Firespill (32 page)
The last ones out silently watched as the two arms of the fire joined in common invasion. Even above the noise of the aircraft, the evacuees could hear the chain reaction of explosions from the clustered fishing boats in Crescent Bay as they disintegrated like so many toy models in the bright orange blanket that was now racing across the mouth of Indian River, leaping ashore, and spreading rapidly through the summer-dried timber. Soon the onion dome of St. Michael’s was engulfed in the flames which danced hundreds of feet into the air from the ruins of the nave as if in obscene celebration. Along the streets, power cables that had been kept alive to provide light for the last evacuees writhed across the road, sparking and jumping amongst the debris, while burst water pipes sprayed impotently.
Within an hour the fire, fanned by its own wind system, had completely gutted the city, covering the charred but still-burning skeletons of buildings with a cloud reeking of oil fumes, burned fish from the crumpled cannery, and the heavy, sweet stink that floated up from the ashes of the pulp mill.
And still the fire kept burning, moving now towards the steep, timbered slopes behind the chaired ruins of the town, riding on the stiffening north wind.
Traveling at around fifty miles per hour at five to seven thousand feet, the warm air, laden with billions of fine oil particles driven skywards by the firespill, had taken sixteen hours—till past midnight—to reach the cold front that now lay across the dark blur of Vancouver Island. As the warm air began to cool and moisture rapidly condensed about the nuclei of oil particles, Sarah was still sitting alone in the kitchen. The phone, which she had not replaced properly on the cradle, was giving out the dull, persistent burr of the dial tone, its mechanical droning insectlike in the silent bungalow.
A gust of wind howled through the close-leafed rose garden and banged a swing window shut. Instinctively, she got up and locked the window securely. She stood there, not knowing where else to go or what to do. She dimly recalled that the admiral—it had been he who had rung—had said something about sending someone out first thing in the morning to arrange things and to give her a hand. She had no idea how they thought they could help her. Several more gusts tore into the garden, shaking the bushes with such ferocity that Sarah’s attention was finally arrested by the sound. She moved slowly to the kitchen door and switched on the porch light. It struck her that if the floodlight went out, she wouldn’t know how to fix it. There was something you had to unscrew, some wire mesh or shield you had to take off, before you could change the bulb, and she didn’t know how to do it.
Soon she could hear the rain drumming on the roof, and panic took hold. She raced out to the covered porch, pulled on her long rubber boots, picked up the pruning shears, and ran towards the garden. They had done this before—rescued the garden together, goading each other in happy competition to save as many flowers as possible before the squall smashed them.
But now, in the garden, she was confused, expecting him to be there, not knowing which bed to attend to first. She started towards the Nocturnes. A strong gust temporarily blinded her with a rush of rain and she slipped and fell heavily on the border.
When she could see again, she reached for a small Nocturne rose, but it was already in tatters, its velvet-soft petals disintegrating even as she held it gently between her fingers. Not only was it tattered almost beyond recognition, but it was as black as the night about her. It was only then that Sarah realized that the rain was black and stank of crude petroleum. She did not understand why, for she could not see the long crimson line advancing southwards through the night. Suddenly she realized that she would never see him again. Standing alone in the storm, she began to sob helplessly at its unfathomable fury.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following for their help in the preparation of this book:
At the University of British Columbia, my gratitude is extended to Robert Macdonald, an old oceanographic shipmate of mine in the Department of Geology, and in particular Dr. K. L. Pinder of the Chemical Engineering Department.
I am grateful for the information and courtesy given me by both the United States Air Force and the Canadian Armed Forces, specifically by Major D. M. Ryan and Captain W. R. Aikman of the Department of National Defence’s Office of Information, Esquimalt, British Columbia; and submarine Sub-Lieutenant M. A. Dunne, also of Esquimalt. Special thanks must go to submariner Lieutenant Gary Davis, Canadian Armed Forces (Navy), for his patience and expertise.
Most of all I am indebted to my wife, Marian, whose typing and grammatical skills have augmented her invaluable support to me in my work.
Ian Slater
Vancouver, B.C.
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