Night
Rolling
and rolling,
searching,
cresting
with each wave,
but never advancing …
My eyes open
to stillness
in a strange building.
Memories line up.
A moan escapes.
“Don’t move”—a voice cuts the dark—
“The house could go any second.”
“Where am I?” I make out a profile
against a faint glow through a window.
“You are in my attic. Butler’s the name.
You ran aground my porch roof and I hauled you in.”
“And my father? I was carrying him.”
“Sorry, my boy. You were unconscious.
Looks like a nasty bump on your forehead.”
I touch the tender spot and wince.
No time for pain—I must find Papa.
I must find Celestia.
Where to start?
“And what is the address here, Mr. Butler?”
“I would have had a different answer this morning, son,
but tonight my address is
the middle of South Fork Reservoir.”
With pain and effort,
I raise my head
to see above the sill,
and there it is,
an entire lake
standing in Johnstown,
only a few building tops,
steeples and a clock tower,
poking out of the surface.
An entire lake
beneath this attic window,
and the orange flicker
reflecting in every drop
and lighting the terrible night
is a fire
at the stone bridge.
Night
Darkness falls too soon
and a new, nameless dread
insinuates itself:
a flickering,
a fog of wood smoke,
and the scent of singeing
flesh and hair.
The big stone bridge
is a new dam
for Lake Conemaugh,
a logjam of debris—
even whole houses
with stoves still lighted,
soaking in floodwater infused with fuel—
and now the whole mess
is aflame.
I am unsure how long
the fire
has been burning
across one end of town,
but the voice in my head
grows more urgent,
saying I must hurry and find Peter.
If he is alive,
he might need help
and I may very well be the only person
looking for him.
I look into every
soot- and smoke-blackened face
as I near the bridge.
Some eyes search my face in return.
Others see nothing.
How can such a fire
rise out of so much water?
Like the water itself is on fire.
Houses are piled on top of each other.
People climb out of windows
and scramble across the smoldering mountain
of buildings,
train cars,
trees,
all sewn up tight in miles of wire.
They head for the bridge.
Others simply jump
when the flames are too close.
Their fate is less kind
and they cannot be reached
by rescuers.
I peer through the smoke,
though it stings my eyes.
I can do nothing to help these people
and none of them is Peter.
Fire stretches into the blackness.
Coughing,
bare feet blistering,
I stumble in retreat.