"So,
Karen; am I little?" Marcee looked down at herself.
Karen smiled wanly. "Not a bit of it."
They sat together in silence. Much was going on around them, but
there seemed to be no place for them, at the moment, in the urgent
discussions going forward.
"Marcee?"
"Mm-hmm?"
"Surely not everyone
has always been perfect on the Creek. What's the penalty – say, for
murder, or – or rape?"
"Well,
there were banishments. Before my time. Pilgrims that didn't work out
were provisioned and escorted to the Bridge. But lately, I've heard
that's not a good idea, because they might turn the Creek in to some
bandit leader somewhere... Lockdowns. But those were
for thefts, or
refusing to carry out a voted task."
"Has there ever been talk of hanging here?"
Marcee's eyes widened. "Jeeah, no! Why do you ask?"
"Not sure. Yet." Karen watched the room as she spoke.
:::
After
the lightning strike, slabs of steaming Douglas-fir bark had flown
lazily outward in three directions, caroming off fir and hemlock
branches and sliding downward to the forest floor. The stricken tree,
thirty-seven meters in height, had swayed and shuddered for a bit
before regaining its equilibrium. Two days had passed.
White streaks of cambium gleamed in the cracks where the plasma had
run along the tree trunk, and sap had already begun to ooze. At one
point, twenty-four meters above the slope below, an unusually large
branch had grown at right angles to the tree trunk, before reaching
to the sky, and one of the streaks had abruptly ended here,
resurfacing beneath the branch. In the crotch of the branch, fir
needles and bark dust had accumulated for more than a century. Over
the years, enough moisture had found its way into the duff to support
a few lichens, mosses, and one maidenhair fern, but in the current
drought the pocket had dried out completely, and the fern sat
patiently waiting for a rainy day, its fronds curling in upon
themselves.
There had been a little rain, just enough to dampen the upper canopy, but none of it had reached into the bone-dry shadows. A wisp of smoke curled up from the duff pocket and dissipated to eastward.
:::
Forty-three
kilometers to the west, Savage Mary rolled forward in the already hot
shade of Hall's west wall. The spot had been chosen for its
relatively safe location, well away from the surrounding tinder-dry
foliage. The ground had been sprinkled with watering cans as a
precaution, and full cans stood by in case of need.
Mary looked over the setup and showed her best crooked smile. "Nice
job, guy," she said to Deela.
"Why,
thank you, ma'am." The young man dropped his gaze in momentary
confusion, then stood back, but near enough to make himself
useful.
"All right, gather round,
kiddos." Mary gestured toward the multiply-hinged steel-topped
table that had been set up. "This here's what used to be known
as a 'fire table.' We've got a sackful of dead fir needles dumped
here and spread thin, and that represents fuel, which is what it is.
Think 'forest', 'kay?"
Heads nodded
earnestly.
"So, for our purposes, a fire
needs three things, fuel, heat, air – specifically oxygen, as a
rule, which is some stuff that's in the air. Plenty of oxygen in the
air above the table and mixed in with the fir needles. Some's trapped
in the needles themselves. Plenty of fuel here in th' needles –
mainly carbon. Combines pretty easily with the oxygen if heat in the
vicinity flashes beyond about two hundred thirty degrees Celsius. Got
that candle?"
A girl stepped forward,
her hand cupped around the flame.
"And
who are you, dear?" asked Dr. Mary.
"Ceel Perkins – Tomlinsons'."
"Pleased to meet ya. So, do you want to light the forest fire,
or shall I?"
"I'll do it,
ma'am."
"Cool. So pinch up a little
bit of 'fuel' out in th' middle of this section, here, and touch it
off for us."
Ceel did so and then
stepped back. A black circle formed on the table, less than two
inches across, and then grew slowly, leaving a graying center. Above
it, a blueish column of vapor and smoke, barely visible in the
morning light, rose vertically, with a pale, almost invisible flame
at its base.
"Now, kids, what you got
here," crowed Mary, with an imperious gesture, "is a
smallish forest fire. They all start small. Really small.
Right now you could smack this one out with the palm of your
hand."
