The Wildfire Season

by Andrew Pyper

  Terry Gray has started getting calls. ‘Hear you’ve got a real wild man on your hands up there, Sheriff,’ the superintendent down in Whitehorse will joke with him, but Terry knows it’s getting less funny all the time. He also knows about the stories. Tales of a monster whose rage has pursued him to the end of the world. He killed a pregnant woman in Prince George. He scarred his face blowing up a Hells Angels clubhouse in Edmonton, and a pack of murderous bikers have been spotted as far north as Carcross, asking after a guy with a fucked-up face. And a dozen other improvised myths. In fact, the Welcome Inn has become as famous in the rest of the territory for the brooding fire ranger who drinks in its bar as for its mouldy, overpriced rooms.

  Mungo Capoose sees his boss differently.

  ‘Miles McEwan? He’s not so mean,’ is how Mungo likes to conclude any conversations concerning his boss’s character. ‘He’s just running away.’

  ‘From what?’ someone will ask.

  ‘From his face.’

  ‘But you can’t run from that.’

  ‘That’s why he’s gone as far as he has.’

  There is also a figure visible to Miles alone. Standing in the shadows on the far side of the pool table that’s been too slanted to play an honest game on since Miles piledrived Wade onto it the first and only time he called him Scarface. Miles couldn’t say how long the figure has been there. It’s only when he stares at the one spot for a while that he can make out the outline of a person at all. The slumped shoulders. The pale reflection of unblinking eyes.

  It stays where it is long enough that Miles wonders if it is only his own idle creation. Yet the figure is too inarguably there for him to pretend it couldn’t be. Its stillness prevents it from being wholly alive. This is what Miles tries to tell himself. The man in the shadows will remain a shadow until it can move.

  And then it moves.

  As it slides toward him, Miles counts the ways the shadow takes on colour. Khaki work pants splashed with what looks like machine oil. Eyes showing themselves to be unnaturally wide and red-rimmed. The head so bald it’s missing ears as well as hair.

  Miles watches the man emerge from where there was nothing before, as though stepping out of the wall itself. When the tips of his boots slide into the light cast by the bare bulb nearest him, he stops.

  Although the figure is tall, Miles can see that it belongs to a young man. A kid stretching his neck to show a face burned black. And smiling. His teeth long and shining as ivory keys.

  With a spastic lurch Miles swings around on his stool. He pounds his fist against his chest to show the room it’s only a swig of beer that’s gone down the wrong way. Even when the others return to their conversations Miles refuses to look beyond the pool table.

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Where’d you get her?’

  ‘Come up on a flatbed to Carmacks.’

  ‘Used?’

  ‘They’re all used. But this one’s not as used as others.’

  Without asking, Miles knows that Wade and Crookedhead are talking about trucks. Men speak of half-tons up here in the same covetous, technical way that others might speak of power tools, laptop computers or women. Everything else that happens in Ross River might ultimately boil down to a tale of foolishness or mild humiliation to cling to its subject for years, but trucks alone are taken seriously. If he closes his eyes and listens selectively to the drinkers around him, Miles can pick out the names of the Big Three manufacturers, each brand spoken with reverence, as though ancient gods. Dodge. Ford. Chevy. Once, and only once, a Toyota made an appearance so scorned that its owner, Crookedhead James, was compelled to drive it to Whitehorse and sell it, coming home on the once-a-week bus with a hangover that made his nose run, four hundred dollars, and a gym bag of newish skin magazines.

  ‘Nice truck,’ Wade says again, although this time about a new arrival in the parking lot.

  ‘Wade?’ Margot calls. ‘Bring me and the Baders here another round, would you?’

  After a time long enough to let Margot know she will later pay for addressing him in this way, Wade turns to the bar and leaves Crookedhead to follow whatever movement there is outside.

  ‘Thank you, Wade,’ Mrs Bader gushes. ‘I’m not sure when I last had so much beer to drink. I mean, usually I just have a single gin, and that’s only at functions!’

