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people indoors and left Appollonios alone in the street. Undeterred, he walked farther and tried again, but still the birds were waiting for him.
    There was nothing for the old man to do but to travel so long and so far that the vicious demons would forget all about him. Sustained by the Fire within him, Appollonios walked on, through valleys and hills, along rivers and streams, never once opening his mouth. He walked while the sun rose and fell, while the seasons turned, while Men forgot about the gods and invented new ones to replace them.
    Fire, it is well known, is a hungry thing, and eventually Appollonios began to feel it gnawing at him from within. The old man’s steps were growing ever more slow, and he realized that he might not be able to keep the Fire within him much longer. The time had come at last to settle his debt.
    When Appollonios trudged into the next village, he could not help noticing just how oddly the people were dressed. He certainly must have appeared just as strange to them, judging from the whispers and the smirks, which he ignored. He approached a group of men and in a hoarse voice said, “Fellows, I fear that I do not have much time left. You must listen to my story.”
    The men looked at one another, and then at Appollonios. One spread his arms in a helpless gesture and mumbled something that Appollonios could not make out. “I’m sorry? Please, just listen to me.”
    The man shrugged again, glanced at his friends then back to Appolonios, and shook his head. They did not seem to understand.
    Dismayed, Appollonios turned to the crowd. “Someone? Anyone? I must tell you what I have seen!”
    There were more whispers and some furrowed brows, but no hint of comprehension.
    Appollonios spied a man who was seated at a small desk and scribbling with a quill upon a sheet of parchment. Desperate, he rushed to the desk and seized the quill from the startled man’s fingers. “Look here!” he said eagerly and began to draw. As some of the bystanders leaned in curiously an arm took shape on the parchment, then a hand with fingers outstretched, and then some feathers trailing from the forearm, and then the beginnings of a clever strap . . .
    . . . and then the image was obliterated by an immense dropping of lime from above. The men around him roared with laughter and shook their heads while Appollonios stared miserably at the ruined drawing, and a great black shape banked and soared over the rooftops and out of sight.
    The Fire surged within him, biting, clawing, gnawing. Panicked, Appollonios pushed his way through the startled crowd and stumbled away from the village. The Fire would not be stilled, its hunger raging, and Appollonios knew that he could no longer contain it. As dusk settled he staggered into a farming field and, spying a great stack of hay, he let the fire roar forth. It leaped upon the hay and gobbled it down, growing huge and hissing in defiance of the old man, its many tongues lashing about greedily for more.
    Without the Fire to sustain him, Appollonios felt his strength fade and he fell to his knees. He felt the weight of so, so many years upon him, so great that he could barely breathe. For a moment he thought that rather than drawing it back in, he might instead give himself to the Fire, allow it to consume him, and with him the awful sin for which he could not atone.
    Then he realized that he was not alone.
    At the edge of the firelight stood two young boys, their eyes wide with worry as they stared at the Fire and then at the frail old man sprawled before it. Right away in both of them Appollonios saw the face of the little boy who had fallen from the sky so many years before, and he burst into sobs.
    The boys nudged at one another, shuffled their feet, and at last one drew from his pocket a scrap of cloth which he offered shyly. Appollonios took it from him with a shaking hand and managed to smile. He wanted to thank the boy for his kindness, but he dared not open his