The black ring inched
outward.
"On a flat, without wind, a
fire grows incrementally and concentrically." She looked up.
Hmm. Too many blank faces. "Y'all can interrupt when I
run off into twenty-Amero words. 'Kay, it grows slow and it grows on
all fronts th'same. See, there's no heat 'cept close to th' flame, so
nothin' burns except as it gets hot enough, 'cuz it's close enough.
Deela, y'wanna switch on that little fan, there?"
Deela came forward and twisted a pair of wire ends together. The tiny
blower at the end of the table, cannibalized from some old
refrigeration unit, buzzed into life. The black ring changed into an
oblong shape and picked up speed, growing toward the other end of the
table.
Mary picked up the long willow twig
that lay across the armrests of her wheelchair. She pointed. "Your
heat and oxygen travel with wind, and they pick up th' fuel as they
go. So always know where th' wind is. You're downwind from a
forest fire, it will come after you, faster than you can run.
So go sideways along th' fire front. If you can't beat it
around th' corner, run through it – if you can.
Fuel's already expended in here." She tapped the gray ashes.
"Fan off. Now, let's have a little 'fire on th' mountain'. About
a thirty-degree slope, please."
Deela
reached underneath the table and lifted the second and third
sections. The table legs dragged inwards.
"See, th' fire wants to keep running thataways even without th'
fan. It runs uphill because th' heat is driving up through th' fuel
from underneath, and pulling in th' oxygen behind it. A big enough
fire, or any fire on a slope, makes its own wind."
The
young man leaned forward and swept the fir needles off the raised
hinge with his thumb. The black line reached the top of the slope,
and, finding no fuel there, left off traveling in that direction,
growing instead to left and right along the edge and the entire
slope.
Mary nodded. "It's more
complicated in the hills. You can line around a fire if there's no
wind, but a big fire, a hill fire, or especially a big hill fire,
always has wind. And we're all hills here, so all wind all th'
time. On a ridge top sometimes your Jeeah – " she looked over
at the small contingent from Roundhouse – "or your Jesus –
will favor you, but th' trees are taller than these here fir
needles. Fire gets in the upper branches, it throws itself around.
Sparks cross your line and make spot fires on the other slope. Now
you're trapped. Ceel honey, let's light th' other side here, right in
th' middle."
Ceel brought the candle
again.
"See, it comes up to th' line
fast. Faster than th' big fire did. It's pulled toward the
crest by th' wind from th' other side. So you're toast. If you do
find yourself in this fix don't run uphill – it'll getcha.
Roast your lungs before you even get burned. Run sidehill or, last
resort, run right down through it and hold yer breath. But you c'n
use this scenario; if we burn up this side of th' hill
ourselves, from below, there's no fuel for th' big fire
when it gets here. S'called a backfire."
Mary looked around at the sober faces that surrounded her.
"Back in 'th' day, folks fought these things with airplanes that
dumped a fire-fighting powder on the flames, or they shot water out
of hoses from tank trucks – bigger than th' few garden hoses we
have left here; they cut down trees an' brush with chain saws an'
backfired 'em wi' drip torches, 'n pushed fire lines with bulldozers.
But they always tried to find an' hit th' fires when they were
little, to save all that trouble. They'd parachute out of
airplanes or rappel down from helicopters to find a little fire no
bigger than this one an' put it out with a couple shovelfuls of
dirt."
A palm raised. "'parachute?'"
"Oh, kind of a big umbrella thing; you
float down out of th' sky slow enough to usually not break a
leg."
Incredulous expressions all
round.
"Oh, c'mon, kids, have I ever
lied to you? Not often, anyways. Y'ever blow dandelion seeds?"
Nods.
"Same
thing. Now, y'see th' fire's still growing on all its edges except
downslope on our side of th' mountain. Nothing's gonna stop it till
it's out of one of its three requirements. With what we can do
nowadays, we're pretty much out of it as fire fighters. This thing
can get air all it wants. It has plenty of heat. It still has fuel.
It's gonna burn till it rains, basically. Rain, please."
Deela brought over a watering can and doused the table, sending up a
hissing cloud of steam.
