Again and again the buckets were taken and filled, taken and filled. It seemed like hours had passed, though I knew they’d not. The sky above was as dark as ever, and Mama hadn’t even returned from the supply shed.
My shoulders ached, and a dull pain spread across my back, throbbing with every gasp for air. I glanced toward town. Surely someone had seen the flames by now. We couldn’t keep fighting this on our own.
When a sharp gust of wind raced across the field, it ripped through the fire, shattering it into sparks and carrying the embers away. Some of the falling cinders took root on the far side of the house, and Papa raced after them. Mustering the last bit of strength left in my trembling limbs, I bolted off to help.
“Why isn’t anyone coming?” I shouted over the crackling roar. After I emptied the bucket, I used it to scoop dirt onto the blaze that remained. “Cyrus and Rebecca must smell it, even if they’re asleep.”
The firelight’s shadows cast the swelling and crags of Papa’s face into sharp relief as he frowned, like a gargoyle come to life. “That bridge has burned, Ellerie.” He snorted over his poor choice of words but kept beating at the flames. “We need more water! Take these and go,” he said, tossing me his pails.
Merry was at the pump, filling up the wheelbarrow, and I took the moment to push sweaty, sooty hair from my forehead. I was light-headed, dizzy, and breathing in more smoke than air.
This wasn’t working.
The world seemed to tip on its axis as a series of ragged coughs ripped my chest open. With watery eyes, I watched Sam’s and Sadie’s silhouettes in front of the flames. They almost seemed to be dancing. Stars swirled across my vision, angry dots of white and lightning blue. Merry was suddenly around me, her arms clinging to me as the coughs racked my frame.
Through my nauseous stupor, I spotted two shapes, far across the fields, set away from the burning chaos.
Whitaker.
Whitaker and a man even taller than he was, wearing a strange, black top hat.
The other trapper Sam had met.
“We saw the flames all the way from our campsite,” Whitaker said as they raced toward us. “Go help the little one along the edge of the field.”
The man in the top hat nodded once and disappeared into the sizzling dark.
Whitaker’s attention fell to me. “What can I do?”
Another series of coughs sputtered up, and I curled around my knees, unable to answer.
“She’s breathed in too much smoke,” Merry said, her hand rubbing circles at my back. “Can you stay with her? Sam needs the wheelbarrow.”
Whitaker was already hoisting the handles. “I’ve got it; you look after Ellerie. I’ll be back for those buckets.”
Merry nodded gratefully. I struggled to sit up, watching him go.
“Water,” I said, raspy and raw. “Please.”
She brought a half-filled pail to my lips. The cold water soothed my throat, calming back the coughs. After a few deep breaths, I struggled to my feet, ignoring the small voice inside pleading to rest. “I need to get back to Papa. Keep pumping the water, Merry. Keep…” I trailed off, another cough bubbling up. With a groan, I took up the buckets once more.
“The trappers spotted the fire,” I told Papa as I returned to the side yard. “Others in the town must have too. More could be on their way.”
As if in response, shouts rose, caught on the wind. It was our neighbors and friends, hurrying to the farm and ready to help. They carried old tarps and buckets, spades and metal cans. Dr. Ambrose, still wearing his nightcap, held his medicine bag in one hand and a pail in the other.
“Stay with this fire?” Papa ordered before rushing to meet them.
He broke the volunteers into groups as they reached our property, sending most to fight the flames at the edge of the fields. Others formed a bucket brigade to help pass water more quickly. Over the crackles and pops of the inferno, Papa shouted that he was going to check on the hives.
Out of water and without a blanket, I stomped at the patch of fire nearest me, kicking sprays of dirt over it. Every part of me ached. I had a strange sense of dissociation, my hands and feet repeating the same motions over and over while my mind slipped into some sort of hazy, waking sleep. The yard was a sodden mess of scorched grass and mud. The flower fields were a lost cause, too far gone to salvage, but at least the bees were safe. And our house. And the shed.
The shed.
Mama.
I scanned the yard, trying to spot her nightgowned form.
Suddenly, above the swirling chaos, I heard Papa scream.
“The bandages, Ellerie, please,” Dr. Ambrose requested, already holding out his hand.
Eagerness to comply flustered me, and in my haste, I knocked one of the metal instruments off the tray. It clattered onto the bed, nearly striking the figure on top of it.
No.
Not the figure.
My mother.
Mama.
What was left of her.
Sparks from the fire had landed on the supply shed while Mama was inside searching for the hives’ warming blankets. By the time Papa had spotted the flames, it had been too late to stop the inferno.
Dr. Ambrose said she must have fainted, her lungs filled with the heat and smoke. The ceiling had fallen in and a beam had crashed down, pinning her legs in place as the fire had begun to devour her. We’d had to cut the remains of her nightdress away, carefully peeling back sections where the cotton had fused with her skin.
The cotton wasn’t always the only thing that ripped free.
I tried not to acknowledge the blackened skin, the way it split and flayed back, revealing bloody muscle and white tendons. My eyes avoided the clusters of blisters swelling on her like heads of mottled cauliflower. And I completely refused to focus on the burn wrapping around her neck, like a fiery hand had taken hold of her and squeezed. Dr. Ambrose said it was only an illusion, simply the way the fire had traveled across her skin, but once I’d spotted the five fingers seared into her flesh, I couldn’t envision anything else.
I looked at her face instead.
Her eyes were closed and her forehead tightened in pain, but it was still my mother’s face, whole and untouched. Whatever else the fire had taken from her, her face was still hers, and hers alone.
Papa had been certain she was dead. He, together with Matthias and Leland, had lifted the heavy rafter, burning their hands in the process. Papa hadn’t even noticed. He’d scooped Mama’s limp body from the burning cinders and carried her out into the night, releasing his grief in howls so loud that they’d echoed across the valley.