Alan Russell - Burning Man

There was a channel running through the grove that was crisscrossed by other smaller conduits. At one time the land might have been irrigated. I made for an area ahead of the fire and then gathered anything that might be combustible, clearing a ten-foot-by-ten-foot area of all its mulch, dried grass, twigs, and branches. Then I spread my gathered tinder along a line and lit a match. Either the wind, or my shaking hand, extinguished the flame.

I opened the matchbox again, and several of the matches spilled to the ground. It took me three attempts to successfully strike a match, but the sparking and glow lasted only a moment, and once more the flame died out.

The fire was coming at me, reaching out with its heat and smoke and roar. I chafed at the irony of not being able to start my own fire. In Catholic grade school, I remembered Sister Bernadette reading the class “The Little Match Girl.” I was nine years old, and I don’t think I’d ever heard such a sad story. When Sister Bernadette finished reading, I did my best to hide my tears from my classmates. I didn’t buy Sister Bernadette’s explanation that by striking her matches the girl had been able to illuminate an unseen God, and she was helped to go to a better place. I just remembered the image of a bareheaded and barefoot girl freezing to death on the last day of the year.

I struck another match and failed again. Now I was getting angry. I’d already gone through half the matches. I tried again, and this time the grass lit. I blew gently, added some kindling, and the fire caught. It wanted to be fed, so I added more twigs. When the line of tinder started to burn, I pulled down a dead avocado branch and held it out to the fire. It took maybe half a minute for my makeshift torch to catch, and then I started walking around the space and igniting all the material I’d gathered.

The big fire was drawing close. I threw down my torch and ran to a denuded spot along the channel and began to dig. I wondered if I was digging our grave. We would need a bunker to survive the fire. Sirius took a spot next to me. I didn’t know the command for “dig,” but he worked without being told, and the dirt began to fly. I clawed and he dug in a desperate race against the licking fire. Smoke clawed at our noses and lungs, but we kept digging. And then the fire was too close. There was too much smoke to effectively see if my backfire had worked. If enough vegetation had burned, maybe we’d have haven enough from the nightmare around us.

I called Sirius to get into the hole we’d dug, and then I piled dirt all around its top, trying to make a barricade to ward off the blaze. The fire kept coming, getting nearer and nearer until I was forced to jump into our foxhole, where I held Sirius close and tried to shield him from the flames.

The locomotive didn’t kill us.

That’s how I described it to Seth when he visited us in the hospital. I said as the fire passed over, it felt like I was lying between railroad tracks with a locomotive sweeping by overhead, and nothing separating me from death. All I could do was to wait it out. The sound almost drove me from our hole; the voice of fire is a terrible thing. It raged and roared, and all the while the wind blew dirt and debris and embers at us. I held on to Sirius as the flames swept past us and took their toll. I don’t know how long our torment lasted, but the locomotive finally passed us by.

It left burns all over my back, neck, and arms, but I was alive.

Later, I was told how lucky we were. My backfire might, or might not, have helped us survive. More than anything else, the location of our foxhole probably saved us. It was down low and far enough away from the trees that we were spared from the fire. William Cummings was right: there are no atheists in foxholes.

For three days we’d been at the burn unit. Strings had been pulled from above, and Sirius and I were allowed to share the same hospital room. Officially, Sirius was my Seeing Eye dog. My burns were much worse than his, as they should have been. It was my fault for putting both of us in the middle of a fire. Still, we came out of our second fire walk in much better condition than we had our first. Our burns weren’t life threatening, and it looked as if I’d avoid adding any new scarring to the old. But then the old were bad enough and didn’t need the help.

Gump had stopped by the hospital a few times, so I wasn’t surprised when he appeared unannounced once again.

“I was thinking of bringing you a plant,” he said, “but they didn’t have any poison ivy.”

“Don’t worry. Your presence is toxic enough.”

Gump took a seat next to me and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. “You want a drink? I smuggled in a hip flask.”

“I better not. Nurse Ratched checks in on me frequently.”

We talked, and Gump got around to his purpose for being there. I answered more questions about the case, and then I must have drifted off. I’d been doing that for a few days. When I awakened, Gump was gone, but I traded up. Lisbet was there.

In all her visits to the hospital she had never arrived empty-handed, despite my telling her that she was all I needed. This time the aroma gave away the secret of what she had brought.

“Pumpkin bread,” I said.

“It was fresh out of the oven when I picked up a loaf.”

“It would be a sacrilege if we didn’t eat some now.”

“I figured you might say that,” Lisbet said and pulled some paper plates and plastic cutlery from her bag. She cut each of us a generous slice, and we munched happily while holding hands. Sirius gave her a plaintive look and got rewarded with his own piece.

“I also brought us dessert.”

“Let me guess: penguin chocolates?”

“Close but no cigar.”

“I didn’t guess a cigar.”

“Do you like peanut brittle?”

“There are those that might argue that sugar, peanuts, and butter are as holy a trinity as barley, hops, and wheat.”

“Let’s eat to that,” she said, opening up the box and handing me a piece of brittle.

When we had our fill, I noticed that Lisbet had left a few crumbs on her fingers. I decided to lick them off. She returned the favor. And then the two of us started kissing. We kissed for a long time and would have kissed for even longer except for a strange thump-thump sound that forced us to investigate.

Sirius was watching us and wagging his tail.

“Quit being a voyeur,” I said.

We had another piece of brittle and then did some more kissing. It really was a great combination. There wasn’t much of a view from my hospital room, but the two of us sat contentedly watching the afternoon shadows give way to evening.

When all vestiges of the day were gone, Lisbet sighed and said, “I wish I could stay longer, but I took on a new job and that’s going to force me to burn the midnight oil.”

“As soon as you finish this project, I call dibs on you and the midnight oil, as well as the massage oil.”

“I look forward to that.”

“That’s two of us.”

Something in my voice must have made Sirius decide to start thumping again. I looked at him and said, “I said the two of us, which means that two is company, and three is a crowd. The next time I have the pleasure of this woman’s company, you’re going to be doing your thumping from another room.”

“Don’t worry, Sirius,” Lisbet said, “his bark is worse than his bite.”

She patted him but kissed me and then stood up to leave. “You don’t have to walk me out,” Lisbet said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I do have to walk you out. It’s a good excuse to get out of bed, and besides, when we meet up tomorrow, it won’t be here. I intend on checking myself out in the morning.”