Light had two sons, Sun and Fire. The older was everything a father could ask, dutiful, hard working, dependable. The other, like so many younger sons, was rebellious, impulsive, easily bored. Where his brother was wise, Fire was cunning.
Sun had a chum, Water, whose childhood rages moldered into sullenness as they grew into adolescence, for Sun would sometimes get into scrapes with girls, but Water would be the one blamed. Still it was Water who married and sired children, Thunder and Lightening.
Sun could never change his ways enough to go with a woman. He drifted into a fusty bachelorhood, doing the same thing day after day, year after year, eon after eon. He never questioned life, never thought much about the women who no longer flirted with him. His routine became all he craved.
His brother Fire also had an old friend, Wind, who was even more shiftless than he, and a daughter Smoke.
No one knows where Wind and Water came from. Some say they were children of Light’s slave women. Others that they were the unrecognized offspring of Light’s sister-in-law, a woman of uncertain virtue. The half-brothers were raised with Sun and Fire, but were always aware they weren’t quite part of the family.
There was also a sister, Moon, but no one thought much about her. When they were children Sun tried to boss her, Fire teased and taunted. She moved as far from them as possible, raised her children in darkness.
This story begins soon after the solstice in New Mexico the year Water took a long trip to the Mississippi where he was thinking of moving. In his absence, the earth had grown dry. Plants suffered. Some never bloomed. Some flowered only long enough to produce seed. Some simply stayed underground.
Fire had gone to Arizona. After losing a month long war with Joe Reinarz and the Feds, he was slowly limping home. He spent a week in Pacheco Canyon near the Nambé, then went to the Bosque to recuperate.
Wind was alone and bored. Walking through the forest, he kicked an aspen out of his way. It fell against a power line. From nowhere, Fire jumped over Wind to grab the line which sent sparks flying. The tree ignited. The line melted and fell to the ground.
Wind’s spirits revived. He and Fire romped through the woods. Fire picked up glowing balls of flame and lobbed them at Wind who blew them away. One landed on a golf course where they used dead branches to drive it from tee to tee. Fire scooped handfuls of charred needles and challenged Wind to blow them across the river.
The authorities saw them, thought they had damaged maybe 9,000 aces. Later they discovered, Fire and Wind had gone through more than 43,000.
Sun was appalled. He called Water for help. Water said no. Sun reminded him of all the wonderful things his father Light had done for Water as a child. Water was in a stubborn mood, would not be convinced. He liked it in North Dakota.
Sun told him how wonderful he was, told him he alone could help. Water had heard this before. With the Missouri rising he didn’t need Sun to flatter him.
Sun insinuated his mother would be disappointed if she knew Water refused such a simple request. Water was not persuaded, but did agree to send a subordinate.
Water’s lieutenant waylaid Smoke by the river, and as their bodies mingled a heavy dew rose to hide the damage of Fire. When Sun rose in the morning, only the highest flying birds could see what havoc Fire and Wind had wrought.
As Sun plodded through the day, his heat dried water from the mist. The dust grew invisible. Smoke rose again. Men who had sent out planes to fly with the birds learned what Sun had hidden. They summoned the man who had driven Fire from Arizona.
Fire too looked over the damage and saw he couldn’t do much more to the south without effort. He saw he was hemmed in up north by the scars they called Cerro Grande. He knew anything he did to the east would rouse the Feds. The west simply wasn’t amusing.
Fire knew the power of the men he was threatening and he knew the limits of the men who were coming.
Since Water was still refusing to leave the midwest, Fire called his son Lightening. Together they found a sheep ranch in Lincoln County owned by someone with power. Not as much as the men held in Los Alamos, but someone who knew everyone who was important. They started a fire on Sam Donaldson’s land that spread to the Mescalero Apache reserve.
With three highly visible blazes threatening three sovereign nations, Fire had time to plan. He watched the men send out their planes every night to measure the widening gyre of destruction. He listened to politicians and newscasters. He saw people flee Los Alamos and herd animals into trucks in Hondo.
He could turn his attention to his brother who was so utterly predictable. When he was engaged, Fire never ceased acting, but Sun would be growing weaker and vainer every day. Fire let him have his triumphs with the morning mist and noon clarity that fooled the Feds into thinking they were in control.
Then, each day, when Sun began to tire, Fire ordered Smoke to rise. A pink glow lay along the tops of the mountains, under the blue darkened by brown soot. Above the hottest part of the fire, Smoke turned pink, her edges gilded by the light. At dusk, she stood side by side with Sun, mocking the old man with her painted finery.