  Jackson Bader says nothing. Everyone in the room except for his wife has heard someone at the door, and they have shifted in their seats to see who will open it.

  ‘Oh, Margot. You’re so lucky to live way up here, where you can do things like this all the time—not just drink beer, but enjoy the real things. The wilderness. Cowboys and Indians! Good heavens. You’re not supposed to say Indian anymore, are you? And most of you are—well, I only meant—’

  Elsie Bader’s face is slashed by the light coming in through the open door. It is against this illumination that two strangers appear. A woman in her late twenties holding the hand of a little girl.

  The two of them come inside but the door remains jammed on a raised crack. The woman lifts her sunglasses. Without a change in either of their expressions she spots Miles and, after the most brief of pauses, the two step toward him.

  The Welcome Inn patrons are a transfixed audience to their march. Everyone hopes, no matter what is about to take place, that the woman doesn’t ask Miles about the mottled burns that, in the sudden light, look like crimson ink splashed from his temple to his shirt collar.

  Miles’s eyes won’t leave the little girl holding the woman’s hand. Her just-brushed hair shining blue against the twilight. A summer dress patterned with strawberries down to her mosquito-bitten knees. Maybe five. Maybe six.

  He doesn’t recognize the woman next to her. Not at first. But although Miles is certain he’s never seen the girl in the strawberry dress before, she smiles his way, and without thinking, without touching his scar, without the ongoing work of forgetting what demands to be remembered, he smiles back.

  The girl smiles at him and he smiles back and he knows.

  Less than fifteen miles away, where the even ground outside Ross River gives way to the first sloping of the St Cyr foothills, a cold rain falls windless and straight on the deadfall. For the past three weeks there has been little other precipitation than this. Dark clouds that cluster and begin their low murmurings, and within seconds the air drops three degrees, leaving a bristling anticipation in the spruce needles. When the rain comes, it does not fall so much as collapse. The air crushed with white noise in which anything from whispered voices to gunfire can be heard.

  And then it’s over.

  The rain had soaked the bear through to the skin, but her fur is already dry, porcupined in dark spikes. She has marched close enough to town to detect traces of the man-made: diesel exhaust, woodsmoke, the sugary temptations of the dump. It keeps her nose low. Inhaling the clean, mineralized scent of soil turning to mud.

  Behind her, two male cubs follow. They are no more than twenty months old but are already bigger than sheepdogs. And yet the length of the sow’s stride requires an awkward half-run of the cubs to keep up. Two sulking brothers with ears standing atop their heads like a pair of children’s mittens.

  Faraway sheet lightning casts its shadows across the wall of pine trunks. The three animals shuffle diagonally up the slope, their movements deliberate but weary. They have come from elsewhere but the sow has been here before, though her memories of it only make her want to move farther on.

  She stops as abruptly as the rain. The cub closest to her bumps his head against her hind legs and she swings around, demanding attention. Water bends the branches lower and spills off their ends so that, for the first minute, there is no sound but a chorus of pissing.

  The she-grizzly slowly rises. Her nose stretched high, the tip of a shaggy antenna. When she is standing at her full height, towering ten feet over her cubs, she swivels her head and takes in so many small sniffs that, when she exhales, it comes out in a
grunt. With eyes closed she holds herself still. Her nostrils stretched wide, tasting the new, almost undetectable breeze from the south.

  The sow recognizes something in it that her cubs have never smelled before. The odour of a danger equal to the burnt-butter stink of men.

  She smells smoke.

  Chapter 3

  As she steps toward him, Miles notices how the child’s knees poke out below the hem of her dress, one and then the other, like turtle’s heads. It’s been so long since he’s seen a girl of her age in a dress that it looks like a costume to him. Among the details he’s lost hold of in the last few years are holidays—what dates they fall on and whether the Raven Nest Grocery will be closed on account of it. Because of this, and because of the dress, Miles has an idea that the girl is about to pull a pillowcase from behind her back and demand ‘Trick or treat!’

