The Truest Pleasure (32 page)

The fire had a mind of its own. I watched it burn this way and that, swirling around and backing. It didn't always answer the breeze. Sometimes it would pause on the stalk of an indigo bush and run high, then leap to the next tuft of broomsedge. Then it would stop and go down to the roots. A piece of the fire started burning backwards in a patch of dried crabgrass and come almost to my feet. I kicked dirt on the flames and they smoldered out.

“Go back to the house,” I yelled to Pa. I had to run to the left, to the end of the fire, and see what Tom was doing. But just then I looked down the hill in the blinding sunlight and there was Jewel holding the baby and Moody leading little Muir. They had come to the fence and stood watching us. Jewel held the baby like she was one of her dolls. Moody was aiming his finger like a pistol and making Muir fall down in the grass.

“Stay back,” I hollered. But Jewel didn't answer. She was as stubborn and sullen as Tom when she wanted to be. “Stay out of the pasture,” I yelled.

I could not see the end of the line of fire, and the trees and top of the hill was all hid by smoke.

“Tom,” I hollered, as I run along the edge of the flames. Burning grass has a sweet smell, like baked dirt, and also a bitter taste, like the smoke of paper. I was out of breath from running, and the smoke made me cough. “Tom,” I shouted, but all I could hear was the seethe and crackle of flames.

I run along the bottom of the fire to get around it. Little fires had spread into the grass downhill and I tried to stomp them. When I got to the end of the flames I saw Tom shoveling the sod. He had cut a ditch, throwing dirt in a belt that wouldn't burn. His face was red and he was soaked with sweat. He had lost his hat. He shoveled like he was trying to stop a flood.

“Tom!” I hollered. He pointed to a mattock behind him, which I grabbed and started digging. The ground was hard and dry under the grass. We was so close to the woods leaves had drifted into the pasture. There was dry leaves to burn as well as grass and broomsedge. I tried to rake dirt onto the leaves.

As the fire got closer smoke poured right into my face. I was sweating something terrible. The smoke stuck to me and sweat dripped into my eyes. The dirt was so dry I thought it might catch fire itself. If the ditch didn't stop the fire it would get into the woods. I didn't know how we would fight it there.

“Throw some dirt here,” Tom hollered, and pointed to where the ditch was narrow with grass right to its lip. I dug deeper into the ground and raked the dirt onto broomsedge. But no matter how much dirt I spread over it the stalks still showed through.

The fire was so close now I could feel the heat pushing, though I couldn't see anything through the smoke. To get out of smoke I held my head down low. The whole day had clouded over.

“Get it there!” Tom said, and pointed up the hill to a place the fire was almost at the ditch. We run up there and while he throwed dirt on the foot of the fire I widened the ditch, chopping at the sod with the mattock. Again the smoke got in my face and I coughed so hard I had to stop for a second.

“Ain't no use,” Tom said. He pointed to a place further up the hill where the fire was already at the rim of the ditch. We run up there and started throwing and raking dirt.

But the grass was so dry fire leaped whenever the wind hit it. Flames washed along the ground in a wave spilling from tuft to tuft. When wind hit the flames they rolled forward, catching the tops of stalks and burning downward as other flames leapfrogged over them. The fire was playing with us. When we attacked it one place, it swung around and jumped ahead somewhere else.

“There!” Tom said. He pointed to a fire that had caught on the other side of the ditch. I rushed to it and raked the spot bare. It was like trying to kill a wild animal that twisted and fought back. I scraped at the dirt till the fire was out.

“Yonder!” Tom hollered. We run back up the hill and attacked another spot that had started in the hickory leaves. Tom pitched one shovel of dirt after another on the smoking leaves.

The fire was so close we couldn't stay near the ditch. The heat was blistering. A rabbit run out of the brush to the woods. “It's too late,” Tom said. Spots of fire was catching across the ditch. I was too out of breath to say anything. Tom stomped out a flame with his boots. “Ain't nothing to do,” he said.

