Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

She feels Anna’s warm, rhythmic breath on her neck, the rise and fall of her chest. She examines her mother’s hand hanging loosely over her shoulder, across her chest. Her fingers are long and tapered, tanned a deep brown, the knuckles chapped. There is black dirt under her nails. On the thumb and index finger, alongside the nail, small ragged strips of skin have been chewed away, a nervous habit since childhood. Lesya brings her fingers close to their tips but doesn’t quite touch.

The sun is poking through the chinks in the wall when Anna stirs. Lesya shuts her eyes. Ever so carefully, Anna extracts herself from the bed. Even after she is gone, Lesya doesn’t move. She holds on to the warmth of Anna’s impression against her body until her arm, throbbing for blood, falls limply across her stomach, demanding to be resuscitated.

TEODOR SLIPS QUIETLY OUT OF BED, CAREFUL NOT TO disturb Maria. His eyes half-shut, he stretches in front of the window, a recent morning ritual. The last few weeks in his new house, he has found sleep again. Deep, undisturbed, dreamless nights. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns. A smile crosses his lips as he savors the sun’s warmth. He opens his eyes to the glory of his field. Not bothering to put a shirt on, he steps outside and smells acrid smoke. His stomach knots. To the north, he can see a yellow haze. He licks his finger and checks the direction of the wind.

By noon a thick, gray plume clings to the skyline. The wind is still true from the north. He knows there are farms in that direction and miles of tinder-dry bush. He looks nervously to his field and walks down to check the firebreak. He pulls the weeds that have sprouted up over the summer and examines the perimeter for any dried roots or branches and drags them farther to the side. Off in the distance, Teodor notices a low trail of dust. He watches until he can make out two horses, an Appaloosa and a palomino. The speckled gray Appaloosa is saddled. They stampede to the south.

At three o’clock, the wind shifts and blows from the northwest. Teodor orders every bucket, pot, washbasin, barrel, and kettle filled with water. The children form a brigade from the recently dug well to the cart, shuffling up full buckets to Myron, who empties them into barrels tethered in the back of the cart before passing them back down the line.

Teodor and Myron drive the wagon to the east firebreak and with difficulty offload the heavy barrels twenty feet apart along the field’s edge. They return for another load. Along with four more bulging barrels, they cram the wagon with wet burlap, soaked blankets, shovels, and rakes. Teodor tells Maria to pack supplies, just in case. After they unload, he gives Myron the reins and tells him to get Anna and the children.

He guesses the fire is maybe fifty miles away now, though the prairies play tricks and a storm cloud that appears on the other side of the world can suddenly be on top of you. If the wind stays in this direction, it should pass them by. It’ll come close, but should run east and drive below them to the south or better yet burn itself out.

Anna’s property and the barn are set well back, and a slough on the east side should divert the fire. His house should be safe on the hill, unless the windbreak of spruce that wends up the north side catches; he orders the children to douse the cabin with water. There’s nothing to protect the field though, except twenty feet of dirt. He should have made it forty. At least there’s the lake on the west side to keep them safe.

At six o’clock the horizon is a wall of white smoke punctured by bursts of flame darkening the evening sky. He sits on the stoop of the house, lights a cigarette, and waits.

Myron returns with Anna and the children. Perched in the back of the wagon is the chicken coop. Lesya sits at its doorway, cooing at the clucking hens locked inside. The rooster ran off and was left behind. The black cat and her kittens hid under the barn and refused to come out, even with an offering of a fresh mouse. The cow tied to the back jogs behind, pulling at the halter, its eyes and nostrils wide, smelling the danger. The horse stomps and snorts, protesting Myron’s command to stop.

Maria greets them when they arrive and offers supper. Anna, wrapped in a full-length cloak, declines. Lesya and Petro swallow down their hunger and Maria insists. She threads her arm through Anna’s reassuringly. “You have to eat.” Anna suddenly craves dill pickles and wild blueberries.

As the hours tick by, the children join Teodor on the stoop. They curl up against his legs and spread their blankets on the ground beneath his feet. They silently watch the night sky. Half of the stars are obliterated by the unnatural darkness. A pulsing red glow looms in the east. Lesya and Katya snuggle together in a blanket, their heads covered. Katya furtively rolls the doughy ball of Christ between her fingers. Sofia coughs sporadically. Dania licks away the taste of smoke on her lips. The boys sit stoically, mimicking their father’s posture. Elbows on their knees, leaning forward, hands clasped, watching. Ivan struggles to keep his eyes open. It’s well past his bedtime. They all feel the low thump of danger in their chests and the need to stay close.

Teodor estimates that it’s ten or fifteen miles away and the wind is picking up. When a sprinkling of white ash showers down, Ivan takes his father’s hand. Teodor looks to Maria. “We have to go now.”

Maria claps the sleepy children awake. “You heard your tato, grab your things.”

She doesn’t look back when she shuts the door, afraid that she will run in and barricade herself inside.

Teodor leads the caravan of children and animals by the light of the kerosene lamp, down the hill, over the field; he skirts the rough ground of the firebreak and sets up camp in the clearing a few hundred feet from Bug Lake. The coop is hauled off the wagon and the cow tethered to a tree. Three more barrels are filled and strapped down in the back of the wagon. He chooses Dania and Myron to go to the east border with him. He needs two more and scans the faces of the children. They’re all too small.

“Sofia.” Her head is down and her shoulders drop when he calls her name. Lesya steps forward, standing as straight as she can. “And Lesya.”

“And me!” Ivan takes his place beside Myron. Maria signals Teodor, No .

“You stay with Mama, I need you to protect the cow.”

“I’ll go.” Anna climbs aboard the cart, pulling herself up heavily.

“You can’t.” Maria looks to the bulge poorly concealed by the ill-fitting cloak. “I need you here.”

“We’ll be okay,” Teodor promises. “If it reaches the firebreak, get everyone to the water. Cut the animals loose. Don’t wait.” And he is off.

“Don’t you wait!” Maria hollers after him, but Teodor doesn’t hear.

SPARKS IGNITE THE SKY NOT TWO MILES AWAY. THE wheat bows in the breeze as if in retreat. The horse, tethered to a stake in the ground, yanks at its restraint. The cart rocks back and forth, jostling the water. Teodor stands in the middle of the firebreak, surrounded by buckets, barrels, and soaked blankets. He is flanked on his left by Myron and Sofia, to his right, Dania and Lesya, and at the far end, Anna. Water barrels dot the east perimeter every twenty feet.

Myron surveys the hundred feet they barely cover and glances back at the six acres stretching behind them. He plants his feet deeper in the earth. Billowing black smoke rolls toward them, searing their eyes. They hear its crackle first, like a splintering of trees.

“Hold your ground,” Teodor calmly directs, but Sofia has already taken a step back. They can see the fire now, running on a southeast course. The flames seem to jump and leapfrog, fanning themselves wider. It looks like it’s going to pass by with maybe two hundred feet to spare.