You can smell the char of the wood from here. Almost hear the spit and crackle of boiling amber and the vicious hiss of escaping steam. It is the eyes that are most struck by the advancing flames. A bright horizon that casts the range of mountains in black silhouette against the failing light of dusk. Come morning, where I stand now will be blackened with soot. The surrounding forest will have a few limp survivors. The waters of the lake will be covered in a grey sludge from the falling ash.
You know, you try and you try. These folks around here have known about this fire for days. Known it might come this way for weeks. I’ve been going door-to-door, telling them they have to leave. Most do. But some… It’s like they can’t see what is on their front door. Like they don’t know the inevitability of it. You give them the words from your mouth and hope they will trust it. But how can they, when they don’t trust the evidence of their own eyes?
Perhaps it's some kind of self-annihilation I ain’t in the mindset to understand. Some kind of faith that relies upon denial. Or maybe just a kind of god complex. I think therefore I am. If they believe hard enough, perhaps that fire won’t come this way. They certainly seem sure of themselves. The calmness in their decision says as much. But there’s always that aggression when you go to their doors, hidden behind their words. As if challenging me. As if I was the one who started it and I should be the one to put it out.
Whatever. It’s their fate. I’ll be back in the morning to start clearing up the mess.
Paddy Dobson
10th August 2020