I raked at another little fire with the mattock. All up and down the line new fires was catching in leaves and broomsedge. The smoke was so thick I was going to have to run to get out of its way. There was no way to stop the fire from reaching the woods. I was going to holler at Tom to run, when I saw the smoke lean back from us. It had been in our faces and now it jerked away. The wind had changed and was pushing from
behind. Leaves from the hickories poured out over the pasture. I rested on the mattock. It was providence that the wind had changed just in time. “It's an ill wind . . . ,” I said and laughed.

“Maybe the fire will burn out,” Tom said, “going back over its own track.”

But the fire was not going back exactly the way it had come. It had run around the hill from below, and now it was turned and going higher still, like it had come to a switchback and was zigzagging. It was heading across the hill above the spring.

“We'll have to dig a new line,” Tom said. “I figure the fire will cross the pasture just above the orchard.”

“Maybe the road will stop it,” I said. There was a wagon track that wound up the hill to the woods above Joe's house. We used it to haul in firewood. Tom picked up the ax and other shovel.

I thought of Pa. He had been fighting the fire almost on the other side. When the blaze turned did it rush back on him? He was too old to run. If he was confused by the smoke he might walk right into the fire. With smoke in his eyes and lungs he wouldn't think clear. I started running along the lower edge of the burn.

With the smoke leaning in the other direction it was like looking up the side of some high rippling tent. The smoke was silky and gray and billowed way above the pasture higher than any house. It looked thick enough to climb on.

“Pa!” I hollered as I run around the hill. Where the fire had burned, the ground was both black and white at once. The charred stalks was black and the ground was sooty, but the
ashes rippled light as petals of white roses. Roots and tufts still smoldered.

“Pa!” I hollered again, but couldn't see anything but smoke ahead. Where I had left him was all burned over. There was a burning pine limb, but I couldn't tell if it was the one he had been using. I saw a dead bird and a burned field mouse.

“Mama!” somebody hollered. It was Jewel. She had crossed into the pasture and carried Fay up the hill. Moody and Muir come right behind her. The baby was crying.

“Did you see the outlaws?” Moody said.

“Go back,” I hollered.

“What are you doing?” Jewel said.

“Go back to the fence,” I screamed.

But Jewel just stood there with the baby. I guess she had never seen anything like the pasture on fire. If the wind changed again the fire might burn the very grass where her and the younger ones was standing. I throwed down the mattock.

“Go back to the fence,” I shouted and pointed downhill. But she just stood there, like she didn't hear me, like she was too stunned to know what was going on. I bent down and grabbed her shoulder. I found myself shaking her. “Go back!” I yelled.

“Bang, bang,” Moody said, and pushed Muir down.

Jewel started to cry. But she did finally turn around and start walking toward the fence. Moody and Muir followed her.

I picked up the mattock and run around the burned pasture toward the orchard. There was little fires here and there.

“Pa!” I hollered.

I climbed through the fence into the orchard and run through the cornstalks and Spanish needles toward the upper
end. Ears of corn hit my elbows and I stumbled on the terraces. The cows had got through the fence and was eating corn under the apple trees. I reckon the fire had burned down part of the fence.

As best I could tell the fire was crossing the hill. Wind had pushed it along the side toward the holler where the spring was. I thought maybe the fire would stop when it got to the top of the hill. I didn't see any sign of Pa.

Just beyond the orchard was the pine thicket, which run almost to the spring. I knowed if the fire got in the thicket with all its sap and dry needles it would burn like hell itself.

“Pa!” I hollered again. I thought maybe he had drove the cattle into the orchard. But I didn't see any sign of him. I looked back down the hill, but he wasn't there among the plums and pear trees either. I didn't see Jewel, and figured she had took the younguns back to the lower fence.

“Pa!” I hollered again. I thought I heard an answer, but maybe it was just the roar of fire, and busting pine knots. The sweat was in my eyes so I couldn't hardly see. I rubbed my brow and saw how black my hands was. There was a shortness in my lungs, as if the sores from last winter, the scars, was irritated.

The pine thicket sounded like a furnace, or shoal water. I run down the far edge of the orchard. If I could reach the road I could get to the other side of the fire. Surely the blaze wouldn't cross the widened road.

