Ivory and Bone(61)

I hobble at first, then shuffle, until finally, nearing the summit, I run. I wince with every step, but still, I run.

As I reach the crest of the hill—the spot that marks the halfway point in the trail—the sight of the sky confuses me. Dark gray clouds move surprisingly quickly across the bright blue sky. They roll and puff like storm clouds, and at first I think I sense it—the fresh cool wetness on the breeze that precedes a storm. But another scent overwhelms the coolness—a stinging sharp scent that burns my throat.

Smoke.

Half running, half sliding on loose gravel underfoot, I speed down the trail that now descends sharply before it makes its first switchback since the summit. From here, I get my first view of my camp. The neat circle of huts, each one glowing with red and orange flames. Each one emitting a plume of black into the sky.

The ring of huts has become a ring of fire.

Wind sweeps across the valley floor and rises up the steep face of the cliff at my feet. It carries with it the heavy, oily scent of burning hides. A strong gust rattles the still-bare branches, speckled with pale green buds, and smoke mixes into my hair. Another blast hits me hard in the face, my eyes stinging and swelling, blurred by thick tears that streak down the sides of my nose. My lips dry and swell like blisters.

A shadow passes over my head—a large bird is circling, a buzzard—and I startle out of a trance I’d fallen into. How long have I been standing in this spot, riveted by the horror of the scene at my feet? I can do no good standing here. I drag my eyes away and force myself to keep moving.

The farther I descend into the valley, the thicker the smoke becomes. Cinders fly by in the breeze—pieces of charred hide and tiny flecks of wood, glowing red-hot as they spin through the air. As I run, a few sear the skin of my face and hands, but I brush them away and keep moving.

I emerge from the trees at the foot of the trail and walk right into a wall of heat. Sweat pools at my neck and runs down my back. The air is so thick I fear it will choke me.

I allow myself to turn my face to the water for three breaths—just three breaths. No more. As I gulp in cool air, I notice that the beach and bay are empty—there’s not a single sign of Lo’s clanspeople or their boats. I fill my lungs once, twice, three times. Then I turn and run up the path to the camp that from here is visible only as a red glow at the top of the rise.

As I move closer to camp, voices reach my ears—voices vibrating with panic and fear. The roar of flames drowns out words, but I manage to pick out shouts from my father. He is calling for everyone to move away and head for the water.

Yet no one is listening. Alongside each hut, dangerously close to the flames that dance across the surface of the hide coverings, people are moving—digging, scooping up dirt and throwing it at the fire, frantically trying to extinguish the blaze. My uncle Reeth and his family work to save the kitchen. My brothers and mother use broad flat stones from the hearth to fling dirt at our own hut. Even my father, still shouting for people to give up the fight and retreat to the beach, is helping Kara, the widow whose hut stands next to ours.

I have never seen—never even imagined—so much flame. A spark from the hearth sometimes spreads to a pelt, a wall of the kitchen once caught fire, but never have I seen flames like these. My aunt Ama and her sons run by, carrying full waterskins from the beach, but all the water they can carry has little effect. The trip to the beach is too far. By the time they fetch more, the flames have only grown.

All around me, shouts are punctuated by coughs as people choke on the smoke that swirls and circles, coating and covering everything, rising high above our heads. I look up, my eyes drawn to a darkening pillar of smoke that stretches to the sky, when I realize with a start that it isn’t a pillar of smoke at all.

It’s a storm cloud. A dark storm cloud rolling in quickly from the north.

The scent of an approaching storm . . . I had noticed it on the peak but then had all but forgotten it. If only it were closer. But watching the clouds roll in, I know they won’t come in time. At the rate the fire is burning, the camp will be nothing but cinders before the rain reaches it.

A hand grabs my shoulder. I turn to see my brother Roon beside me, his face bright red and his hair soaked with so much sweat it appears he’s been swimming. “Help me,” he says. He tugs on my parka like a child. “Come with me to the beach.”

His eyes are wide. Is he panicking? I want to help him, but my head spins around as I take in the image of my family and friends, each one desperately working. It might all be in vain, but I know I have to help them. “I can’t,” I say. “You go and rest. I’ll be there soon.”

“No!” Roon’s eyes blink rapidly. He grabs my shoulders with both hands and shouts into my ear, “I have an idea to put out the fire, but I can’t do it alone.”

I pull back and study his face when cold water drips from his hair onto my hands. Icy rivulets run down his face. His parka is soaked.

What I’d thought was sweat is seawater. He’s been in the sea.

“I have an idea!” he says again, gripping my shoulders even tighter.

I nod, and without another word he turns and runs. It’s all I can do to keep up as he races to the water.

There, half submerged and half resting on the gravel beach, is a two-man kayak. When I get close enough I see that it is filled with water.

He’s trying to bring all this water—more than a hundred waterskins—to the fire.