"Questions?"
One of the men from Roundhouse, the young leader, stepped
forward.
"Could you, we, umm, use a
bulldozer?"
"We got ten or twelve
bulldozers, sonny, 'an they'll sit till doomsday without oil."
"Well – umm, this one's a little, a gasoline model. We, uhh,
we do use it."
"What, tweaked for
alky? You got that much?"
"No,
wood smoke."
"I'll be damned. I've
heard of that, but I bet nobody on th' Creek remembers how! So ... when
were ya gonna tell us about this prized possession?"
"Well ... kind of a state secret. But it seems like the thing to
talk about, after that ... dreadful storm."
"Sure, so ... ain't ya gonna need it up there?"
"We've used it for years, kind of sparingly, clearing ground
around the Roundhouse, primarily for defense – field of view.
That's all done. We tried plowing with it, but irrigation and weeds
have been big issues afterwards. So right now it's mostly sitting,
like yours. And Roundhouse is pretty fireproof."
"Say fire comes, eats up your whole valley, what then?"
He grinned. "Then we'd starve, likely. What else is new?"
"Same here, sonny, we'd all hide in 'th Ridge an' then come out
after th' cataclysm and watch a few sunsets till th' goodies run out.
We want to keep these fields intact if we can."
"So, maybe, we should bring our little 'cat' over here and cut a
line around your valley?"
"I don't
think we need a Council vote on that! Yes, please. How long do
you think it would take to get here?"
"Umm, I
leave right now, a day to get there, maybe half a day to mechanic,
rig up and supply, two, two-and-a-half days' return. Deerie would
have to cut her own trail to get to you; two mountains and a valley
full of second growth."
"'Deary'?"
Mary raised her eyebrows.
"One of the
old-timers could read. She said it said 'deer' on the side of the
engine cover, so we called her 'Deerie."
"Cute. A John Deere crawler! Didn't know they made 'em! So,
'Deerie' has a blade, then? ... that works?"
"Hydraulics are long gone, but we use a come-along to raise it.
Slow, but there it is. Oh, and a cage and drawbar, no winch."
"Oh-em-gee, you kids are the mannah – how long, do you think,
would it take to cut a fire trail around these farms? Assuming no
mechanical breakdowns?"
Josep's grin
faded. He looked around at Ball Butte, Maggie's Hill, and the distant
Cascades. "About a week, ma'am."
"Well I guess we'd better send you packin' right now!"
Mary rolled away toward hall with the Roundhousemen in tow. Class was
evidently dismissed.
Ceel blew out her candle
and tugged at Deela's sleeve. "Machinery is female?" she
asked.
He shrugged. "It's – kind of a
Before thing."
:::
Ellen
Murchison hobbled up the path, with her hazel walking stick, to the
compost windrows. There were now an even dozen of these, five feet
high and a hundred feet long, in the remaining flat ground between
Hall Farm and the looming bulk of Starvation Ridge. She passed an
idled bullock cart and found a bit of shade just beyond the end of
the freshest pile. Somewhere in that end, she knew, were the remains
of her husband, making his final contribution to the health and
welfare of the Creek. She eased herself painfully down onto a maple
stump and rested her chin on the head of her
stick, peering out at the dazzling sunlight from beneath the wide
brim of her peasant hat.
"Hey, Murch."
They had called each other that. She could easily imagine she heard
the bones' reply.
Hey, girl. What's up?
"Ahhhh, all hell. Kids are trying to kill each other on the sly,
and clean out us old timers too, I think. I smell 'regime change.'
Maggie's close to it somehow, Jeeah knows why. And then, there's
other stuff."
What's
that?
"Well, the young folks at Ridge and Ball Butte have triangulated
a good forty smokes out there. Some parties are going after the close
ones with axes, shovels, and rakes, but I think we're gonna finally
have the big one before it's over. The highs have been over a hundred
ever since the full moon, that's nine days in a row."
Go
to Ridge. What it's for.
"Well, sure. But after that, what will they all do? Hell, I'm
dying now,
Murch, I can feel it, somewhere down around my plumbing, same as you.
