by Kerr, Toni
The skillet in the sink needed some serious cleaning before he could use it for cooking, but he lit a small fire and used the tip of his knife to cook individual, mouth-watering, bite-size pieces. He was halfway down the hill to get the water jug when the distant hum of an airplane drowned all coherent thought.
Tristan raced back up the trail, stopping at the shack long enough to get the spyglass and matches on his way to the top of the mountain. He balanced himself at the highest point and found the plane making its way across the vast ocean. Why did it have to be so far away?
No time to waste. He gathered every dead twig, branch, and log, and tossed them to a pile against the nearest tree. He added pinecones, clumps of moss, and his own shirt, then struck the first match against the cardboard covering. It wouldn't light. "Come on!"
The second match stayed lit for only a few seconds before going out, leaving a trail of sulfur smoke in the air. Tristan held his breath with the third, holding the flame beneath a wad of dead moss. The clump began smoking, then burst into glorious flame. In the time it took to spot the plane again, the flame died to nothing.
"No!" He could have sworn the fire would take off. He tore off another match. "Come on…."
His chances were good. The moss was obviously dry enough. He held a burning match under blackened twigs and flames erupted again. He blew gently to keep it alive and pulled his shirt from the pile, using it to fan the flames from a greater distance until one of the sleeves caught on fire. He quickly stuffed the burning cloth under a few larger sticks.
Soon, half the tree burned strong, sending a rich, almost black trail of smoke into the sky. He rushed to the highest point on the mountaintop and searched for the plane, waiting for it to change directions. But there was no trace of it.
Shirtless, defeated, Tristan laid on a mound of rocks with the remaining matches clutched in his hand. Five. How long could he survive with five matches? He turned toward the roaring heat. His mouth fell open as his eyes grew wide with shock. A much bigger problem blazed before him—a raging inferno eating through the forest.
19
- PLAN B -
DORIAN THREW HER WORKBAG against the wall, upsetting a shelf of empty jars. They crashed to the floor and shattered. "You said death wouldn't follow him, and he burns half the forest!"
"Now, now," Gram said, using her grating parental voice. "It could have been worse and you said no one perished."
"Yet! No one's perished yet!" Dorian knelt to collect the glass. "Burned alive! Can you imagine the suffering? I can't repair those kinds of scars."
"Ah, Dorian. Fires happen naturally all the time, the trees will be fine with the scars. They might even flourish. See it as an experiment for the landscape."
"I hate you." Dorian left the remaining glass where it lay and slammed what she'd collected into the trash bucket. Oliver and Eric entered the workspace, blocking her exit, covered with a layer of soot. They had the nerve to be laughing.
Dorian clenched her jaw. "Get him off the island before I kill him."
"I think it was just an accident," Eric said, toning down his happiness.
"I do, too," Oliver added. "He even tried putting it out, but it just got out of hand. Might have been worse without last night's rain."
Dorian shoved Oliver as hard as she could. "Get out of my way."
"Hey now." Oliver's thick frame wouldn't budge. "I'm thinking the kid's okay. He did his best, even when it was obvious nothing would work."
"You were there? And you didn't put it out yourself? How long did you let it go on?"
"Dorian…. We didn't want to blow our cover. We could've put it out sooner, but we thought we'd let him give it a go."
"How could you!?" Tears ran down her cheeks and she shoved Oliver again, hoping to send him flying out the door. He caught her wrists and refused to let go.
"The kid tried to signal a plane, that's all."
"Then bring him a plane!" Dorian shouted.
"Not a bad idea." Oliver smiled, nodding his head toward Eric. He let go of her wrists and went to the sink to wash his hands. "Like that little seaplane we used last spring. What was it, some sort of Cessna?"
"Yeah," Eric said. "I think it's still around, just out of Anchorage. It probably hasn't run in a while, and we might want to have some fuel available for the return trip. But I'll help tune it up and we can have it here by tomorrow. Maybe by late morning if you take my cave shift."
