by Emily Asad
Chapter 14: Fire Island
I sprinted as best I could to the dock. Every time my foot connected with the rocky beach, bolts of agony shot through my leg. I refused to pay attention. As I ran, I worked out the details in my mind. Row out to the island, use my bracelet and striker to spark a fire, get the fire going strong, and row back. Once the fire got big enough and smoky enough, help would arrive.
I hoped.
The plan was easy enough. The reality was far trickier. In the first place, I’d never rowed a boat before. At least there was a boat, after all, but its wooden planks looked old and patched. Would it spring a leak halfway out? I wasn’t a strong swimmer; I’d probably drown at that distance. I swallowed my fears and lowered myself from the dock into the splintery canoe. It wobbled, rippling the water. I grabbed the rough, chipped oars and started to row.
At first, keeping a straight line was impossible. I kept arcing in a half-circle until I figured out that my right arm was pulling harder than my left. Having had so much experience with blisters on my heels lately, I recognized the sharp bite; my hands were going to be covered soon.
Pull, pull, don’t give up, I chanted. Pull, pull, don’t give up. Pull, pull...
How weak I was! Thirsty, tired, hungry. The muscles in my arms and shoulders started to ache after only a few minutes, and the burn spread all the way down my back. I tried to focus on something to be glad for. It took a while, but I finally figured it out: I wasn’t walking or standing, which meant there was no weight on my ankle. That was a definite treat.
It took forever to reach the island. When I finally did, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go ashore. It smelled rotten and forbidding. Insects flew into my face - especially biting flies and whispery mosquitoes.
I’ll probably get a snakebite myself, I thought. Or a spider bite. Didn’t I read somewhere that black widows could live in this climate?
The idea of being poisoned to death freaked me out, but I thought about Tony lying helpless on the shore. There was no other choice.
My first attempt to land the canoe failed. It was hard to guide the canoe alongside the dock. I ran into the corner post, bouncing backward and nearly ending up under the canoe instead of in it. The second time, I backpaddled, lined up the nose of the canoe with the dock, an eased in slowly. Never having tied up a canoe before, I hoped my shoestring knots would be good enough to keep it there until I got back.
The island seemed like an obstacle course for someone with a bad ankle. I found myself picking through all sorts of debris. We’re talking thick layers of dead branches, twigs, logs, and rocks. Sometimes the surface shifted, and my weight would break through the top layer to even more treacherous terrain below.
And then I slipped. Of course, right? As if Fate had been determined to break my ankle all along, and hadn’t quite gotten the right chance to carry out her mission. Well, she got a good hold this time. When I stepped on a pile of sticks, they snapped. Not only did I push through a few inches of stones, but the shift caused a fairly large boulder to move enough to wedge my ankle into a trap.
There was nobody to help me. I could hear Mom’s “I told you so” and Dad’s “But it was my turn with her” in my ears. I thought of all the times I had wanted to interrupt them and have my say, but I held back like a good little daughter, afraid to hurt anyone’s feelings. Never before had my arguments been so sharp and clear. All the things I ever wanted to say just lined themselves up like soldiers practicing their drill. Why hadn’t I told Mom how much I loved her before I got on the plane? Why hadn’t I phoned Dad more and reassured him that no matter where he went or how far away he was, he’d always be my daddy? Why hadn’t I yelled at them just a little bit and told them how much they hurt me each time they used me to annoy each other?
Total calm enveloped me, kind of like when the airplane hit the water, except that I wasn’t stupidly paralyzed this time. As if my foot belonged to someone else, I inspected all the angles. I decided to point my toes downward and pull back while leaning on the boulder. And I knew it was going to hurt.
I took a few fast breaths to brace myself, then pulled as hard as I could. The familiar sound of cracking sticks filled the air, but it was bone, not sticks. My bone. I knew instantly that my ankle hadn’t been broken before, because the new level of pain was so much worse.
A bizarre thought struck me - at least it was the same ankle! What would I have done with two injured ankles? I started to laugh. Then I couldn’t stop. Tears leaked down my cheeks. I figured since I was already hysterical, I’d go ahead and attempt another mighty heave.
This time my foot came free.
It’s amazing how much pain a person can endure and still function. I knew I was going into shock. Better finish this before I’m completely incoherent, I thought. Now, what do I need?
I stifled my giggles and looked around for a good starting place. Four days in the forest had taught me to be analytical. Gathering the firewood would be no problem; ultra-dry debris surrounded me. It was arranging it that puzzled me so much. I’d watched Tony organize the tinder in little piles, but I’d never done it with my own hands.
“You’ll burn yourself!” said Mom. “Give me those matches.”
Focus.
I found a huge dead tree with arms that reached out to the other trees. Perfect. I piled little tufts of dry grasses and needle-thin twigs into a sort of bird’s nest for my starting point. Then I arranged my other twigs - pencil-size, finger-size, breadstick-size - into nearby piles so I could reach them. All the while, I stayed alert for spiders and snakes. Whenever I picked up a piece of wood, I banged it on the ground, just in case.
And then it was time.
Kneeling, I held my bracelet over the nest and banged the striker against it. Nothing. I banged it harder, and then so hard I thought I’d break the bracelet. I finally drew a tiny spark, but it landed in the dirt and died. Desperate, I kept hitting and hitting until, by pure luck, a giant spark landed in the nest and started to smolder. I almost didn’t notice it. But I leaned forward and began to blow, mentally begging it to catch flame.
It died.
I had to start over.
Eventually, another big spark landed in the nest. This time I was ready. Like some mama feeding baby food to a baby until it was ready for solids, I fed my spark until it turned into a tiny, bright little flame. I think I nearly stifled it with too much attention. But it managed to thrive - and start to grow. It ate all my bark shreds and hair-thin twigs, and then gradually developed an appetite for the sticks. Soon it blazed as high as my knee. Time for the logs.
“But Santa will be here soon,” Dad said. “Better put this out before he burns himself.”
Focus!
Adrenaline sharpened my vision, outlining each blue flame as they licked the logs. My fire was growing so hot that I had to throw in the logs from a distance.
And then the tree caught fire.
Victory shot through my veins. I did it! Alana Morgan, useless princess, mild mouse of a human who couldn’t even tell her parents to be nice to each other, had created fire with her own two hands. It was a primal feeling, a good feeling.
As I turned back to the dock, I notice the island’s creature inhabitants were fleeing into the water, panicked. Snakes and rats dashed to the far side of the island, away from the flames. I shuddered in terror. What if one of them got into my canoe? I was safe from them as long as I stayed near the fire, but it would roast me soon, and then what?
I limped back to my boat, surprised to find that the oar was wet. A leak? Just my hand, torn open by the blisters and rough logs.
Well, I gotta row back, I thought. If I can walk on a broken ankle, I can row with bloody hands.
I floated above myself, detached, superior. Though I was aware of every ache and hunger pang, they did not control me.
The row back took even longer than getting there. Smoke stung my eyes, causing tears to roll down my cheeks. The acrid smoke choked me, all thick a
nd black, and billowing into the sky so high that the folks in Otter Paw couldn’t miss it. I had the presence of mind to rip off my sleeve and dip it in the water so I could wear it like a wet bandit’s mask around my nose and mouth, which cut the chances of me breathing in that awful smoke.
My giddy triumph started to fade when I thought of Tony. Would he still be alive by the time I made it to shore? I never even got to thank him for saving my life in the crash.
It would be the first thing I’d do when I reached him. If he was still alive.