As Sun stooped lower, Smoke shot wisps his way. First Sun turned yellow, then red. As he sank below the mountains, Smoke slipped behind to prance in the last light. The place he left turned more brilliant than Fire himself.
In the night she returned to Water’s lieutenant by the river.
Fire was content with his second day.
He decided to stay low, let the flames spread where they would. He knew the Feds would be too occupied compiling the reports they needed to get reinforcements to do anything. He knew Water had probably found some old friends, was likely sitting around drinking somewhere in some rundown bar.
By night of the fourth day he was ready. The conflagration was nearing the upper edge of his last adventure in the area. The Santa Clara were upset, but he knew they didn’t understand the best way to deal with a man like Joe Reinarz who only counted buildings as wealth, not acequias or herbs.
He told Wind to be ready. This time they ran through the headwaters of the Santa Clara creek they’d missed ten years ago.
Smoke in her darkest dress spread herself across the mountains. As Sun raged, she covered him in scarlet, flaunted an orange ruffle. Wind bellowed.
When Sun finally retired, a white line appeared above Los Alamos, pulsing like Moon’s son, Northern Lights. Behind a thin veil borrowed from Smoke, an orange band glowed along the ridges.
Wind eventually got bored and went to sleep. Moon’s daughters in the Big Dipper came out. Smoke went down to meet the lieutenant. In the morning, Sun saw dew again covering what had happened.
The Feds were not happy. They don’t like being told they failed to protect something significant to a sovereign nation. They had already sent a new commander. Joe Reinarz was still there, but he had to answer to Dan Oltrogge, a man the lieutenant remembered from Hurricane Rita.
And so began the long battle between the Feds and Fire.
They brought in a psychologist to study Fire and predict his ways. Then they paid men from the valley to dig great earthen works to stop him. Sometimes, Fire would get so curious he would follow them. They were delighted they had him figured out. Other times, though, Fire could not be baited, would take a look, then walk off in some other direction. He had tripled his domain.
Some nights Smoke would meet her lieutenant. Other nights she would tease her Aunt Moon by turning her as red as she had her Uncle Sun. The haughty Moon would simply ignore her, continue on her path and, when she was beyond the reach of Smoke, call out her Star daughters.
Then there were the nights Smoke would be too disgusted by the soot smirching her veils. Then she left her soiled clothing on the mountains and retreated for the night. On those nights, the lieutenant tried to amuse her by conjuring small, white clouds from water he’d stolen from the fire fighters.
When Sun woke in the morning he would see a dark band stretching from badlands into the sky, cutting off the legs of those bright white pastries.
Other nights Thunder and Lightening would prowl, sometimes with the despondent lieutenant. One time they took out the power in the valley for six hours.
The worst nights for Sun were the ones when Fire would jeer at the Feds by throwing up spots of red for Los Alamos and the valley to see. Sometimes those dots would merge into lines, sometimes would diffuse into blurs. If the Feds could catch him, they would throw their suppressing chemicals at him. Usually, he was too fast, would start another flare before they had finished with the first.
The very worst were the evenings when Fire would watch men get into their trucks and start the long drive back to the valley. As they left, he would glower in their rear view mirrors.
Sun remembered the time Light had mused someday there might appear men so smitten with their own prowess they could no longer understand someone as unruly as Fire. When those men appeared, Light warned, it would not be enough to keep up appearances. Even Fire could do that. Sun must do more. Sun must maintain his standards.
Sun would rise every morning to tidy away the messes left by Fire and Smoke. By mid-mornings, the sky would be blue, the badlands would reflect back his light. In the cities people could believe what the Feds said, that Fire was at bay.
But Water remained in his drunken stupor. Nothing was there to stop temperatures from rising when Sun toiled so hard. When air on mountains born of fire would heat, the flames would also burn hotter.
At some time, Water will waken and call Wind to come get him. They’ll meet in some dive off the gulf coast, throw up another hurricane, then Water will ride back with Wind and finally listen to Sun. Fire will leave to recuperate at one his hot springs. The Feds will rush to the hurricane zone.
When this round of battles is over and Sun again rules supreme, no one will think about the forests where they fought. Sun will go on drying the ground. Fire will destroy what’s been weakened by drought. Water will dislodge the ashes so Wind can blow them away. Men who reseed will continue to think they’re in charge.
Nature alone will pick up the pieces. What else can she do? She needs Sun to feed her leaves, Water to feed her roots, Wind to fertilize her corn and other grasses, Smoke to sprout her seeds. She even needs Fire to periodically come through and clean her debris.
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