"Soon enough for you?" Oliver asked Dorian. "And yes, I'll take the shift. It's not sleep, but I could use the down time."
"Now would be better." Dorian squeezed past Eric and stood on the back step, smearing the tears from her face. A haze of smoke rose from the hilltop in the distance, settling like a grotesque fog over the glassy surface of her lake.
"...and did you hear?" said a nearby shrub. "Naomi got to hold his hand! She's still swooning."
Dorian shook her head with disbelief. Instead of being upset, like herself, the plants were buzzing with excitement.
"What?" Dorian asked aloud, unable to comprehend the layers of drama unfolding between species.
"If you ask me," said a fern, "he'd have less damage if I was the one holding him."
"You're just jealous because your roots aren't strong enough to handle the rocks on that side."
"I can handle it over there just fine! Dorian! Can you move me? I promise I'll be twice as strong when you need me."
Dorian grinded her teeth at the mere thought. "Don't even consider it."
"I don't want to move," said Omero, the cedar, in his low husky voice.
"You can't be transplanted!" Dorian said. "Not at 80!"
The surrounding plants were stunned. "Why not?" they all asked.
"Mendel, and the others." Omero sighed. "They think they failed to make enough smoke and they want a second chance."
Dorian's jaw dropped. "Mendel wants to be set on fire again?"
"They all do."
"That does it. I've heard enough." Dorian stomped to her cabin and slammed the door behind her. Then opened it again. "Why? Why would they want to die for him?"
"Because he desires it," explained a honeysuckle vine in a sing-song voice. "Not the death, but the making of smoke."
"Don't you understand that being on fire will kill you?"
"It matters not," the vines sang. "It is his will."
Dorian fumed, disbelieving the level of infatuation. "I forbid any of you to die for that...that...pyromaniac! Got it? Spread the word before someone gets killed."
"It matters not what you forbid. He is our master."
"You have no master!" Dorian shouted. "He is nothing! You don't even know him!"
"It matters not—"
Dorian screamed with frustration and slammed the door shut again.
20
- PLAYING WITH FIRE -
TRISTAN LANDED ON HIS RIGHT HIP, starting an avalanche of loose gravel that carried him farther down the mountain in a cloud of dust. A root, much like a withered hand at first glance, reached for him. He grabbed on and eyed the top of the hill where he'd leapt through a wall of flames. So much for landing safely on the trail.
He shifted to his knees and crawled up the embankment, pulling himself with exposed roots until the ground leveled out.
Limping toward the shack, Tristan stopped to lean against the rock wall. His tongue and throat practically crackled with thirst. The water jug was still at the lake. Was that the brilliant plan when he jumped through flames? To race down to the lake for a gallon of water to put out a forest fire? Tiny, bitter-smelling stubs of hair on his arms itched like crazy. He examined his leg, glad scrapes and bruises weren't broken bones.
He trudged up the hill after a shaky breath, apprehensive about the monster he'd unleashed. The wind probably kept the fire and smoke from this side of the mountain, but if the winds changed…. Maybe time was more precious than he knew. Maybe he should pack up his things while he could.
Rounding the bend near the top, the fo
rest of thick green foliage shifted to blackened trees and sticks. Tristan held his hand over the scorched ground, not wanting to blister the soles of his only shoes. The black ash was cool to the touch. At least he wouldn't have to outrun flames anytime soon.
He rolled logs and overturned black clumps of branches in search of embers. Anything that might transfer and relight in the woodstove with a bit of coaxing, just to save matches.
It didn't make sense.
The fire was a roaring beast a few minutes ago. He dropped to his knees and dug at the base of a burnt tree, hoping for smoldering roots. Nothing.
Confusion outweighed the logical facts. A black, dead forest surrounded him. No smoke, no steam, no wind. Didn't fires usually smolder for days? They certainly didn't burn out this fast.
