Fire and The Fish

by Derek Reid

fire -- of a summer afternoon

It was near the spot where the crooked path flowed out of Jenny’s Valley and dribbled up over top of the piney hill where the fire, which would consume the valley, the pines, the hill and everything all around, began, at midday, in the supernova heat of August 29, 1972.

It was in that valley – not near the central lake, or in the settlement that encircled it, but up in the pine forest surrounding that – where the man Polanski had built his house out of softwood and mortar. His house caught fire that day. No one knew for sure if it had been at the epicenter of the inferno (it had) or how the fire started (it was the equatorial heat) or why (because all that lives of the earth must eventually return to the earth). It just happened and no one could do a thing.

O, they wheeled their impotent fire trucks in from Lockwood Cove and took everything they could from Lake Lydia, more of a pond, really, after the dry summer. They turned their spray against the tsunami-like flames, but were driven back in horror, overwhelmed by the unexpected ferocity.

The man Polanski stood at the edge of the forest surreal

(waiting for rain, to feel rain)

paralyzed by the sight of the massive firestorm. His heart pounded not slowly in his chest, and his legs threatened to crack apart and spill him as the V of trees between the hills burned insatiably. The valley stunk of roasted pine and impending doom. A mushroom cloud of smoke filled the entire basin like a terrible fog, eclipsing the high sun. The sun would not be seen again that day (or any other) and Polanski worried that everything had gone frighteningly wrong in the universe.

But he understood nothing at all.

If the clear sky turns black, it’s not out of malice for the day, or the creatures who see by day, but out of need for a long night. The forest burns so that it may live again; it sleeps for sake of longevity. And so the forest burned, and made a bed of bitter ash.

Firemen yelled for longer hoses, raged that their water pressure was too low, the lake too dry, the heat too unbearable. Screams of “TOO MUCH”, “TOO STRONG” and “SOMEONE HELP THIS MAN” were drowned out by the fire’s lustful intonations.

Polanski was not part of the fire crew, though they desperately needed support. His sad awareness of his own futility in the face of the fire kept him off the brigade. He was terrified at the thought of losing his land, but more so of the inferno itself. Some men, like the few volunteers who’d come from Lockwood Cove, were moved to heroics when tragedy struck. This man’s unmitigated fear of the earsplitting flames that engulfed his property might have sent him running

(I need rain, I’m in hell, the pouring rain)

but he was riveted to the spot, transfixed by the sight of the resplendent beast brandishing its torch.

Polanski said very few words to his teary-eyed lover, not a word to the blackened little girl he held in his arms (he really couldn’t) and nothing at all to the townsfolk who came with the passion to beat back the flames, but strength enough just to console the poor family where the father could not.

He did force one whisper to cut the air, two soft words darkly intoned: “Save me,” but it was not altogether apparent as to whether anyone had heard him. Certainly, the utterance was not made a second time. Because father was long-past caring, and only full of terror. The fire was bigger than the land itself, its fission out of control. A trillion strange voices cried out from within the cosmic furnace and came at him in waves.

If I was a man I’d drown those voices, thought Polanski, quite insanely. But I’m not a man, I’m burning to the marrow. I’m naked, bones-out creature searing and burning to the marrow. And he was unable to drown this voice also.

Then, seconds or hours later, the answer came to him:

(speak in tongues)

the forest is alive. Some men do not understand how that can be (they have never learned to speak in tongues). But Polanski knew what the forest was saying: it was his name, his name, his name, and in a loving tone. So it was for the man Polanski, chosen by (?) for a little communion with the forest surreal, a chat about the universe, fear of fire, things like that.

***

This new voice seems to come from a thousand miles underground: “We have to pull back! The fire’s going to kill us all!” The somnambulist hears it as a light whisper floating. He drops his daughter and half-watches as she skips, skips away, but does not himself retreat. The valley is a dreadful congestion of fire and screaming and deadly gas

(try I will just to sleep)

but Polanski has come to accept it. Shouts of: “Jakub, save yourself” and “We have to RUN!” fall on deaf ears now. Even though the flames have reached his heart, Polanski feels nothing

(eyes riveted on the darkling sky)

because one step forward is rapture, and the blissful realization that his time has come. And when it does come, it comes at full torque, man. It is the helium flash at the end as he’s dreamed of, loathed, feared, welcomed in his mind. It sears, the sight burns. The solitary soul named Polanski and the bound-for-hell forest are two blazing relics, they’re agonizing, incendiary victims, to extinction boiling.

Here I am at the apogee of my creation (the thought exploded in Polanski) with nowhere to go but forward march, nothing to hold but my maker’s surrogate hands

(hothothothot)

with just one question remaining: Where’s Corina, where’s angel?

A few select folks had faced it in their youth; most would face it in the final seconds before their dissolution. Polanski was 47 years old and space inches from the inferno when he stumbled upon the universal dictum. It begins, one must presume, with this impossibly simple secret: all that lives of the earth must eventually return to the earth.

