A Haven in Ash

by Robert J. Crane

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Alixa was behind, terror wrought upon her face.

  “My father might be in there!” Jasen cried.

  And my mother’s things. All her memories. Everything we have of hers.

  Panic washed over him, a new wave of it, different than the one he’d felt upon seeing the house. This was not the fear of losing a home—he would be able to rationalize that later, if he tried, because homes were only buildings you stayed in after all—but the terror that he could lose his father and the small collection of mementos he had that were tied to his mother.

  He had almost lost this pendant once. He could not lose anything else. Not when it felt like he had so little as it was.

  Even the memories he held dear were scant, seeming to become fewer as time went on. There was the story she read, a book with a stream and willow trees—those were the things Jasen remembered—those and her voice, dispensing the words slowly, as though they were sweet candied fruits. He remembered the sound of her sewing, fabric yielding to needles made of bone, as she mended clothes by the fire. She would hum, and Jasen could almost recall the tune she came back to again and again, lilting and slow.

  Yet every time he looked over his small handful of recollections, he was certain he had lost track of something else, the way her flowery perfume had eventually faded to nothing from her few frocks, folded and waiting for a woman who would never come to wear them again yet he did not know what memories, precisely, he had lost … could not know.

  The pendant was tangible, real. He would not lose that.

  That thought steeled him. He would stagger through the flames, enduring their heat—

  He turned, stumbling for the house again—

  “Jasen!” Shilara cried. She caught his arm and clamped down tight on it.

  “Let me go!”

  “You can’t go in there!”

  “My father—”

  “He’ll be out!”

  “But what if—”

  “If he’s in there, it’s too late.”

  The words were like a punch to the gut. The breath was stolen from Jasen’s lungs, joining the cloying smog filling the skies. Vying for space with the silvery plume coughed from the cratered mountain, the black streak went up and up and up, a great tower of it, constructed bottom end first.

  Too late.

  Shilara clutched Jasen’s shoulders. “Your father is no fool. He won’t be in there.”

  Jasen began again: “But—”

  He pictured the scenarios, a hundred of them all at once. His father had been exhausted lately by so much assembly business. What if he had taken early leave today, returned home for a nap? The smoke might grow strong enough to rouse him—but what had his mother warned him, when Jasen was young, telling him as she extinguished the flames in the hearth? The smell was not always enough to wake a person. And the thickness of it on the air would smother a person before their eyes could flicker open.

  That might’ve happened to his father.

  Or what if Adem had been home when the fire was lit? The fire might’ve started quick, embracing the timber fast, breathing into the thatch overhead. Adem might’ve panicked, rushing to check on Jasen, to confirm that his son was out of the house. Or he might’ve known already and instead gone to salvage some of Jasen’s mother’s things. He’d gather armfuls in a frantic panic—and in that time the flames’ rapid spread could have impeded his exit. The roof might’ve caved in, trapping him—

  Jasen swallowed. Tears burned in his eyes.

  His father was dead. He was certain of it.

  Shilara gripped him harder. “Listen to me, Jasen. You cannot go in there.”

  He opened his mouth, but

  she spoke before he could. “We have to fight this blaze. That’s all we can do.”

  Fight the blaze. Right. Yes. He needed to stop the fire before it could take more of his house, before it could turn it to ash.

  He nodded shakily. Swallowed. “Right.” His voice was breathy. Behind him, heat seared; he felt his skin warming, reddening even from here, barely a step up the path.

  “Come. The well.”

  Jasen nodded again. Right. Water. That was what they needed. Water, and buckets—

  Bucket. There was one in the kitchen, by the door leading out the back—

  No, wait. Couldn’t get it.

  Had to rely on the buckets at the well.

  Shilara pulled him into motion. “Quickly now!”

  He obeyed. His legs didn’t seem to want to do the work. But once they’d started, once he’d wrenched himself properly onto his new task, instead of fearing for his mother’s things, his father’s life—stop it, damn it, or you’ll freeze up again!—he sped into action.