  The Welcome Inn drinkers lift their heads to take a measure of the newcomers, studying the woman and girl without the reluctance to stare that one finds elsewhere. All of them notice how the woman’s eyes don’t move about the room. Instead, she raises her chin half an inch and peers straight ahead. It may be a way of seeing into the dark, or a gesture of confirmation, or fearlessness. Whether reflex or signal, she steps forward with her face lifted to them, which allows everyone to note the length of her neck as well as the colour of her eyes, green as quarry water.

  The woman and girl breach the invisible circle usually afforded the fire supervisor and stand within handshaking range, though no hand is offered. Miles inhales and takes them in. A flavouring of citronella insect repellent and sweat.

  ‘Rachel,’ the woman says, pulling the child forward to stand in front of her. ‘This is Miles.’

  The man with the scarred face and the girl in the strawberry dress nod at each other, once, at the same time.

  If forest firefighters are asked why, among all the kinds of physical labour a person might do for money, they chose this particularly wilting, occasionally life-threatening work, the answer offered more than any other is that they love it. More odd is that if they are then asked to substantiate this love, they will have little, if anything, to offer. Most end up shrugging. Always the same shrug, one that makes it clear that there is no single reason they could state and at the same time believe to be true.

  Miles thought he might have been slightly different on this count. He loved the job no less than the other men and women he has worked with, but he believed that in his case he could take a stab at explaining why.

  ‘Fire isn’t like us,’ he would tell Alex when she asked what he saw when he came closest to the flames. ‘It never forgives.’

  Sometimes, when he watched how a low, desultory smoker would tiptoe far enough along to touch off a dry thicket, Miles could see himself in the orange spirals, his own hunger devouring the arthritic limbs. He had heard fires described as cruel but he never saw them that way. What he recognized instead was how they were destructive only because they could be, the flames liberated by perfect indifference. Even before he was burned, he had this same talent himself.

  This is why he’d come to this place out of all the end-of-the-world places he could have run to. There was nobody here that he knew, to remind him of who he was. Nobody he’d made a promise to or ever would. And there was fire.

  For a while, though, he considered other options. For the better part of his first year on the road, driving from prairie town to prairie town across Saskatchewan, the Dakotas, Montana, Alberta and back again in a flat, pointless circle, he thought about bartending. He was spending most of every night in bars at the time anyway, and could see himself on the other side of the divide, pulling the taps and free pouring the rye, keeping an eye on the loudmouths and, when need be, directing the worst of them out the door with the end of his boot. There wouldn’t be much trouble on his shifts, at any rate. He found that the scars did a lot to maintain order all on their own. There was a warning in the marks on his cheek that common, hayseed pugilists had to take into consideration. But even with all of these qualifications, Miles knew he wouldn’t last a week. It wouldn’t be the job, but the temptation to talk. He might be invited to barbecues or bowling tournaments or waitresses’ rented rooms, and be asked questions that, over time, he would allow himself to answer.

  For these reasons, Miles knew that if he wanted to run away he’d have to come back to fires. To his surprise, this was fine with him. Even after what had happened he still loved them, his dreams recalling the purposeful digging at the feet of a blaze he’d arrived at early enough to contain at least as often as the Mazko River blowup, the one fire he had ever been caught in. Alex knew all of this about him. It was the only clue that, once he was gone, she believed might lead her to him. And now it has.

  ‘Have you been here the whole time? In this town, I mean?’

  They are the first words either of them has spoken since they walked out of the Welcome Inn. The sun had not yet surrendered to the reach of the hills, and there was enough light left in the evening sky to blind them. For the first few minutes the three of them could only shuffle, stunned, through the gravel streets.

  ‘Ross River,’ Miles says.

  That’s it. I saw the name on the sign.’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘You must like it.’

  ‘Five years isn’t that long.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘Not so long that you have to like where you spent them.’