The fire destroyed it all, you see.

fish -- to her father’s pond

Of course, it had been Lake Lydia in the millennium before the fire. On maps it still had that name, a tiny blue speck in a wilderness of green. On sight, it appeared black as a mirror of the surrounding hills. There were a million or more pine stumps reflected, none more than a man’s height, and a dark, dark colored sediment.

The sun was high in the sky, cutting a swath of wicked brilliance through the dun.

Corina Polanski was in the middle of the lake (more of a pond, really) with her fishing pole cast over one side of a small rowboat. Her lure danced on top of the water that could have been five or 100 feet deep, with crude oil or liquid onyx filled. (It was just five, and only mud water and ash.) She wore a green dress with white flowers printed; someone had tied a red, red ribbon in her hair. Her face was clear and beautiful and full of life and love. She was like a dream, with the sun and the moon shining. She was out on the water now, and not alone – Polanski was there.

Polanski was … difficult to deal with. He would rarely be swayed by Corina’s frequent desire to go fishing. His words were usually loud and defiant: “I’m not going into that swamp!” His voice was angry and sharp. His gaze – this wicked gaze of his – was piercing, even hurtful. Nevertheless, Corina was insistent that her father and her spend time together, and on this day of all days

(don’t take me there, please don’t take me there)

he relented.

As the day aged and precious time passed, it was marked by a change from blazing sun to somber cloudiness. A drop of cool rain touched Corina’s nose at the same instant that (O!) she felt a sharp tug and saw a furious breach in the water about 15 feet away. “Daddy! The line’s moving! I have a fish, a real fish!” Her words took to the air like doves in flight.

“There’s nothing of the kind in this pond, it’s just weeds.” What was that in his voice? Was it rage? Contempt? She didn’t like her father’s rage, or the games he played and played. She wished for a better answer, but received the same grating reply: “Just weeds.” Corina would have liked more than that from her father, even though she knew he was heartless and cold to the touch.

“Daddy, it is a fish, I feel it thrashing, it’s pulling on me!” Corina’s fishing pole was arching at an impressive angle, darting left and right with a mind of its own. The thought of hauling a real live fish from the lake made Corina yelp with joy (for she is a different type, a bright day to his dark night).

“It’s just ratty weeds, I’m telling you! Now give me that line, I’m going to cut you loose.”

“Stop it! You’ll sit there and do nothing at all!”

The command sent him reeling, started him yearning for the strength and authority that in the past were. “CORINA,” he howled, “your damn hook’s stuck on weeds!”

A flush broke out across her face, and a tear tried, but failed, to escape from one eye. “I know you’re not well, Daddy, but why do you have to shout like that? Are you hurt? Is it just the fish? Can’t you see that your lake is still alive? Can’t you see?”

Polanski saw nothing but the plague of the land. The burned out hills and black-as-tar pond were like horrid pictures of life at its end. Lake Lydia had been teeming with fish in the years before the fire, but he could not bring himself to say so to his daughter. The lake interior was all black, all black, of that he was sure. And of this fact, too: It was all dead, all dead. He might have liked for Corina to comfort him them, but he knew he was heartless and cold to the touch.

Rain had not been forecasted, but it was dropping now. “Leaving,” Polanski grunted. “Now give me that pole and I’ll cut you free of those dastardly weeds.”

Then (O!) all of a sudden, her reel gave out 10 more feet of line, and an instant later, the fish breached again, jumping clear out of the lake, this time revealing its size (at least 18 inches) and species (largemouth bass). Corina found herself in a heated battle in the very place that had punished her spirit so often … but this time she was winning, reeling in as fast as she could.

Polanski shrieked at the unexpected thrashing in the water. “ISN’T IT JUST A CLUMP OF WEEDS?”

“No, it’s a fish! A perfect, beautiful bass fish, I think!”

“O, how would you know? It’s all dead, I’m telling you. Lord, I remember such beauty, I do, but it’s all dead …”

“Stop scaring me, Daddy, just help me!”

Polanski had no help in him. He wailed: “It’s just weeds, it’s all dead!” His words came spiraling at her like dead black crows dropping

(the whole fucking universe is gently slamming)

It was not weeds. With a final reel and heave, the largemouth bass burst out of the water and landed directly in the small boat. It smacked about at Corina’s feet, leaving an oily imprint on her shoe, bringing extreme joy to the girl who had caught it, and extreme dread to (the man) whose lake it was. Polanski scampered away from it

(reaper, reaper come to take me)

but the boat was small and it was impossible not to notice the thing or smell it’s bottom-of-the-lake aroma. That, plus the impossible smell of a fire burning, which smote him now and struck him dumb.

“What’s burning? THROW THAT LOATHSOME BEAST BACK IN THE WATER! IT’S BURNING!”

