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LEGEND TELLS OF A SUMMER of flames, generations ago, when nature gave up on us. The land has not stopped burning since, no matter how hard fireys like my father work to keep it at bay.
Growing up, he dragged us all over the country, looking for a safe place.
“Nowhere is safe,” he said. My mother covered my ears but it was already too late. I’d heard him and he knew what to do. I saw the spark of determination back in his eyes. That night he packed his bag and left for a place called Hope. Mother chose not to believe him and we stayed with the latest community we’d found.
I’d wanted to believe him, with all I had. A year later, I lay on the grass next to my bike and wondered if Hope was also the stuff of legend. Maybe the hazy smoke that turned the sky red, and tainted my skin the same hue, was at fault. Maybe I was the one to blame for my father’s absence.
Setting my hand on the ground, I sat up and felt the familiar rush of the roaring blaze that consumes everything in its path. The feeling came over me as it always did, making me feel claustrophobic in my own body. My blood signing as the same flames burnt with the pulse of the approaching inferno. The conflicting sensations of thrill and shame surged through me. This is why Mother and the rest are afraid of me. Filled with unstoppable energy, I grabbed my bike and started pedalling. Riding through the dense smoke knowing I couldn’t stop. Not until I got home, not until I joined Mother and the others in the safety of the underground wildfire bunker.
My legs ached by the time I jumped off my bike and ran to the entrance, grabbing for a handle that would not give, no matter how hard I tried.
“No!” I screamed. The fire was getting closer, I could feel it taking over me. Back on my bike, I raced to the gravel road, going as fast as I could, fleeing from the wall of fire approaching behind me.
A sudden wind change turned the fire and gave me the chance I needed to escape. I rode until I started panting and the next farm emerged through the red twilight. I’d decided to keep going when I saw her. A young woman in black clothing returning to the house. I had to warn her. Taking the path onto the property, I dropped my bike by the porch and walked inside. There was no one in the hall, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew I’d seen her.
The kitchen was also deserted and my throat ached at the sight of the tap. I ran it until the water came out in a clear, steady stream. I drank greedily and filled my bottle until the stream went dry. They’d run out of water and I knew that was a death sentence.
From where I stood I noticed a pantry door and my tummy rumbled at the thought of food. As I got closer, I heard chewing noises coming from inside. I yanked the door open. A boy that, by his looks and his size, could have been my little brother, his skin the same strange red hue as mine. His cheeks were full of the bread he cradled to his chest. His startled scream was muffled by his mouthful and he coughed it all out, gasping for air.
We stared at each other and his skin began to glow. He felt the approaching fire too. We needed to find the woman and get out of there, there was no time to lose.
“Where is she? The woman? Is she your mother? We have to go!” I yelled.
He looked down and grabbed onto his knees, hiding his face.
“They’re gone. Mum . . . she said . . . ‘You’ll be safe here,’ that’s what she said. I wish she’d lock me in so you wouldn’t have found me. I wish she’d taken me with her, but I’m not one of them. Please just let me be. Lock me up. So she’ll know where to find me when they all rise to meet the lord saviour.”
You gotta be kiddin’ me, I thought to myself. I had to think and fast.
“I know you can feel it too,” I said and he lifted his head, a surprised and guilty expression on his face.
“But Mum said it’s better this way, there’s something wrong with me.”
“Me too.”
The roar of the fire drowned out his reply, I grabbed his hand.
“My father is a firey! He’ll take care of us!” I yelled. Or at least so I hoped.
The boy held on and we went outside to get my bike.
The farm was ablaze, cutting off our escape. “Do you have a bike!?” I asked.
He nodded and ran to the end of the porch, grabbing a kid’s bike with training wheels. Oh, Christ, I thought as he came rushing back and looked up at me expectantly.
The peeling paint on the porch began to char in the searing heat. The building creaked, as the burning structure weakened over our heads.
“I’m Eli!” he shouted, cleaning his face with his sleeve.
“Not now!” I screamed back at him, gesturing towards the road. “Go!”
I got off the porch and on my bike before the house could collapse on us. Eli got on his own right behind me.
We charged through the wall of flames, the fire curling around us until our clothes smouldered and our bike tires started to melt.
On the other side we started pedalling, our skin glowing like hot embers.
“My mother always called me H,” I said as we biked down the road.
“What does it stand for?” Eli followed me closely, his legs pumping as he tried to keep up. I didn’t answer because I didn’t know.
***
AT THE TOP OF A HILL we stopped and drank some water while I checked my father’s map. The one thing he’d left me with. A circle marked the place called Hope and, some distance below it, an ‘X’ with the words, ‘Fire Station’ in his handwriting.
“We have to keep going until we get here,” I said pointing at the fire station.
“How much longer?” Eli asked and I shrugged.
The wind changed and I raised my hand, feeling the bushfire being pushed towards us. Eli looked at me with wide eyes and started riding ahead.
***
AS THE SUN WENT DOWN, our water dwindled but not our determination. We kept going, following the scorched signs that guided us towards a red brick building that the map said should be my father’s fire station.
There were fire trucks parked outside and we tried to open the taps for water without success. I walked around the structure, looking for a way in, Eli trailing behind me.
“Can I help you?” a man’s voice boomed. He was wearing ragged, yellow uniform pants and big, black boots. A bushy beard covered his face.
My shoulders felt lighter, he’d know where to find my father. As he got closer to us, I stopped and so did he.
“H!” He fell to his knees and I ran towards him. Just like I’d daydreamed everyday since he’d left. His arms embraced me while Eli caught up.
I let go of my father and introduced him.
“Dad, this is Eli. He’s from a farm just a few blocks from us.”
“Hi, matey,” Dad said before going on, “H, where’s your mother?”
“I was late.” Tears streamed from my eyes. “I was playing outdoors when I felt the fire coming . . . and they, they locked me out of the bunker.”
My father frowned and asked me no more questions. Eli avoided his gaze, probably thinking about how his mother had abandoned him too.
“Not to worry, Munchkin,” my father said and I was embarrassed and delighted. It had been a long time since he’d called me by my pet name. “I’ll take care of you. Both of you.”
***
RIDING IN THE FIREY’S truck with my father and Eli, I kept an eye out for the sign for Hope but it never came. Had I missed it perhaps?
“Dad, are we there yet?” I asked.
Eli looked up, his eyes asking the same question.
“Not quite, we need to pick up the brigade on the way,” he explained.
Clicking a switch, he turned the sirens on and Eli buzzed with excitement. Soon enough we saw torchlights coming out of the dark bush. Firemen climbed on our truck as they took a break from the fight. My eyes felt sticky and I struggled to keep them open. I woke up when the truck stopped.
I followed my father into an enormous fire station, twice the size of the one before. That was when I first noticed how ragged his uniform was. How thin the soles of his boots were. The crisp stench of burnt leather strong in the filtered air. He led us to a room with long tables filled with more firemen. Their uniforms were just like my father’s. Their faces stained black with soot, their eyes aching red, and the moment they saw us, the room fell silent.
“Dad,” I asked grabbing his sleeve. “Is this Hope?”
“No, Munchkin,” he replied. I looked at him, confused.
“My father was a firefighter and so was his father before him. They knew there is no such place. Fighting alongside my brothers, I learnt that hope is not about safety. Not about defeating an impossible enemy. Hope is persevering against the odds and never giving up the fight. Hope, is the future. H, you are Hope.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: SILVIA Brown is a Spanish-born Australian poet and writer. She has published a number of short stories and is the brain behind Telltale Literary Translation. Silvia is currently working on her poetry collection which will be published later this year. https://silviabrown.wixsite.com/portfolio
