The boy’s grandfather thought the time was right.
The volcano season.
They walked onto the fairway at dusk. Mowed to velvet only three days ago.
It was infested with hundreds of earth mounds, each no bigger than a mugful of earth. Red earth, the soil here is volcanic. So too did the mounds look volcanic with their wide bases and cupped summits.
Tom sat on the eastern side of the fairway, facing the setting sun. Toby laid beside him, not told what to expect.
Tom pointed to one of the mounds a little way off.
Toby turned and saw a glittering fountain of red motes erupting from its summit.
He slowly looked around
And saw dozens more, large and small. Every mound was throwing fire.
All of them.
A field of volcanos.
The Next Headland 2019