I'll probably have to check out, same way you did, you brave and good
man, you."
Coward's
way.
"Not any more, it's not. That's Before talking. They gave us the
'big green weenie,' but you, the day you thought you couldn't
contribute any more, you asked me to bring you that teenager's little
gun. I knew damn well what you wanted it for, and I brought it,
didn't I?"
Love.
"Yes, it was, damn you, Murch. I did that for you, and I guess I
hope any one here would do that for me. So what do we do if the
Valley burns?"
Rebuild.
"How? – with what? We're little more than a hundred now,
able-bodied that is, and all the building materials are in harm's
way."
Stay at Ridge. Crops close to the Creek, water in ditches. Long
poles.
"'Shadoof'. I remember now, I've seen those. We covered a lot of
ground, you and me."
Yes.
"It might not work. They're getting dispirited."
'JJ did tie buckle'.
"I had almost forgotten that one. Let's see: Justice, Judgment.
Dependability, Initiative, Decisiveness.
Tact, Integrity, Enthusiasm. Bearing,
Unselfishness, Courage, Knowledge, Loyalty, Endurance."
That's all there is. Teach it, over and over.
"And then?"
Nobody
lives forever.
"You and your 'Air Force salute.' Easy for you
to
say, I might point out."
A faint sound
reached Ellen in her reverie. She raised her head and squinted toward
Hall from beneath the hat brim. Someone, hatted and caped, was
trudging through the heat toward her. From the slightly lopsided
gait, it must be Karen of New Ames. She was carrying her gun belt in
her hand; it swung against the cape from inside.
"Here comes your protégé."
She
received, but had expected, no reply; the whole conversation had been
in her own head, she knew. Conversing with a hollow place in her
heart.
"Hey."
"Ma'am."
"Gotcha belt with
you."
"I feel a need to go armed.
But I'm getting too big around for the belt."
"We'll make you an ALICE."
"What's
that?"
"Well, now; they didn't have
those any more, not even in my day, but it's an easily made
load-bearing getup; suspenders combined with a belt, basically. In
fact, everyone should probably have one, now that you're re-arming us
with all the little pea-shooters. Might be good for firefighters,
too, come to think of it. Best way to carry drinking water if you
don't have 'camelbaks'. Those floppy belts that are all the rage
don't quite cut it, to my mind. Ask Avery."
"I will. Thank you."
"Sit?"
"Thank you."
"You're too
polite. What's on the belt, anyway?"
Karen brought it out and rested it on her knees. "Twenty-two
revolver, High Standard. Right-hand thumb-break holster,
cross draw. 'Magnum' double-edged knife, sheath, right hand side.
'USFS' water bottle, canteen cover, hip. Auxiliary pouch, hip, fifty
rounds black powder twenty two, wrapped." She recited this like
a lesson.
"You sound just like
Avery."
"I'm studying with Mr.
Wilson at the moment."
"Of course.
Nine rounds?"
"Yes."
"How's reliability now?"
"I
would expect seven of them to work. Not much oomph and messy to clean
up after, but good to go."
"'Good
enough for government work.' We're proud of you, Karen, this was what
we needed."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Looking at centerfire yet? I'd love to see reliable rounds for
our Pee-Nineties and Five-Sevens."
"What
are those?"
"Avery hasn't shown
them to you? There's a little armory at Ridge."
"I've seen it; but I didn't know what those were called."
"We were equipped with the little bullpups and matching pistols
in our guard service. Old designs but handy. Lasers, low recoil, and
some armor penetration."
"Umm, no,
ma'am, I haven't seen those rounds yet. Shotgun shells are next."
"Well, Jeeah knows there are plenty of shotguns lying around.
Every farmhouse, it seemed, had them."
"Yes."
"So, what made you
look for me here?"
The young woman
looked at her steadily.
"Well, we ... we
weren't much, compared to you two, but ... my guy is here too, you
know."
"Oh – oh-em-gee, Karen,
I'm so
self-centered. Please forgive me. Of course he is. They're both right
over there."
"Yes, ma'am. Side by
side."