Page 59 - WTP Vol.IX #3

Columbia’s hands rest on his hips. He lets out a deep breath and turns his head to the side like he knows how to look for something important in the stars. “Is there food?”
Beard spits a seed. “Er’s enough to make sure we don’t starve to death in the next few hours,” he says. “Leave that thermos, we might need a jolt.”
All-Orange hands the thermos over and Beard swishes the liquid around. “’t’ll do. Ya like coffee, kid?”
“No, he doesn’t,” says Columbia.
“Yes, I do,” says the boy. Beard tosses the container to the boy who removes the lid, takes a swig, and pre- tends not to loathe the taste.
All-Orange puts his arm over Columbia’s shoulder. “Oh, he’ll be okay. Mandy gives you guff, then I’ll tell her I said it’s fine.”
Columbia pulls a stack of disposable hand-warmers from each pocket and hands them to the boy. “You sure?” he says.
The boy shoves them into the pocket of his coat in three clumsy handfuls. “Yeah. I wanna stay.”
Columbia jostles his son’s hat before he turns and walks towards the shoreline where they parked the trucks. He isn’t twenty feet away when he pulls out his phone and shows it to All-Orange. “That’s my favorite right there,” he says. “There! That’s his eye, right there!”
Beard sits down on his bucket and grabs the thermos from the boy. When he sees the red shine of taillights through the trees, he turns to the boy and leans close. “Still wanna build that fire?”
~
Beard points the boy in the direction of a brush pile on the other side of a patch of cattails. The boy re- turns fifteen minutes later, dragging a pile of branch- es like a sled.
Beard has cleared the snow from a ten-foot wide patch of ice. “That’ll do,” he says. “Bring ‘er over here.”
The boy breaks up the small branches in the center of the clearing while Beard crumples up pages from a newspaper into loose balls and tucks them under- neath. When the thick branches are all that’s left, Beard sets two buckets four feet apart and rests one of the boughs on top. He drops a swift boot down and
the branch cracks in half.
Beard sets another branch on the buckets. “Go on then, show me how it’s done,” says Beard.
The boy gives it a kick, but his foot bounces up with- out so much as a creak. He tries again and the branch vibrates and falls to the ice. He sets it back on the buckets. This time he jumps into the air. Both feet land with full force in the center of the branch, pro- ducing a crisp snap as the boy falls on his ass next
to the broken wood. Beard laughs when he sees the boy’s face: He’s smiling, and his eyes smile, too.
The boy eagerly breaks the branches up into small pieces, almost too small at times. Beard has the thick pieces stacked like Lincoln Logs around the smaller kindling. When the boy finally finishes breaking down every branch, Beard hands him a lighter. “Go ahead. Right there on the bottom.”
The boy strokes the flint a few times before it lights and goes out. He kneels down and strokes it again. He keeps his face back and extends the lighter like he thinks the pile might explode. When the flames catch on a piece of newspaper, he pushes himself away on his hands and knees.
In seconds, the brown conifer branches stacked on top of the paper start to crackle and pop. Smoke bil- lows from the pile. Beard gets down on his hands and knees next to the smoking branches, his bare hands pressed against the ice, and blows. More smoke, then a loud whoosh and an open flame. The boy takes a step towards Beard when he sees the flash, but Beard doesn’t even flinch.
Beard nurses the flames, adding little twigs and branches until the center of the pile is red hot. Soon, a full-blown bonfire rages on the ice. The boy runs out to the forest and comes back with more wood. He only grabs the big stuff now.
Beard sets two upside-down buckets around the fire
(continued on next page)
52