Cloudless, the sky is the clear smooth blue that appears only in summer, somehow closer than the remote gray of winter. The sun throws white light all around, but still, the brightness hinders more than helps. Trees cast splotchy shade on the trail, making it difficult to see roots and other hazards as I run. I make it only to the first bend in the path before the toe of my boot catches on a jagged rock jutting out of the dirt. I find myself sprawled out on the ground before I know what happened, the palms of both hands scraped and dirty.
I sit up and allow myself just one moment to examine my hands, to study the blood soaking into the thin layer of dirt, turning it sticky and black. A moment later I am on my feet, wiping my bloody palms against my pants and running hard again.
I pass the places Lo and I passed yesterday—the fallen tree where Lo sat, the ferns where we stretched out beside each other. My feet move faster and my legs pump harder. The extra effort makes my chest ache, but I welcome the pain.
I try to imagine what will happen when Lo’s people find that you and your family have gone. Will they pursue you to the south? Or will they return to Lo and tell her the opportunity was missed?
And what will she do then?
The higher I climb, the crisper the air around me grows, like I’m climbing backward in time, back into the spring, before leaves sprouted and insects hatched. Turning a blind corner around a cluster of dense trunks and naked, twisted branches, I startle as something small races into the low brush—a hare or maybe a fox. My feet lose their rhythm and my left foot stubs against a root.
I catch myself before I fall, but not before my ankle turns. With the next step, pain shoots up into my knee and down into my foot. Now I fall, clutching the ankle as I roll onto my back.
To the count of ten, I tell myself. You can lie here to the count of ten, but then you have to be up and moving again. By the count of three, I remind myself to breathe. By six, I unclench my jaw. By nine, I rotate my ankle once in the air. At the count of ten I’m upright, testing my weight on my left foot. Painful, but bearable.
I hobble at first, then shuffle, until finally, nearing the summit, I run. I wince with every step, but still, I run.
As I reach the crest of the hill—the spot that marks the halfway point in the trail—the sight of the sky confuses me. Dark gray clouds move surprisingly quickly across the bright blue sky. They roll and puff like storm clouds, and at first I think I sense it—the fresh cool wetness on the breeze that precedes a storm. But another scent overwhelms the coolness—a stinging sharp scent that burns my throat.
Smoke.
Half running, half sliding on loose gravel underfoot, I speed down the trail that now descends sharply before it makes its first switchback since the summit. From here, I get my first view of my camp. The neat circle of huts, each one glowing with red and orange flames. Each one emitting a plume of black into the sky.
The ring of huts has become a ring of fire.
Wind sweeps across the valley floor and rises up the steep face of the cliff at my feet. It carries with it the heavy, oily scent of burning hides. A strong gust rattles the still-bare branches, speckled with pale green buds, and smoke mixes into my hair. Another blast hits me hard in the face, my eyes stinging and swelling, blurred by thick tears that streak down the sides of my nose. My lips dry and swell like blisters.
A shadow passes over my head—a large bird is circling, a buzzard—and I startle out of a trance I’d fallen into. How long have I been standing in this spot, riveted by the horror of the scene at my feet? I can do no good standing here. I drag my eyes away and force myself to keep moving.
The farther I descend into the valley, the thicker the smoke becomes. Cinders fly by in the breeze—pieces of charred hide and tiny flecks of wood, glowing red-hot as they spin through the air. As I run, a few sear the skin of my face and hands, but I brush them away and keep moving.
I emerge from the trees at the foot of the trail and walk right into a wall of heat. Sweat pools at my neck and runs down my back. The air is so thick I fear it will choke me.
I allow myself to turn my face to the water for three breaths—just three breaths. No more. As I gulp in cool air, I notice that the beach and bay are empty—there’s not a single sign of Lo’s clanspeople or their boats. I fill my lungs once, twice, three times. Then I turn and run up the path to the camp that from here is visible only as a red glow at the top of the rise.
As I move closer to camp, voices reach my ears—voices vibrating with panic and fear. The roar of flames drowns out words, but I manage to pick out shouts from my father. He is calling for everyone to move away and head for the water.