The spring was in a holler on the far side of the hill. There was pines above and below the gully where the spring branch run, but hemlocks stood right over the spring protecting it from sun and undergrowth. Nothing much will grow under
hemlocks, though the needles will fill up the spring if you don't rake them out.

I wanted to get to the spring before the fire reached there. I figured Pa must have gone to the spring for a drink. The flames roared in the thicket like animals fighting. I run up the road to get ahead of it, but was too late. The fire had leaped across the pines and surrounded the spring. It looked like the hemlocks might be catching. Smoke rose from right around the spring.

“Pa!” I hollered.

The pines in front of me was burning and I couldn't get any closer. I tried to see through the smoke and flames, but it was too thick. The pines burned like kindling.

And then I remembered the spring branch. The branch was lined with willows and maples. They would not burn so fast. I run further down the hill and got in the branch. Knocking limbs out of the way I run right up the stream, splashing through pools.

When I got close to the spring all the leaves and bushes was burning. Fire had just reached the hemlocks and was climbing among twigs and limbs above the water. The big branches of the hemlocks hung too high for the flames to reach at first. The fire spread along the ground among sticks and little limbs.

“Pa!” I hollered.

Then I saw him. He was setting right in the spring. He had hunkered down and was flinging handfuls of water over his hair and down his back. Flames leaped across the branch, and it was like I saw him through waving flags. He was in a ring of fire, and I didn't see how to get to him. I thought he might smother on smoke, for the hemlock needles sent up a poison-looking cloud.

“Breathe through your handkerchief,” I hollered. I knowed he always carried a handkerchief in his hip pocket. But I don't think he heard me at all. He was too busy sprinkling water over his shoulders and the fire was crackling loud in the brush.

“Lord, please save Pa,” I prayed. I knowed he had gone to the spring because he thought the fire wouldn't come down into the holler. “Don't let Pa die in this hell,” I said.

Smoke slapped into my face. The flames wasn't more than ten feet away and coming right toward me. The fire was busy in the leaves and undergrowth. There was black gum trees with crisp leaves along the branch. I had to decide where to run back down the branch and get away, or run forward to the spring. Brush was burning on both sides and burning leaves was falling all around me. To get to Pa I had to run between the flames.

I lowered my head and splashed forward, right between the burning bushes. I run under the smoke with my hand over my nose.

Pa didn't seem surprised when he saw me. But first thing he said was, “You should have stayed back.” He was setting on a rock at the rim of the spring dripping with the water he had flung over hisself. His beard and hair was wet.

“Pa,” I said.

“Get low and sprinkle yourself,” he said.

I stooped down right in the branch.

“Splash yourself,” he said. He throwed handfuls of water at my face and hair. I rubbed the cold drops over my neck and shoulders. The water felt good, and melted the soot on my hands.

The fire was burning right to the bank above the spring. It was like we was inside walls of flames. Smoke reached over us and the air was full of sparks and burning leaves. I got down so my face was almost in the spring. Burning leaves and sticks hissed when they fell in the water.

“I done this once before,” Pa said. “In Virginny, during the war.” He talked calm as if he was setting on the porch. “The cannon shots set the woods afire. Wounded men, and men that was trapped, got burned up. I started running and bullets was flying through the trees. Cannons was blasting the tops of trees off. I crawled to stay out of the grapeshot. But the fire got so close to my butt I had to up and run. Wind was whipping the fire and I jumped right into a spring. I got down in the water and splashed myself. The fire roared over me. When it was gone the only thing burned was my eyebrows cause my wet hat protected my hair.”

Smoke was all around us, and it didn't feel like there was any air to breathe, but Pa didn't seem scared at all. I put my apron over my mouth and breathed through it. “Put your sleeve over your mouth,” I said. Pa started coughing and his face got red.

“Breathe through your sleeve,” I hollered.

“The fire's done passed,” Pa said.

I looked up and there was nothing but smoke all around us. I couldn't see any flames. But the smoke was thicker than ever. “Glory be praised,” I said. But then I started coughing. It was as if the smoke went right to the bottom of my lungs. My eyes streamed and I coughed so hard I felt I was going to throw up.