Echoes Of Fire (Whispered Echoes)

Chapter 1

one

Luke

T he hatchet spins across the yard and slashes into my hand-painted target a good foot from the center. Adjusting my aim, I toss a second but it lands almost an equal distance on the other side of the bullseye. Doing things with my left hand has never been easy. Now I have no choice.

The day is sunny and cool. The soft noises from the rustling trees around my homestead, the movements of small animals I know are there but can’t see, and the burbling of the nearby creek are familiar. Comforting. As much as anything can be in my world.

A single flick of my glance to my right hand brings the past crashing down around me. Again.

It’s been a year and a half. Five hundred and fifty days since my life, my hopes, dreams, all the possibilities came crashing down in burning timbers. Closing my eyes against the memories doesn’t help. The looped mental movie of how I couldn’t save my sister from dying replays in vivid detail. I can almost feel the heat against my skin. Smell the billowing smoke that kept me from her. The fire crackles as though laughing as a flame covered beam crushes her. And severs my hand.

Clicking the metal claw of my prosthesis, I cross to the target and wiggle the axes from the wood. Back then I was the champion of the station at ax throwing. No matter the size of the ax, my aim was true. With my right hand.

Fucking lot of good that did when I couldn’t save my sister.

Losing my hand isn’t near enough punishment for my failure that day.

I don’t know why I keep trying to match the past with the wrong hand. I’m not a firefighter any longer. I’m nothing and I’ve got no plans to ever go back to my previous life. Not that I even could. No, I’m where I belong. Where no one knows my shame or even cares enough to ask. Because they understand I won’t be asking questions either.

There’s a reason people disappear into the mountains. On those rare trips into the nearest town for supplies, others who’ve chosen solitude like me might nod or grunt a greeting. Talk of practical things like the weather, the number of bear or moose sighted, rescuing the lost tourists who invade the area during the short summer planning to prove they can ‘rough it’.

Although I assisted when a small brush fire broke out near town, no one knows my childhood dream was to be a fireman. No one knows I have… had the skills and my future planned. How I’d aligned myself to my chosen profession for life.

Now, I have no life. My folks and sister are gone. My only relative is her young son, Kyle, whose father stated unequivocally I wasn’t welcome as part of his life. I suppose at the boy’s age, he probably would associate me with the fire and why his mommy went away. I won’t do anything to cause him more pain.

Swiping the dampness from the corner of my eye, I return my hatchets to their storage box on the front porch of my cabin. Unusual good luck was on my side when I came across this property right before the previous owners moved into town. Inheritance from my folks, along with insurance and disability allowed me to purchase the large plot of land outright. And if I’m frugal, I have enough to live on for a good number of years.

Maybe by the time I need money I’ll have figured out my life. Who I am without a firefighter’s uniform, or what I have to offer. Or if fate is kind, I won’t have to worry about it because I’ll be dead.

Life and safety isn’t guaranteed in the Alaska wilderness. And that’s perfect for me.

Using the end crusts of the commercially baked bread I’d gotten on a whim last week when I went to town, I make a sandwich. Even old and dry, the once squishy white bread is a treat and vastly different from the sourdough or biscuits I’ve learned how to bake for myself. Taking my food and a beer I return to the porch and sit with my feet propped on the railing.

Sometimes I forget I have a fake hand. The claw slips off the bottle and my beer falls to the side. Shaking my head, I watch the foamy liquid flow across the porch and escape through a knothole. Guess it’s too early to drink anyway.

I switch to water and once my lunch is consumed, I lean back further and close my eyes. I can’t summon any ambition or even a concern that my brain and my heart are both numb. That’s better than the anger that I carried on my shoulders for so long. It’s easier not to feel. Existence is easier than living.

A high pitched engine whine and the lower brr of propellers wake me and I ease forward to peer up at the sky. It’s not unusual for small planes to fly over my cabin making their way to and from the single runway just outside of town. The whir is almost comforting and I wonder briefly what kind of people are on the plane. Then I wonder why I care.

It's a good twenty miles into town and the narrow road has steep grades and tight curves. Few others besides those of us who live out here dare to tackle the trek. Sometimes it’s easier to take my UTV cross country. I’m not worried my privacy will be invaded until a tingling crawls along the back of my neck and shoulders. I frown and stare at the plane.

This tingling has always been a warning. From keeping me out of trouble as a teen to alerting me to dangerous situations while dealing with a fire, I’ve learned not to ignore it. Except once. When I couldn’t save my sister. I rub my neck and stand. When the plane begins a wide swooping circle over the area, I step into the yard.

The tingling increases.

The plane’s not that high above the mountain peaks. I whisper a quick prayer to a god I’m not sure I believe in that they don’t crash. That happens far too frequently out here, and often the plane is never found. The situation makes me wonder about the pilot’s or passenger’s intentions.

The plane makes a slow spiral above me. The side door opens. A tiny figure appears and almost immediately leaps into the air. The plane angles upward and circles while the figure falls. A bright purple chute opens ending the guy’s free fall.

“What the fuck?”

The sound of my own voice startles me. I don’t talk to myself—yet—so the break in my silence is disturbing. As is the increase of sharp tingles at the base of my neck. Shit. Something might happen to the parachuter. And I’m probably the only one who might know. I reach inside the door and grab the pack I keep filled with first aid supplies then study the drifting parachute.

The guy seems to know what he’s doing except there’s no large clearings in what looks to be the target area. The close growing trees and interlocking branches could severely injure him if he gets tangled or lands against a broken branch.

I won’t be able to track the chute once I’m in the forest, so I mark the angle of descent, hope the guy doesn’t change direction, shoulder the pack, and take off at a jog.

Normally I enjoy running along the forest paths, breathing the clear air, greeting the animals I see. It’s one of my few pleasures. But today the woods are eerily silent. Waiting. My neck starts to burn.

The flapping of thin parachute material breaks the silence. I stop at the edge of a tiny clearing, no larger than my cabin, and look up. The parachutist has aligned the silks with the widest break in the trees. There’s some skill there. He floats lower, making minute adjustments. Just when I’m ready to breathe again, a gust of wind puffs out one side of the chute. A thick branch snags the silk.

The parachute collapses and the guy crashes into the side of the tree then swings back out into the air, falling until the lines tighten and he bounces like a marionette dancing from the tree’s fingers.

I stand at the edge of the clearing unsure what to do. Climbing the tree is impossible but if the guy’s unconscious, I have no choice and will have to attempt that impossible. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in an emergency situation and my mind’s processing the situation slowly.

The guy moves, reaches for one of the lines and the flash of metal indicates he’s probably cutting the rope. Looking from him to the ground I judge the distance to be a little over nine feet. Not an impossible fall to walk away from but not optimal. I watch as one rope is severed and the parachutist moves on to the next.

He seems competent enough. I step forward and tilt my head back to watch the progress in silence until the wind catches and swings the guy away from the last rope holding him aloft.

“Hey, you okay up there?”