Saddleback
“Trashcan, Puerto Williams, Chile” by Roger Camp
When the fire came, I went up the hill in borrowed fireproof overalls and a questionable mask for the smoke, thick into the scrub toward the stables up Saddleback. Stayed off the roads, where tires were melting to pavements, cars honking desperation for the clog of those who’d gotten out and fled. Stupid decisions, all it is, all it is. Animal brain malfunctioning, so disused.
The scrub smoked already, the earth itself baking animals out of holes. Tree roots flaming calderas, a thousand degrees beneath the soil. Rabbits, snakes, foxes, coyotes, streaming down over tops of my boots, boots that had gone unmelted already four tours of the Middle East. But, this fire. This fire. Words fail. The roar of it fought me backward.
Kept going.
Stampede of deer, llama, horses, a goat.
There was, half up the ravine, a car slid onto a rooftop. A dog stood atop the back of a horse. The horse stood, blank gaze at me, shoulder deep in a swimming pool. Eyes lemured at me from inside the house. A man and woman, holding hands, faces begging: would they be okay? I signaled, one hand, in direction of the pool. Horse, dog had the right idea.
I found you.
I found you in a concrete shelter just short of the ridge. Ducked in, both of us. Just a breather. You had cradled around you half a dozen furred, blinking faces, bodies hammocked in slings swaddled to your waist. Could be cats, dogs, could be vermin. Loose slings of canvas argued you had room for more.
But you’d stopped. You’d stopped and doubled over, hands on knees, struggling for breath. The fire roaring over, jumping hill to hill, caught on an upwelling of air off the ocean, not at the moment our friend. Wordless, you pointed.
The mare. The mare, head hanging, in the opposite corner of this shelter that had been a house, had been a garage, had been somewhere safe long before the last year’s fires, now only the walls and roof between us and flame. A grey. Or a chestnut white with ash. Or a scorched white.
She’d led me to you.
Your nose, you pointed.
The smell.
The smell of it.
The smoke of red cinders in her tail.
The melt of her hooves.
You patted your waist mottled with heads that bade me answer: You, already loaded down, no sling there left for a horse.
What would I do?
Roar of fire, bore down its growl: what would I do?
The eyes of all those faces encircling your waist: what would I do?
I pushed down the mask protecting my face, pushed down yours, kissed you. Squeezed eyes to black, every thought we’d ever had, every cool breeze, every damp night, every wind across a balcony, every sultry lingering in cool sheets. All these rescues. You shoved back against my chest, wordless question: What? All those years of you begging, Use your words. Tell me what you’re thinking.
Too much roar to speak, even if all that bottleneck left my throat.
What I wanted was a camera. A phone that hadn’t disabled itself against the heat, hours back. So I could show you. Not this horse but the dozens that crushed me down hill all night. Stampede rising clouds of earth against clouds of smoke.
Wish I’d words to draw a picture for you of what I’d left, coming back for you up the cliffside. Horses llamas goats alpacas. All those who’d stampeded down the mountainside, crossed the PCH and lingered there where earth ended at the Pacific. Hundreds of them, wandering wild. Hundreds tied off to the railings of lifeguard towers beneath the rabid orange sky.
Wanted to tell you about the dog on the horse’s back in the safety of the pool. Wanted to tell you about the lovers, the lemur-eyed husband and wife, holding hands as if they’d just discovered love.
Wanted to tell you-
“Go!” I shouted, recovering your face, tucking in loose hair. Pushed you out.
Wanted to tell you I’d followed this mare back up the hillside. Clung to her tail as it caught fire, squelched out the embers until they burned through the thick leather palms of my gloves. Wanted to tell you what had been yelled to me from volunteers down the hillside: Don’t chase her. She’ll lead you back into the fire. She won’t stop going back for them.
The mare in the corner raising her head. Sputter of her exhale, struggling to clear nostrils. Caught her breath. Asking, was I ready to crack on?
Wanted to tell you.
Go! I shouted again. Ducking as a blast jumped over our heads, you passed me another canvas to cover the mare’s eyes, to lead her down. Wanted to tell you. The way the mare would pull me. What she’d left in the paddock back up the mountain. Pulled down my mask to smile. I’ll be right behind you.
About the Author
Elissa Field's writing has been nominated for Pushcart, Best American and Best Small Fictions, and included on the Wigleaf Top 50 longlist. She has stories appearing in Conjunctions, SmokeLong Quarterly, Maudlin House, Peatsmoke, Fractured Lit, Reckon Review, Citron Review, Monkeybicycle, and elsewhere. She is querying a novel, with drafts having been finalist and listed in awards with First Pages, Heekin Foundation, and James Jones First Novel Fellowship. She is a Submissions Editor for SmokeLong Quarterly. She lives in a ridiculously cool historic house under an ancient mango tree. Find her @elissafield or elissalaurenfield.com.
about the artist
Roger Camp is the author of three photography books including the award winning Butterflies in Flight, Thames & Hudson, 2002 and Heat, Charta, Milano, 2008. His work has appeared in numerous journals including The New England Review, Witness, and the New York Quarterly. His documentary photography has been awarded Europe's prestigious Leica Medal of Excellence. Represented by the Robin Rice Gallery, NYC, more of his work may be seen on Luminous-Lint.com.