well. "But if her god is so mighty, why did He let the witches rise? Why does He not stop them now?"
Regbolo added, "Even the chief has grown silent. Perhaps he fears what this 'light' will cost."
Murmurs spread. Doubt rode on the wind like smoke—thin, invisible, but choking.
At the market, an old woman clutched her necklace of carved bone. "It is not safe," she whispered. "She is touched by something. I saw her eyes—they shine when she prays."
Others nodded, uneasily. "And the strangers with her—they are not of our land. What if this faith brings more trouble?"
Still, a few stood apart, shaking their heads. "Her words brought peace," said one. "When my son was sick, she prayed. He woke the next morning."
"You speak of luck," Regbolo replied smoothly. "Not of gods."
The crowd thinned, but the words lingered like frost.
---
By noon, the heat of argument had reached the chief's courtyard. A small crowd had gathered. Some shouted for Elena to speak, others demanded silence.
Elena stepped out from her grandfather's house. Her hair caught the light; her eyes, though weary, burned with quiet certainty. Julia stood behind her, Liron at her side.
Teuwa's voice cut through the noise. "You call yourself a servant of light, yet you bring division! If your god is peace, why do your words break our hearts?"
Elena's heart pounded, but the memory of her vision steadied her. "Be still," she remembered. "I will speak through you."
She took a breath. "I bring no division, Teuwa. Only truth. The light divides shadow from substance. You fear because you've built your life on darkness."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Teuwa's hand trembled. "You blaspheme!"
"I tell what I've seen," Elena said, her voice firm but calm. "When fear ruled, you offered sacrifice. When hunger came, you sold hope. But there is a fire that consumes fear, not life. It is His fire, and He burns to heal."
The crowd hushed. Even the air seemed to hold still.
Teuwa tried to speak again, but the words caught in his throat. His knees wavered. He felt heat rising through the stones beneath his feet, up his legs, into his bones. His charms grew hot against his skin.
Elena's eyes lifted heavenward, and she spoke—not to Teuwa, not to the crowd, but to the One who had promised to speak through her.
"The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?"
The same psalm Liron had sung that morning. The words carried through the courtyard like wind through wheat—gentle, but unstoppable.
A shimmer moved through the air, faint but visible, like heat above a flame. Those closest to Elena stepped back. Regbolo stumbled, eyes wide.
Teuwa clutched his chest. His breath came ragged. "Stop..." he gasped, staggering backward. "You...what are you..."
Liron stepped forward, voice low but steady. "The truth burns, Teuwa. But only lies turn to ash."
Teuwa's scream cut short. He turned and fled, nearly falling as he scrambled toward the path leading to his temple. His followers scattered after him, their voices drowned by the rising murmur of the crowd.
Some fell to their knees; others wept openly. A few whispered prayers, unsure of what they were saying but drawn to the warmth still hanging in the air.
Elena lowered her head, whispering softly, "Not by my words, Lord. Yours alone."
Julia placed a hand on her shoulder. "And He answered, as He promised."
---
When the sun dipped behind the mountain, the village felt changed. Not healed yet—but quieter. The fear that had taken root seemed thinner, like a fog beginning to lift.
Teuwa's temple remained shut. Regbolo had vanished into the forest, whispering that the witches' wrath would fall. But few listened.
Elena knelt by the stream that evening, her reflection rippling in the water. The glow in her eyes had softened, but the fire within her heart burned steady.
Liron joined her, tossing a stone into the current. "You spoke, and he fled," he said, half in awe, half disbelief.
She smiled faintly. "It wasn't me."
"I know," he said. "But it was through you."
Julia and Ernest stood in the distance, watching the sky turn crimson over the ridge. The children played by the trees, their laughter carrying through the cool air.
Elena looked up, her voice soft. "The vision said the storm would come, but to remain still. Perhaps this was only the first wind."
Liron nodded. "Then we'll stand together when the rain falls."
Elena's eyes followed the last light fading from the mountain's peak. She could feel it still—the voice, the promise, the peace.
"I will move through your stillness."
She smiled to herself, whispering into the dusk, "Then let me be still, Lord… and let Your fire speak."
The stream caught the last glint of sunset, flashing gold before fading into shadow.
And somewhere beyond the ridge, beneath the mountain's skin, the darkness stirred—but for now, Mahogany slept under the watch of quiet flame.
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