It was almost exactly the middle of the night on the longest day of the
year when Mrs. Manitou awoke from her dreams to a nightmare.
Somewhere close, too close, a beast roared like a tornado, shaking the
glass windows of the old house in a terrifying, all-encompassing noise.
It was to this great primal roar that Mrs. Manitou awoke. Her
husband, however, opened his eyes to the creature’s torrid breath, hot
like a solar flare reaching out from the sun.
“It’s too hot again,” he grumbled. “We’ve got to keep the windows
open.” His wife, however, already stood by the window, speechless and
wide-eyed as if to attend the debut of a silent film. “Rose, didn’t you
hear me?” Mr. Manitou swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling
his old knees pop! It was unusually bright in the room for the middle of
the night, and as he turned to ask his wife again, he froze.
“Is that...?” Mr. Manitou stopped short, pulling his eyes closed and
then opening them wide.
“Julie’s place,” his wife finished for him without breaking her gaze
on the fire. Then she turned, a look of helpless pity covering her tired
face. “How could this happen?” She choked back tears.
Mr. Manitou shook his head and pushed himself up in a hurry. He
slipped into pants and an old flannel shirt, grabbing a winter scarf for a
face covering.
“Where are you going?” The fear in Mrs. Manitou’s voice was as
scorching as the fire outside their window. Mr. Manitou was already
grunting his way down the stairs.
“Someone’s got to help!” he called up. “Stay here. Call the police!”
“No, Wayne!” Mrs. Manitou pleaded. “Your condition!”
But even as the words left her mouth, she knew it was too late. She
listened as the front door opened and then slammed shut.
. . .
Wayne Manitou could not see well out of his right eye. It was a handicap
he had gained many years earlier, when the world was a younger place
and he, a younger man. Now, despite his failing vision and body that
clanged with each jolted step, he moved as fast as he could through the
short expanse of trees that separated the Manitou’s house from the
Swan’s. The July air sagged with humidity, and the blazing flames
churned it into an unbearable furnace.
The Manitous had known the Swans for years. After the father had
passed, Wayne promised himself he would keep an eye on them. His
working eye, Rose always joked. Apparently, it had not been enough.
He swore under his breath, felt himself wheeze with effort, and raked
the back of his palm across his already dripping forehead. His mind
jumped to wondering how such a big fire could have started. And to
grow so big with neither Julie nor her boy, Salem, noticing.
None of that mattered now. At the rate it was going, the fire would
soon consume the house. But as Mr. Manitou lumbered not at all
gracefully forward, he saw across the yard something he could not
believe.
Facing the burning structure stood a group of maybe three or four
people. He held his hand over his right eye, as had become his habit.
The people remained.
“Help! Help me!” he shouted through his scarf.
Not one figure moved. Could they be—no? He shook his head in
disbelief—wearing suits? Wayne Manitou refused to accept that such a
thing could be possible. Yet as the shadows danced against the revolving
firelight, so too did the figures remain, stoic statues that watched but
did not move. Wayne grunted and refocused on the house in front of
him, deciding that neither his mind nor his eyes were what they used to
be.
The heat grew in magnitudes of intensity with each step he took.
Even with the scarf over his nose and mouth, he struggled to breathe
through the thick smoke that encased him. Sirens wailed in the distance.
The sound gave him hope, but it was short-lived as he watched one of
the house’s corners collapse in a plume of orange embers. Wayne
Manitou turned to look back at his own house. Through the trees and
smoke and heat he could barely make out the mint-colored shutters and
white carnation flower boxes his wife loved so much. He thought about
her. How she had shown him the world. Taught him about love, and
truth, and that people perhaps don’t find him as grumpy as he found
himself. A single tear rolled down Wayne’s withered cheek as he plunged
through the smoldering backdoor into the inferno.
. . .
The boy choked on a thick mass of hot black air. He had woken from
sleep to a reality that seemed too frightening to be real. He found his
way through the dark to the stairs, desperate to reach his mother’s room
on the first floor. He stepped and like a portal the floor gave way,
sending him into a pile of debris that crushed and burned him. He tried
to scream, but no noise came out. Time was meaningless in that space.
The fire sought only air and room to grow. As it crackled and inhaled it
opened more portals, while closing the doors and windows of his life.
He knew no father was coming to save him, though there was a mother,
and she needed help. He fought from the core of his being, but the
smoke was too dark and debris too heavy. Then strong but gentle hands
grasped him by the shoulders and pulled. Half-carried, half-dragged, he
watched the house through blurry vision get farther and farther away.
He tried to tell his rescuer about his mother, still trapped inside, but his
throat was a desert, barren of water, and no words came out.
“Stay here,” the boy heard a gruff and familiar voice say as the hands
released him to the ground, and he thought he saw the outlined
silhouette of his old neighbor above him. He watched the figure move
back toward of the flames. All around him, the world burned. On his
skin, beneath his mind, within his heart. Then, like a curtain finishing an
act on stage, a dark wave swept over him, and all was still.
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