Fire

With record-breaking forest fires burning across the country as we experience a prolonged drought in the Maritimes, it is time to post a short story I wrote a few years ago.

You wake up with a start. Something is not right.

You know that sound. You know that smell.

You rush over to your partner and wake her. With a nudge, she gets up and looks at you invitingly until she, too, recognises that sound. Then she, too, notices that smell.

There is no time. The two of you try to get away, heading toward a lake that you know to be near. Your way is blocked, you cannot get to that lake.

Together, you start running toward the only reference point visible: the dark orange sun.

You hear a very loud roar overhead and look up. Something large, noisy, and yellow flies by just above the tops of the trees. As it passes, water falls from its belly landing violently near you. You jump back, startled, raising your tail and revealing its white underside to your nearby partner. She jumps, too, then jumps again reacting to your warning signal.

The acrid smoke is starting to bother you. You are having trouble breathing. You are having trouble seeing. You and your mate continue toward the sun, hoping to find a way around the heat, looking for the route to the water you know is there.

It is getting hotter. You are getting tired. Your antlers, larger this year than last, weigh you down, slowing you and catching on branches, violently twisting your head as you run as fast as you can through the forest.

You have been through this before -- once, when you were very young. Your mother taught you not to stop, not to look back, to just keep going -- toward the sun, if possible. Your mother had gotten you through, but been badly hurt in the process, the memory forever burned into your mind, revisiting you often in your sleep.

You continue on in the hope that you are almost to safety. You suffer flashbacks as you hear the same crackling nearby you heard all those years ago, the same smell etched indelibly into your mind. Somehow, this time, it feels more real; you wish your mother was there to guide you once again.

The fire is closing in. You are in pain. Your hooves are starting to ache and blister from the heat. You are running out of time. You are running out of options.

You call out to your mate, hardly able to see through the thick black smoke. You hear no response.

You stop abruptly.

Where is she, you ask yourself.

You call again, louder this time. The background noise is overwhelming; the foreground silence is deafening.

You must decide: press on or go back? She is probably just trying to keep up. She is pregnant, weighted by the next generation, your last fawn having only recently left on her own. Why did you let yourself get ahead of her?

There is no option. You must help her find her way out of this forest; it is the forest you brought her to, the one that you are familiar with, one that she is still learning her way around.

You make your decision -- the only possible decision -- and you go back along your track, back toward the heat you have tried so hard to escape. The ground has changed from when you came through here just moments ago. You continue to call out, ever more desperately, still hearing no response.

You trip hard, but regain your balance. You look down. Your last bit of energy is drained: It is your mate.

She does not react.

You know.

You lick her face and nudge her, willing her vainly to stand and continue. Your grief is immediate and it is overpowering. But time is running out; the fire will not wait. You have a basic urge to survive. You look at her, rest your snout on hers for this moment, knowing there will not be another, and force yourself away.

You continue toward the sun, its dark shape disappearing toward the horizon. You cannot stop. You must not stop.

The sun sets, but it does not get dark. Instead, the sun appears to be in every direction as the deep orange glow of the melting forest surrounds you. You are no longer sure which way to go.

You hear the roar again. You look up toward the fast-moving sound, but this time you cannot see anything. You hear the crash and the splash close to you, very close. You head toward the sound.

A dark, wet path appears through the flames. There is a lake you know, the lake you have been trying to find. Your eyes sting, your hooves hurt, but this is the only way through the fire; you hope it is also the way to the lake.

You stumble into the lake; it was much closer than you expected. You rest your hooves in the water. You are still feeling hot, and as you take a moment to breathe, your numerous burns announce themselves as they make contact with the water. The pain is intense. You must keep going; you are not completely out of the woods quite yet.

The walk is long on the water's edge, but the air is breathable as the smoke curls over you and settles offshore. The fire is only to one side. It is getting less intense; you are slowly but surely putting it behind you.

As the sun rises, you find a meadow. You fall asleep in the middle of the clearing, in a cool area close to the lake. You are too drained even to dream.

You wake up. The air is cool. The sun is now high up and behind you. You went the right way. You ache everywhere and feel a bizarre sense of euphoria.

You travel a little bit further away from the sun and find a stream feeding the lake.

You pause to think about your mate, about the fawn you were about to have. The pain of these thoughts is greater than that of your legs. You wonder what you could have done differently, whether her loss is your fault. You took her to your forest -- and then you left her behind.

But you cannot change what happened. You must be prepared to carry on, to heal, to regain your strength. There will be time to remember.

You dip your snout into the lake at the water's edge and take your first drink since your ordeal began.

You can feel the water spread throughout your dried out body as you drink your fill.

You look in the calm water and see your reflection.

You are alive.

You hear a sound. You look up with a start. Something is not right.

You see me. I am holding up my rifle. I fire.