  Alex and Miles walk with their heads down, the girl running ahead and back again like a herd dog, circling behind and nudging their calves. They take the road down to the river, past the tiny, unpainted church, with its steeple of shining aluminum. Beyond it, they find the path through the empty lot where Lloyd’s Gas & Tackle once was. Miles glances up at the one remaining pump standing crooked, its glass face cracked, and sees it as a bespectacled man struggling to his feet after a beating.

  When they reach the banks of the Pelly they watch the lengthening curls and peek-a-boo whirlpools of the current. The water heavy as oil, a glinting purple that conceals its depths. There are no sounds except for the buzz of the first mosquitoes awakening from the reeds, along with the river’s gulps and spits.

  In the absence of words, Miles feels the first tickles of the moment’s strangeness. It seems to him that the woman and girl stand unnecessarily close, and a flurry of options occur to him. He might fall to his knees and explode into tears. Beg forgiveness. He might swing out his arms and knock them back.

  All he can think of to hold off some show of madness is to keep talking. He tells them of how, last summer, he had been standing where they are now watching Margot play fetch with her dog, Missie. Over and over Margot would throw a stick out, and each time Missie would leap in, snatching it and cutting back to shore. Once, Margot threw the stick ten feet farther than before. Missie splashed into the swirls. This time, when she turned around with the stick in her mouth, the current grabbed her from below. The dog’s front legs punched forward in panic but she couldn’t break free of the water’s hold. Miles and Margot started out after her only to see that she was already too far, speeding out of sight around the bend behind the churchyard, down to join the Yukon and, eventually, the delta that empties into the Beaufort Sea.

  ‘Poor Missie,’ Alex says. ‘Poor Margot.’

  ‘It’s terrible. Now she’s only got Wade to follow her around.’

  Miles tries at a laugh, but it comes out in a messy sneeze. And now that he’s told the story of the drowned dog, he realizes it was more grim than he remembered, and wonders if the girl might do something awkward. But instead, Rachel cups her chin in her palm, studying the site of the tragedy. When she turns to him her forehead is scrunched into serious ripples.

  ‘We can’t go swimming in that river,’ she says.

  ‘I’d advise against it.’

  She shakes her head in regret. Then, in the next second, she snaps out of her grown-up considerations and sprints back up the road toward town.
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  Alex and Miles follow her past what Bonnie likes to call the Welcome Inn’s courtyard, no more than a patch of grass with what, from a distance, looks to be a garden gnome stepping out of his lederhosen. They turn right, past a row of squat mobile homes, most with something left out in their front yards. A standing stepladder. A pickup truck raised on its rims, its hood agape. A Mr Turtle wading pool.

  They round the property of a cabin that appears to be made of nailed-together outhouses, all with grass growing high atop their roofs. Across the road, two boys sit side by side on a bench in front of a cinderblock building. Off to the side there’s a swing set, along with climbing bars that could be a cage from which something has already escaped, and between them, a slide designed to look like a dinosaur’s tongue.

  ‘Can I go play?’ the girl asks.

  ‘Play away, kiddo.’

  ‘How old is she?’ Miles asks once she has run off into the weed-riddled sand of the playground.

  ‘Five and a half.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘How old do you think she could be?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I don’t have much experience on what five and a half is. What they’re capable of at that age.’

  ‘Rachel is capable of pretty much anything.’

  They crunch over the stones at the side of the road, watch the girl scramble up the ladder of the dinosaur’s back and slide down its tongue. When she reaches the bottom she remains sitting on the aluminum lip. He tries to meet the girl’s eyes but she’s watching the two Kaska kids on the bench—Mungo’s son, Tom, and one of his more-silentthan-most friends, Miles can see now. After a time of wondering what to do next in a second-rate playground while being observed by two teenaged Indian boys, Rachel abruptly runs around and up the dinosaur’s back again. She pauses at the top and surveys the monkshood poking through the sand below. Then, with a regal salute, she plops on her bum and slides earthward a second time.

  ‘There must be kids around here,’ Alex says, as though answering a question she had asked herself. ‘That looks like it could be a school, anyway.’