Tristan sat on his heels and rubbed his face, sticky with sweat, dirt, and ash. A bump on the side of his head stung, but the sun seemed to be in the right place, so he was pretty sure he hadn't hit his head hard enough to be knocked out for a full day. He buried his hands in the coals and shut his eyes. How could he keep track of the days when half of them were a blur?
Birds sang in the distance, a strange cheerful sound for the misery he was in. He'd have to hike all the way down to the lake for a drink of water and went to the shack instead.
Smoke lingered in the structure, decidedly better than the moldy smell of decaying wood. He pulled the remaining matches from his pocket and tossed them to the table. Matches were for more than heat—he needed them for cooking, too. Bright sunlight poured in from gaps between planks, showing repairs he should make before winter.
A fishing pole he hadn't noticed leaned in the corner, rust camouflaging its existence. Metal bubbled at the joints, but the reel seemed to be in solid working order, with plenty of line included. He scraped the crud from the guides with a shard of wood from the nearest floorboard, then set it aside.
Rest or food? His head pounded in time with his right hip. How easy it would be to curl up with the quilt and sleep. Besides, fishing would cost him another match. Stupid survival. He'd have to stick around to make sure the woodstove never went out. Ever.
Thirst finally won.
Tristan carried the rod down to the lake, not wanting to waste the trip, half surfing on the round pebbles of the trail. At least fishing should be easier with a real pole. It took a few times to get the casting, but his spirits soared when he reeled in a large trout.
Something behind him screeched. Tristan turned to see the falcon perched on a low limb of a nearby tree. He unhooked the fish and tossed it toward the bird as an offering of thanks. The falcon dropped like a rock, talons spread, then snared the flopping fish. It flew along the shoreline, with its reflection mirrored in the glassy surface.
Full of pride, yet sad that the bird didn't want to stay, Tristan watched him fly—straight toward a column of white smoke on the far side of the lake. He squinted to be sure, wondering if ash or embers could drift and reignite that far away. Not a chance.
He threw on a shirt, left the pole, and made his way along the lake, keeping his eyes glued to the smoke. He raked his fingers through his hair, skirting the boggy areas of the shoreline, and quickened his pace to a lopsided jog. He couldn't bear it if whoever it was got away without him.
The column of smoke had vanished, but he knew exactly where to go.
Studying the distant tree line along the water's edge, a million things fought in his mind. He should've cleaned the fish mess in the shack, should've returned the pole to where he found it, should've brushed his teeth. Maybe having the bowl would've identified him to the natives?
He left the shore to circle around, afraid he might be talking himself out of finding the natives, when a brilliant thought struck, cheering him significantly—he could use the magnifier from the spyglass to save matches.
A sense of foreboding choked out his moment of excitement. The birds he'd been hearing all morning fell silent. It seemed like he'd wandered too far when a whispered thought stopped him cold. After a few moments of silence, he continued up a slight incline until a distant hum vibrated through the trees. Birds took flight. Tristan held his breath as the sound drew closer. A plane? Now? Tristan scowled.
At the top of the incline, he overlooked a circle of rooftops and dropped to his knees to hide in the brush, shocked by the sight of a relatively modern civilization.
A variety of buildings surrounded a stone courtyard. Structures varied from Hawaiian style grass huts to brick and stucco. The entire village appeared deserted. He risked getting closer when a few straggling thoughts had him hiding again.
What's taking him so long?
Several other whispers overlapped. Were they expecting him?
For Pete's sake, what a bunch of cowards. The last thought came from a woman in the cottage made of round river stone.
But there's no one here, came a male reply. We don't have the numbers.
That much was obvious. Where were the people? Tristan looked for roads or paths that might lead in or out of the village and saw nothing. In a blink, five men suddenly stood in the center courtyard.
Tristan rubbed his eyes, concluding they must have come from one of the buildings. A log cabin with polished wood furniture on the front porch was the best logical choice, though he didn't believe they could cross that much distance without him noticing.