  Alixa raced behind—and then Shilara was behind as Jasen broke into a sprint.

  People had come from their homes. They stared in clusters.

  “What are you standing there for?” Jasen shouted at no one in particular. “Help us!”

  A few were galvanized into motion. Not all, though.

  Not even most.

  A few wells serviced Terreas, plus a creek. The creek was too far away to be of any use, snaking toward the opposite side of the village from the mountainside. The nearest well was close enough though, maybe three hundred feet of streets and turns away. Jasen raced for it, bumping into people who’d stopped, looking skyward with confusion at the plume of smoke building in the sky. From here, they’d not know whose house was aflame—so why wasn’t anyone moving?

  “What’s happening?” someone called after Jasen as he hurtled past.

  “Fire!”

  A handful began moving, jogging after him. There were shouts of “Water!” Someone yelled, “I’ve a pair of buckets—” Another person looked alarmed and hurried his wife back into their house, slamming the door behind.

  A few of the first runners were on their way back now, clutching a pail in each hand. They moved as quickly as they could; too fast and the water would slosh out, half of it wasted before arriving back at the flames tearing through the Rabinn home.

  A heavyset man, approaching middle age, whom Jasen recognized but whose name he suddenly could not place, had taken up position by the well. He spun the handle as fast as it would go. As Jasen approached, the pail returned from below, dripping water. It was strung up on a rod, tied about the ends on a triangle of rope, itself tied to the single rope descending into the well.

  “Hold your bucket,” the man said to a woman waiting.

  She stuck it out, and he tipped the well’s pail, water filling hers.

  “Go,” he said, and she went, hurrying with just this one bucket.

  “Here,” the man shouted to Jasen. “Help me thread up another bucket, will you?”

  Jasen snatched one up.

  He fought with the knotted rope where the first bucket hung. It would not go at first, and Jasen realized why: his fingers were slick with sweat. Taking a panicky breath, he rubbed them down on his trousers, then tried again.

  This time it unthreaded.

  He slid a second pail onto the rod then retied it in place.

  The rod was not quite wide enough for two buckets. They tilted, both pushing the other outward slightly, so neither would come up full. But it was as efficient as they were going to get until Terreas figured out a way to funnel water directly from the creek.

  “Get yourself a couple,” the man said. “I’ll crank this.” He was already turning the handle, fast as he would go. Color rose in his face, above the bristles of an untamed beard.

  Buckets were stacked beside the well. Yet more lay scattered about the dirt, dropped unceremoniously. The assembly complained about the buckets from time to time, tried to appoint someone to be in charge of putting them away in their rightful place: some storehouse, no doubt even more inconveniently placed. Today, Jasen was as thankful as he had ever been for untidiness.

  The two buckets on the rod hit the water below just as Shilara arr
ived.

  The man began cranking the opposite way.

  Alixa appeared too, and then a handful of men and one woman who’d obeyed the calls to action. One man’s face was streaked with soot. He carried two buckets. Sweat oiled his forehead already.

  “Jasen,” Shilara began, reaching for his shoulder again—

  “Pail,” the man at the well said.

  Jasen stuck one out just as the two sunk into the well came back into view. They weren’t full, obviously, had lost a few more inches of water each than they probably could’ve carried—but it was still better than a single bucket at a time.

  Jasen filled one then stuck out the next. That filled too, he rushed away, leaving Shilara and Alixa behind. Alixa was crying, by the look of it.

  So too would Jasen be, if he let the tears come.

  The jog back home was terribly slow. He wished he could run, but when he tried to move faster, the water sloshed inside buckets and he had no choice but to slow again with a strangled groan.

  A crowd had formed about the house, but

  only a handful of people were fighting the fire.

  Jasen thrust between two people who were watching. They parted too slowly, and he barked, “Move!” at them. That sped the pair up, though he caught the dirty look they shot him.

