Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

With his right hand, he massaged the lumpy scar tissue around his left shoulder. It still felt strange to his fingertips, like someone had branded him, separating his arm from the rest of his body. Was the arm a gift? A curse? What was its immense power intended for? Whoever gave it to him probably didn’t think he’d be using it to sucker punch wild game in the wilderness.

John took a deep breath through his nose — strange, there was something in the air …

Smoke.

He poked his head out of the tent. Voices shouted in the distance. With haste, he clothed himself and stepped out to look.

The shadowy trees loomed over him as he passed through the underbrush, towards the village. Thorns clawed at his jeans and low hanging branches slapped at his eyes. As he approached Frontier View, the voices became clearer. “Fire!” he heard. “Pierre’s chicken coop is on fire!”

Well, pull my trigger, John thought. He steeled himself and picked up his pace, lurching over the roots and downed logs in the darkness, like a blind man dancing through an obstacle course. A jagged piece of bark clipped his shoulder, claiming a shred of his flannel shirt. He leapt over a final bush and fell to one knee, catching his breath as he tried to determine the location of the fire.

The smell of smoke was unmistakable now. An aura of flame danced in the distance. Out of the woods and into the firepit , he thought, standing up and dashing toward the light. Every building he passed was constructed of wood. If the fire got out of hand, it would quickly ravage the entire village.

As he approached, he saw men, women, and children — many half-clothed or in pajamas — scurrying across the village with buckets full of water, like panicked ants defending their hill. Pierre was among them, clearly straining his old body to keep up.

Embers and ashes flitted through the air, carried by drafts of hot air. Through a gap between the houses, John saw the source of the flames — a chicken coop nestled against the rear of Pierre’s home. He drew himself closer, watching as a villager braved the sweltering heat and tossed water on the fire. Even standing ten feet back, the blaze seared John’s skin.

“What are you standing around for? Grab a bucket and get to work!” a young man shouted over the crackling of the fire. Sweat dripped from his dark mop of hair as he ran up and thrust a bucket at John.

No, more water won’t help — this fire is already burning too hot, John thought as he stared into the flames. There had to be another way.

The man dropped the bucket at John’s feet and barked an admonishment, then spun off.

John quickly surveyed the chicken coop. It was constructed of thin, roughly cut pine, propped up by half-foot stilts and separated from the cabin by an arm’s length.

His eyes darted back and forth as he examined the resources at hand. Buckets, trees, dirt and grass, an axe, a chain — it was like an algebra problem with a multitude of variables, to which there may or may not be a workable solution.

Pierre ran by John, drenched with sweat. He tossed a bucket of water on the fire and turned back to get more.

“Pierre!” John shouted.

The old man slowed and looked toward John.

“Oh, it’s you!” Pierre said. “Pick up that bucket and help us out!” As he began to take off again, John grasped his shoulder.

“Listen to me,” John demanded gruffly.

Pierre looked into John’s eyes for a moment, pursing his lips before nodding anxiously.

“Your little buckets aren’t gonna put out this fire before it spreads,” John said, pointing to the cabin. The flames from the coop licked at the larger building, as though they were whetting their appetite for the main course. “I have a plan — do you trust me?”

Pierre paused for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “Okay, but make it quick,” he said.

“Round up two tvapas, put a yoke on ‘em, and bring them over here,” John ordered. “I’ll take care of the rest. We don’t have much time. Go!”

Still clinging tightly to his bucket, Pierre nodded a final time then took off in an awkward jog.

“What the hell are you doing standing there! Pick up the bucket and get to work!” a voice shrieked.

John looked back. It was the same young man from before. John gave him the evil eye — the meanest scowl his bearded face could muster. The man cursed and threw his hands in the air, again running to fetch more water. If this doesn’t work, I’ll be chased out of town by an enraged bucket brigade , John thought to himself.

Pierre returned sooner than expected, leading two tvapas by a rope in his hands.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

“Always,” John said with a smirk. “Just bring ‘em over there, in front of the chicken coop.”

John ran to the adjacent cabin and reached for a length of steel chain coiled against the outer wall. With both arms, he heaved the heavy chain onto the ground. He grabbed hold of one hooked end and dashed toward the tvapas. The chain links followed behind him, slithering through the grass like a snake after its prey. He attached the chain’s hook to the tvapas’ yoke. The burly creatures stood about five yards from the burning chicken coop. Neither of them looked eager to step any closer to the flames. John hoped the length of chain was long enough to wrap around the chicken coop and attach to the other side of the yoke.

Darting back to where he started, John picked up the other end of the chain. He eyed the gap between the chicken coop and Pierre’s cabin — it was narrow, trapping the heat like an oven. Suddenly, a watery downpour crashed down on him, drenching him from head to toe. He turned around and saw Pierre, standing with an empty bucket in his hands.

“I see what you’re thinking — thought I’d help,” he said. “Now go do your thing.”

John tightened his grip on the chain and ran for the gap. The chain clinked behind him as the coils unwound. He took a deep breath and covered his eyes.

Out of the firepit and into the pressure cooker, he thought.

The water evaporated from his skin. The heat scorched his hair. He slammed his shoulder against the cabin, trying to avoid the inescapable flames surrounding him.

He opened his mouth to breathe — big mistake. Ash singed his throat; superheated smoke filled his lungs. His insides burned; tears welled up in his eyes. With a choking cough, he stumbled a few final steps forward and fell to his knees.

And the heat was gone — he’d made it through the gap! He opened his eyes and hacked the gritty air out of his lungs. Inhaling deeply, he looked at his hand. The chain was still there.

That was easy , he thought as he stood up. Looking over to Pierre, he noticed that he had an audience of villagers, all agog to see his next move.

I can’t let them down now. He lowered the chain, securing it in the space between the chicken coop and the ground, flush against the joint where the stilts met the bottom of the coop. If he latched the other end of his chain to the yoke, the tvapas could pull the structure over.

He dashed toward the tvapas. The chain links thumped against the rear of the wooden coop. Just a few more steps …

Without warning, his arm snapped back, jerking his body with it — he was out of chain. The fingers on his other hand could almost touch the tvapas.

Hammersnap! I’m almost there! he thought. If those frankenmeese would take a step or two back, I could hitch them and complete the circuit.

The tvapas continued to shy away from the flames, oblivious to his dilemma.

John gave his end of the chain a tug, hoping the tvapas would get the hint and take a step backward. No dice — apparently they didn’t do “reverse.” What are my options? he wondered. If the tvapas wouldn’t step any closer to the flames …