"Marvelous. My reputation precedes me." The largest man in the center of the group ran a hand over his disheveled hair, which hung in frazzled coils. He spoke to no one in particular, surveying the area. "Quaint. Tynan?"
Another man extended a bony finger toward the river-stone cottage. The three remaining men stood with their backs to each other, studying the other structures.
About time, the same woman thought.
Tristan liked this woman—she would be his first contact. He crawled backward until he could stand and snuck around the perimeter to get within earshot, surprised he'd circled enough to see the lake again. Maybe they'd seen him walking the shoreline?
The hum of the plane drew closer, much closer than the first time. Tristan stretched to see it through the canopy of trees, tempted to rush out and wave his arms. Not that it mattered at this point.
The screen door on the backside of the cottage was propped open with a brightly painted frog. Tristan smiled at the lack of 'tribal' and tiptoed into the room.
"I can't remember the last time I've been so insulted," said a man's voice.
"Even the best of us—"
"You're an old, old woman. Surely your ancient brain can fathom what you and your Dorian have cost me beyond the materials? I expect you to make it right today or, so help me, for the rest of your life you will never say another word, nor see a living soul."
Tristan watched the scene through a gap between wooden planks of a dividing wall. He could see the midsection of a man who was using something like a laser pen for a pointer. Without warning, a small portion of each row of shelves burst into flame, in a straight line from the pen to a hole the size of a basketball on the outside wall.
Tristan turned and held his breath, never expecting to see such technology here of all places. Still, he couldn't resist watching. The woman had to be the one he'd decided to make contact with.
"I'm sure you are aware," the woman said, sounding amazingly unruffled, "that even the smallest particles have incalculable effects. Why, even cleaning residue—"
"I told you that's absurd!" The man's foot shot up and kicked at the nearest row of shelves, tipping the entire case onto the next. Bags and wooden boxes crashed to the floor, glass containers shattered. "I demand to speak with your caretaker."
Tristan saw most of the man standing in a far corner by the door. He'd been the one who pointed out the cottage in the first place. He looked ill with some deadly disease, pale and skeletal. His skin was practically blue. Tristan could see the three men talking amongst themselves in the center courtyard through a window, paying no attention to the commotion.
"Do
rian is the caretaker and as I have already stated…she cannot be reached. You may take anything you wish, but I cannot guarantee better results."
The woman gasped as she slammed against the shelves, diagonally from where Tristan stood, sending more boxes and glass to the floor. Her hands clutched at her throat.
Tiny and fragile, the woman wasn't at all what he'd expected. Ringlet wisps of silver hair hung loose around her face and a long thick braid, intertwined with a dark green ribbon, hung to the small of her back. Her eyes squeezed shut. If she looked to her left, she would have seen his horrified expression not more than four feet away.
"I could break you and nobody would do a thing about it." The man squashed a bundle of dried stems, making a fatal crunching sound. "I doubt anyone on this pathetic island would care if you suddenly went missing." The man turned to yell out the front door. "Will no one help an old woman?" He cocked his head and pointed the laser pen at the sky. The engine of the plane sputtered into silence.
The woman struggled with more force while the sickly looking man stood silent, cowering against a far wall.
Tristan had taken a lot of beatings in his life, but he couldn't stand by and watch someone take advantage of an old woman. What if she ended up murdered like Gwenna?
He stepped forward without planning what he would say. "I would care if—" Tristan stopped abruptly, recognizing the man who whirled to face him. In the same instant, air consolidated into a dense wall around him.
21
- BLAST FROM THE PAST -
TRISTAN HELD UP HIS HAND and stretched out his fingers, expecting the thick waves of rippling air between him and the intruder to feel like Jell-O. But it felt like nothing. No temperature change, no gooeyness, no resistance that he could detect.
The woman beside him fell to the floor while the jars from the shelf above toppled beside her. Tristan didn't dare take his eyes from the man to see if she was okay, afraid the intruder would make his move if he did. He fought to bring the man's features into focus through the distortion, determined to be ready for anything.