“It’s not, it’s not! Why are you trying to scare me, Daddy? Just help me! It’s beautiful, can’t you see?” And so it was. Whoever had painted the fish had done a perfect job. Its grey and gold and yellow scales glimmered in the sun that had broken through again. “O, I never thought we’d see it, but it’s beautiful. Our first fish! What a day this is! The lake is alive! The forest will come back to life, too, you’ll see!”

Corina had spoken, but Polanski was not registering. He was consumed with rage, an uncontrollable and destructive fury that burned to be free. The bile spewed out of his mouth in a single word, a soulless pitch darkly intoned: “WWWEEEEEEEEEDS!” He took one giant step across the boat and smacked her hand at the wrist. The fish wriggled out of her grip and shot back into the water. Gone forever.

She didn’t cry, though it hurt more than anything she’d ever experienced. She didn’t say a word, though her heart and mind were racing with intensity. Polanski fell back in his seat, took both oars in his hands, and began rowing for the shore, muttering

(I need rain, the pouring rain)

hell thoughts.

Seconds or hours later, as angry clouds drifted back across the face of the sun yet again, with promises of gloom upon more gloom, Corina made a grim decision and jumped out of the boat into the cold, wretched water. Polanski, hands shaking, crippled with fear, was at first slow to react. Corina was strong, a pure miracle girl with eyes like suns, and every minute she doubled the distance between Polanski and herself.

But as she reached the darkened shore and pulled herself out of the lake, the pretty white flowers on her dress stained black, her long, brown hair soaking and knotted up, the red, red ribbon lost to time and tide, Polanski was almost on top of her. He spilled out of the boat with a vicious howl and came after her. “CORRRIIIINNNAAAAA!”

Corina vaulted over countless ragged tree stumps that had already turned to coal, negotiating a path through the skeletal forest to where she knew she had to be. Ahead of her was a wall of green that marked the spot where the ’72 fire had mercifully stopped. She ran at top speed and broke through into the living forest where she belonged. Looking back, she saw her father, bent over with exhaustion, standing on the dead side of the tree line. He could go no farther.

“STOP! I have to tell you what the forest told meeeeeee! They’re making a fire for you too CORRRIIIINNNAAAAA!”

***

The sun is shining now and it blazes a path for Corina to follow. She is a young princess sprinting, for her father she is praying – she’s beautiful, ungovernable and free. (If you could see Corina now, you would never forget how she looked running through the forest, and how the forest looked with her running through it. You would take the image to the cold grave with you, and never, ever forget that the forest was green, and Corina was all colors glowing.)

This most recent encounter with Polanski should have burned the desire all out of her, but she’s satiated with desire to run, desire to live. She is an angel on earth with a single thought overpowering: Find mother and show her father, show her what was a man.

The forest has arms. They sling her forward until Lockwood Cove appears.

She reaches the Cove out of breath, her green dress in tatters, but somehow she’s still luxuriant – her eyes are like polished gems, blue and blue, reflecting a calm soul. Mother is there, so is the man she’s taken to love, and a group of faceless villagers in a circle around them.

“O, Corina, O, my angel,” mother cries, “where were you? YOU SCARED THE LIFE OUT OF ME! O, mama’s little bunny, come and kiss me.” Corina kisses her cheek once and gets several in return, then she’s held still for mother to inspect. “O, my angel, what happened to you? Who did this to you?”

(show her father, show her what was a man)

“I’m okay, Mommy, I’m fine. But Daddy needs help. He’s in the forest near the lake and he’s sick. He hit me because I caught a fish, then I had to jump into the lake …”

“No no no no … “ Mother is trembling and her legs want to crack.

“He hit me because I caught a fish. But he needs our prayers, he needs help, Mommy!”

“O, angel, listen to mama now – don’t give mama such a fright …”

“It was Daddy, I swear, it was him!”

“O, angel, how can you believe that you saw or spoke words to him? HOW COULD YOU?” Mother weeps because it’s hard for her to say what’s next. When she does speak, it comes out softly at first, but rises to a thunder. “Corina, my angel … your father died six years ago. Don’t you know? He burned in his own forest, a black, black forest – he’s gone. O, angel, HOW COULD YOU HAVE SEEN HIM?”

The villagers are embarrassed for Amanda Polanski and her poor, deceitful daughter. Most of them drift away, their faces blank and mouths silent. Mother’s new lover looks at the dirt and at the people leaving, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. Amanda’s eyes are on Corina. Such a precious girl, but her tendency to lie – to deceive – frightens Amanda to the core.

Of course, none of them understand Corina at all.

Corina knows her father burned in his own forest. A black, black forest. Mother, too. And everyone else in the village. The whole universe knows the story of Corina Polanski, the sole survivor of the human disaster at Lake Lydia. Except for the dead themselves.

The dead understand nothing at all. Most don’t know they’re dead. Others plod through eternity full of confusion and rage. It takes a one-in-a-trillion soul like Corina with a purpose so noble and a vision so clear and a spirit so kind to teach them, over and over again

(all that lives of the earth must eventually return to the earth)

what they are and how they may be free.

Fire and The Fish

by Derek Reid

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