Alexis Smith - Marrow Island

I came here and I put myself in the way of loss, of death. I put myself in the way of love.

The trail looks different from this side, just like Carey said it would. From this angle, I see all the danger, all the risks. The choice to tell what I knew in the deposition, what I saw, even though I might have saved them all if I had lied even a little bit. The choice to go back to Marrow, after I found out about Tuck. Trying to save Katie. The choice to visit her, after all those years of silence. Sneaking into Rookwood. Going back to the cottage.

I close my eyes and try to see her thoughts, try to feel what she’s feeling. The elk quivers; she reverberates. There’s a last flicker of light in her eye, a reflection of me. She bellows at her calf, then she’s still. I see her letting go. I’m weeping.

The radio comes alive in the car, and I hear my name. I startle. The elk is gone. I stand, her head falling away from me. Her calf mewls from a ditch, and I yell at her, wave my arms.

“Go! Go!”

There’s a snapping of branches and rustle of leaves as the calf flees. Her mother’s blood is all over my hands and arms, my hair, soaking through my clothes to my skin. I turn away from her body to vomit.

I hear my name again and look back to the car. I know that it is dead, too, that it won’t start again. Carey’s voice comes through the radio.

Flames dance on either side of the road ahead, flitting from branch to branch. They’re not raging; this is no roaring blaze. There’s no urgency to the fire’s hunger at this moment, just instinct. It licks at anything made of carbon, grazes on the bark and grasses, saplings and pinecones, like a herd of ruminants.

“I can barely hear you,” I say.

I walk back to the car, knees shaking.

I pick up the handset and say, “I’m here. I’m here.”

For a moment there’s no reply, and I’m suspended between radio silence and the burning road. There’s a balmy stillness over the wreckage I’ve made. Not even birdsong; the birds are long gone.

“It’s dead,” I say. “My car is dead. I’m three miles down”—trying to remember, breathing out more than in—“FSR 821. I need to get out of here.”

There’s a crackle on the line, and Carey says something but I can’t hear it. I can stay with the radio and wait for help. Or I can go. I can get out on my own.

“The fire jumped the river,” I tell him. “Over.” I see Katie in the rearview mirror, behind the car, almost out of sight, bandanna like a gash at her neck. I drop the radio and turn. She’s not there. The radio hums.

I step out of the car, stand between the road and the smoke-red sky.

Then I am running, ashes falling like rain.

Though this story is fictional, I was inspired by real places and things. I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Paul Stamets, author of Mycelium Running and many other books, for opening my mind to the possibilities of mycoremediation, and for fearlessly advocating for the earth through his work. I would also like to express my gratitude to the Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, for my high school education, for some of my first lessons in social justice, for inspiring me to act and create from my faith, and for the few days, twenty years ago, that I spent with the elderly sisters at their provincial house in Spokane, Washington (it clearly made a lasting impression).

I often think (and have been known to remark) that I find it miraculous that anyone understands the words that come out of my head. But people do, and not only that, they encourage me to keep the words coming by giving generously of their time, their food and drink, their art and music, their endorsements, their unconditional love, and, even, their cash. Here, I would like to sully their good names by mentioning some of these folks in print: agent, first reader, and ringmaster, Seth Fishman; editor, mycophile, and miracle worker, Jenna Johnson; best friend, financial guru, and mopper, Amy Koler (this one’s for you, Ames); tea therapist, Mary Zartman; collaborator and space witch, Nora Wendl; chicken wranglers and ace gay uncles, Andrew Pizzolato and Tom Alton; pink wine fashion icon, Amanda Morgan; narrative oracle, Karen Munro; ever-true work date and rock star, Cari Luna; landlady and saint, Kate Mann; trail-running soul sister, Michele Filgate; beloved retreat and birthplace of first chapters, the Sou’Wester Lodge; book-devourer and adventurer, Karin Ljungquist; letter-writer and portraitist, Zachary Schomburg; angel-faced cat lady, Amy Martin; adopted moms and sweetpeas, Ann and Pru; wildland firefighter and urban woodsman, Mason Purdy; father of my child and guy who handed me Mycelium Running eight years ago, Nick Barbery; crafty lady, Susan Waters; Reiki master and mom, Dorothy Brannon; rock hound and dad, Baker Smith; pimento cheese-and-pickle sandwich maker, homesteader, mystery-lover, and grandma, Betty Lois Baker Smith; inspiration, alarm clock, and son, Amos Leroy; and, at last, the woman who wordlessly followed me up a sand dune on Long Beach to see what the turkey vultures were eating just because she loves me, Kelly Lucey.

This book was made possible, in part, by a grant from the Oregon Arts Commission. I would also like to acknowledge the professional development support of the Regional Arts and Culture Council.

ALEXIS M. SMITH was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. She attended Mount Holyoke College, Portland State University, and Goddard College. Her debut novel, Glaciers , was a finalist for the Ken Kesey Award and a selection for World Book Night 2013. A former bookseller, she lives in Portland, Oregon, with her wife and son.

Learn more at www.alexismsmith.com