‘Grace, gratitude and reward have befallen you, you and your entire settlement. You know not even how great,’ said the black-haired woman, slowly enunciating her words. ‘For the burial mound. For your humanity, and for your human dignity and decency.’

On the ninth of April, soon after midnight, the first residents of Claremont were awoken by a flickering brightness, a red blaze, that struck and flooded into the windows of their homesteads. The rest of the town’s residents were roused from their beds by screams, commotion and the insistent sounds of the bell tolling the alarm.

Only one building was burning. It was huge and wooden, formerly a temple, once consecrated to a deity whose name even the oldest grandmothers couldn’t remember. A temple, now converted into an amphitheatre, where animal-baiting, fights and other entertainment was held, capable of hauling the small town of Claremont out of its boredom, depression and drowsy torpor.

It was the amphitheatre that was now burning in a sea of roaring fire, shaking from explosions. Ragged tongues of flame, several yards long, shot from all the windows.

‘Fiiiire!’ roared the merchant Houvenaghel, the owner of the amphitheatre, running and waving his arms around, his great paunch wobbling. He was wearing a nightcap and a heavy, karakul coat he had thrown over his nightshirt. He was kneading the dung and mud of the street with his bare feet.

‘Fiiiire! Heeeelp! Waaaaaateeer!’

‘It’s a divine punishment,’ pronounced one of the oldest grandmothers authoritatively. ‘For those rumpuses they held in the house of worship…’

‘Yes, yes, madam. No doubt about it!’

A glow emanated from the roaring theatre, horse urine steamed and stank, and sparks hissed in puddles. A wind had got up from God knows where.

‘Put out the fiiiire!’ Houvenaghel howled desperately, seeing it spreading to the brewery and granary. ‘Heeeelp! Fetch buckets! Fetch buuuuckets!’

There was no shortage of volunteers. Why, Claremont even had its own fire brigade, equipped and maintained by Houvenaghel. They tried to put the fire out doggedly and with dedication. But in vain.

‘We can’t cope…’ groaned the chief of the fire brigade, wiping his blistered face. ‘That’s no ordinary fire… It’s the devil’s work!’

‘Black magic…’ another fireman choked on the smoke.

From inside the amphitheatre could be heard the terrible cracking of rafters, ridges and posts breaking. There was a roar, a bang and a crash, a great column of fire and sparks exploded into the sky, and the roof caved in and fell onto the arena. Meanwhile, the whole building listed over—you could say it was bowing to the audience, which it was entertaining and diverting for the last time, pleasing it with a stunning, truly fiery spectacle.

And then the walls collapsed.

The efforts of the fire fighters and rescuers meant half of the granary and about a quarter of the brewery were saved.

A foul-smelling dawn arose.

Houvenaghel sat in the mud and ash, in his soot-covered nightcap and karakul coat. He sat and wept woefully, whimpering like a child.