Yet no one is listening. Alongside each hut, dangerously close to the flames that dance across the surface of the hide coverings, people are moving—digging, scooping up dirt and throwing it at the fire, frantically trying to extinguish the blaze. My uncle Reeth and his family work to save the kitchen. My brothers and mother use broad flat stones from the hearth to fling dirt at our own hut. Even my father, still shouting for people to give up the fight and retreat to the beach, is helping Kara, the widow whose hut stands next to ours.
I have never seen—never even imagined—so much flame. A spark from the hearth sometimes spreads to a pelt, a wall of the kitchen once caught fire, but never have I seen flames like these. My aunt Ama and her sons run by, carrying full waterskins from the beach, but all the water they can carry has little effect. The trip to the beach is too far. By the time they fetch more, the flames have only grown.
All around me, shouts are punctuated by coughs as people choke on the smoke that swirls and circles, coating and covering everything, rising high above our heads. I look up, my eyes drawn to a darkening pillar of smoke that stretches to the sky, when I realize with a start that it isn’t a pillar of smoke at all.
It’s a storm cloud. A dark storm cloud rolling in quickly from the north.
The scent of an approaching storm . . . I had noticed it on the peak but then had all but forgotten it. If only it were closer. But watching the clouds roll in, I know they won’t come in time. At the rate the fire is burning, the camp will be nothing but cinders before the rain reaches it.
A hand grabs my shoulder. I turn to see my brother Roon beside me, his face bright red and his hair soaked with so much sweat it appears he’s been swimming. “Help me,” he says. He tugs on my parka like a child. “Come with me to the beach.”
His eyes are wide. Is he panicking? I want to help him, but my head spins around as I take in the image of my family and friends, each one desperately working. It might all be in vain, but I know I have to help them. “I can’t,” I say. “You go and rest. I’ll be there soon.”
“No!” Roon’s eyes blink rapidly. He grabs my shoulders with both hands and shouts into my ear, “I have an idea to put out the fire, but I can’t do it alone.”
I pull back and study his face when cold water drips from his hair onto my hands. Icy rivulets run down his face. His parka is soaked.
What I’d thought was sweat is seawater. He’s been in the sea.
“I have an idea!” he says again, gripping my shoulders even tighter.
I nod, and without another word he turns and runs. It’s all I can do to keep up as he races to the water.
There, half submerged and half resting on the gravel beach, is a two-man kayak. When I get close enough I see that it is filled with water.
He’s trying to bring all this water—more than a hundred waterskins—to the fire.
“Yes,” I say. “This can work.” I wrap my hands around the front edge of the boat and pull, but I can’t move it. Even when Roon wades into the water and pushes from the back, there’s too much weight. “We need to dump some out—”
“We need all of it. Let’s drag it—”
“The hull will rip—”
“Fine! Just . . .” He trails off. We’re already tipping the boat, turning it ever so slowly, letting just enough water run out that the back end begins to float up and Roon lifts it above the surface.
“Go!” he shouts, and without a moment to draw in a breath, we take off, carrying this huge vessel of water as fast as we can without letting it all splash out along the way.
Once we get back to camp, Roon shouts and waves, trying to get everyone’s attention, but no one notices him. Finally, he takes off his already dripping parka, dunks it into the kayak until it is soaked with water, and beats it against the flames racing across the surface of my family’s hut. The burning hides beneath Roon’s coat hiss and smoke as the fire sputters, sizzles, and finally goes out.
Everyone sees, and everyone follows Roon’s lead. My mother grabs a mammoth pelt that hangs from a post beside the kitchen door—a tool she uses for sweeping out dirt and scraps from the floor—and practically throws herself into the opening in the kayak. Pulling the dripping hide from the water, she flings it onto the wall of her sister’s hut. When the flames sizzle and smolder, my aunt drops to her knees, tears running down her cheeks. My young cousins—just nine and ten years old—throw down their waterskins and add their own drenched parkas to the mammoth pelt. A few more hurried trips to the kayak and their hut is saved.
All around the camp, voices go up in cheers. Roon, my incredibly brilliant brother, works harder than anyone. Progress is slow and many hides are lost, but if not for Roon, our camp would have ended in ashes. When the last flame is out, he collapses in the center of the meeting place, his face framed by singed hair, his chest, face, and neck flushed with heat. Blisters form on his hands, still dripping with icy water. He presses his palms to his cheeks and his teeth chatter.