  The woman who’d taken a pail of water ahead of Jasen didn’t seem to know where to throw it.

  Jasen didn’t either, truth be told. The flames were everywhere. They seared, scaldingly hot. Too close and his skin would blister.

  How had he thought he could battle his way inside? The thatch was alight, and through the windows, black smoke billowed, giving way with random currents of air to reveal a molten glow.

  Jasen froze. That glow was everywhere.

  How had it gone up so damned quick?

  That was a question to answer later. For now, he had to act.

  “Here,” he told the woman and led her toward one corner of the house. Best to start there, wasn’t it? He flung one pail and then the other onto the wood, split open, flames licking the air through the gaps. They shrank back as the shower fell across them—but were back mere seconds later, as though he had done nothing at all.

  He stared in horror for a moment—

  This was futile.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Turning on his heel, he raced back, shoving through the idle men and women who had come to watch and do nothing at all.

  The firefighters were few, and the delivery line they had going was not enough. Jasen knew this as he raced back to the well, passing two people, far too spread out from each other for their water to have much effect. He knew this as he waited in the growing queue by the well, as the overweight man cranked, sweat pouring down his face, and pails were filled, much too slowly, a pair at a time, before the buckets were lowered again to the water that was much too far away …

  Shilara caught up.

  “Jasen,” she wheezed. “Are you—?”

  He shook his head, didn’t answer. Didn’t want to think about it. If he did, for even a second …

  His turn came much too late. He bobbed up and down on his feet, unable to keep still. He wanted to be running, damn it, back to his house, back with not just two pails of water but two hundred, two thousand—whatever number it took to extinguish every tiny spark alight in his home right this moment, he would carry them, every pail. He’d empty the damned creek, take ice from the top of the mountain if he had to, if only it meant he could drown those flames and take back his home before everything of value in it—every memory he held dear—was lost.

  He hurtled back with two pails, three quarters full.

  The smoke cloud had been smeared by a gentle wind now. Now it looked like a tower beginning to topple.

  The crowd was larger.

  Jasen shoved through—

  “Son!”

  He turned, almost tripping—

  Adem was there. He’d come down the adjacent path almost at the same moment.

  He hadn’t been in there.

  Jasen dropped his pails hard. One fell over, spilling its water across the path. Jasen didn’t care, though; all he could do was surge for his father, meeting him in a run, slamming into the man’s midriff and holding him tight, holding back tears that cut lines through the soot beginning to accumulate on his face.

  “You’re all right?” Adem asked. One arm around Jasen’s back, he clutched him tight, his fingers tight in Jasen’s hair. “Thank ancestors you weren’t in there.”

  Jasen wanted to say, “Thank ancestors you weren’t.” But he was too choked up, couldn’t say a thing.

  His father pulled back, took Jasen’s face in his hands. He looked him over, assessing, checking for damage.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Jasen just nodded. Finding his voice, he said shakily, “Where were you?”

  “Assembly meeting. Willard Rafferty summoned me.” The neighbor opposite and across by one. Jasen felt a surge of gratitude to Willard Rafferty, as if by summoning his father, it had been he who’d secured Adem’s absence from the flames in the first place. Or maybe it was for having the sense to call Adem here, and inadvertently let Jasen know that his father was alive? He was not sure. Everything was a muddle now.

  The heat behind was not helping. His head hurt.

  “What now?” he asked Adem.

  Adem looked over his head. His expression was pained. “To the well. That’s all we can do.”

  His father helped him up. Jasen collected the pail he’d left—only the fallen one, as someone else—maybe Shilara, as she was just departing through the crowd—had taken the full pail and emptied it over the burning building. Where, Jasen couldn’t be sure; for all the work thus far, they’d not made a dent. If anything, the blaze was only getting worse.

