Fire in the Dark

Polly woke the next morning long before there was any light to wake to. In a dark field beyond the village, trucks were pulling in with heavy wicker baskets and long canvas bags. The crews worked almost without speaking, headlamps swinging as they moved, voices flattened into the crackle of handheld radios.

Polly took up a position on a basket and watched the whole business unfold. The balloon came out of its bag in a great rush of fabric and was spread flat across the ground, where it lay like a beached whale asleep on its side. Two industrial fans were dragged into place and began forcing cold air through the open mouth, and the shape swelled by degrees, filling out until it strained gently against the ropes.

The pilot, meanwhile, was holding a small helium balloon on a length of thin string. He opened his hand, and every head in the field turned to follow it climbing away into the dark. "The little balloon flies first," he said to Polly. "It tells us what the wind intends to do with us today."

Then the fire. The pilot squeezed the burner handle and a column of flame went roaring into the mouth of the envelope. One breath of fire, two, three. The great shape raised its head off the ground and rose to stand upright in the dark, lit from within, glowing like a paper lantern the size of a house.