  He and Adem ran side by side to the well. There, they joined the queue. Alixa was there, and she sobbed, clutching Adem as he asked if she were okay. Shilara listened but did not interject, nor even turn from her place in line. After all, she was outcast; why would she meddle now an assemblyman was here?

  They ran back and forth for twenty minutes, half an hour, more. Every trip brought more fatigue. The heat addled Jasen’s senses yet further. The smoke made him cough, somehow more pungent every time he returned to the blaze to tip two pitiful buckets of water onto it, hardly drips compared to the fire. Soot clung to his skin, blotting his face, his hands. His clothes blackened.

  Still, that vast cloud in the sky grew.

  Still, the fire raged in the Rabinn home.

  Jasen and Adem had raced back two pails full each, when—

  A creaking sound rent the air. Groaning, louder and louder, the front of the house began to buckle—

  “Whoa!”

  Adem threw down his pail and grabbed Jasen by the shoulder, halting his forward momentum as—

  The beam above the front door gave way in a shower of sparks. A fresh dark billow burst forth, adding to the streak overhead.

  The roof collapsed. Only there—but new oxygen breathed into the space, and the glow brightened, embers suddenly bright as the sun in the thatch, in the timber of the roof, the walls—

  “No,” Jasen whispered.

  Another firefighter came—

  “Back!” Adem cried.

  “But the house,” Jasen began.

  “We can’t stop it, son,” Adem said.

  “But—then what—”

  “We’ve no choice.”

  His words were like a fire upon Jasen’s very skin, burning slow up from fingertip to his face, like it was under his skin, truth a blazing flame he didn’t want to feel.

  “We have to let it burn itself out.”

  No.

  No, no, no.

  But another beam cracked, and another part of the roof gave way, this one across the main room. Sparks belched skyward, carried on a thick plume of smog. A wave of heat came with it, and Jasen stumbled back as it slammed across his skin.

  T
his was it. Their worst fears.

  The house was lost.

  For a long, long time, Jasen could only stare. His mouth hung open, and his heart thudded hard in his chest. Tears threatened, a sob desperate to ride his every breath. Perhaps the tears did come, but the heat stripped them away, turning water to vapor before they could mark fresh channels in the soot marring his cheeks.

  His father stood by him, an arm around Jasen’s shoulder.

  “Come,” he said after … how long? Jasen wasn’t sure. More of the roof had gone down by then. Fresh patches were alight, parts of the thatch the flames somehow hadn’t made their way to until now.

  Jasen wouldn’t go. Wouldn’t. He would stay here, would watch, as everything he had ever known went up in smoke; as those last keepsakes of his mother’s were turned to ash and cast into the sky, where they might scatter atop the mountain, or far down the hills of Luukessia. Maybe they’d be carried to the sea.

  It didn’t matter where they went. Nor did it matter how beautiful she might have found it. These memories were Jasen’s, his father’s. They ought to stay here.

  Someone had robbed him of them.

  And who was to blame?

  The arrayed crowd still watched, a mass of them. Barely any had lifted a finger to help. And now he looked at them, truly looked rather than brushing past and shoving through as he fought to save his home, he knew: some of them were happy this had happened.

  They had watched the destruction of the Rabinn home, would continue to watch it, and thought to themselves: This is deserved.

  15

  “Something has to be done,” Jasen murmured.

  He sat with Shilara and Alixa. They’d left the house, still aflame. It would take hours before it was entirely burned out. Perhaps not until tomorrow, or even the day after.

  His father had gone—somewhere. Jasen heard him say where, voice strained, face tight. Holding back tears? Perhaps. His father never shed them easily, always fought to keep them back.

  Jasen had thought on this for long hours, sitting in quiet. Shilara and Alixa had tried to engage him. He had not replied, merely sitting on Shilara’s stretch of overgrown lawn, quiet and staring distantly. They’d given up, mostly at Shilara’s urging—”He needs some time. Don’t try to force him,”—but now his decision was made. And so he broke his silence.