Errata Literary Magazine

Bucks County Writers Workshop


Fire Watcher
by Carolyn Merlini


Allyn Hays pushed her sunglasses down her nose and said, "You've got to be kidding me."

The old man under the bleached Stetson hat just stared back.

"This can't be the only way. There aren't any trucks or jeeps or something?"

He stood silently by the bay mare and waited.

Six hours later, Allyn, the old guide and two packhorses arrived at a remote tower in the forest. Her legs ached and she knew they'd feel worse tomorrow. This had seemed like a terrific interview assignment when her boss okayed the trip to Yellowstone National Park. A paid-for vacation. And since she'd moved out of her apartment, and her two-year relationship, she didn't have the luxury of a vacation this year. So, here she was, a twenty-seven year old journalist for "Flash" magazine, bopping along behind an ancient cowboy who looked as if he could have ridden with Butch Cassidy.

Oh, that's good, she thought. I have to remember that for the article. And this was going to be a good one. She was certain of that. Discovering the whereabouts of one of rock and roll's missing icons was like finding JD Salinger. Musicians from Dylan to Springsteen credit Lawrence Daysinger as an influence. This article could raise her to the stratosphere.

"Hey, Law," the guide called out.

Allyn felt a quickening of her heartbeat and the reigns heavy in her sweaty hands. What if her sources were wrong? What if he refused to speak to her? The magazine would reimburse the money she'd spent bribing Pecos Bill, but she was keenly aware of how much she'd put on the line. It hadn't seemed so daring back in Los Angeles, but this was a big chance. They waited in the noisy quiet of the towering pines. A whistle came from behind and Allyn turned to see a tall, tan naked man step from the trees. He smiled and waved, but when he saw Allyn he grabbed the towel from around his neck and wrapped it around his waist.

"Oh, God," she said softly. "This is it." Allyn and the guide dismounted as he walked toward them.

"What's all this, Robby?" he asked the guide and adjusted the towel more tightly.

"I got that antenna connector, Law. It came in this morning, just in time for your supply run.

"And who is this?" He motioned to Allyn, "The antenna installer?"

Robby shifted his weight and inspected the tops of his worn boots. This was her cue. She extended her hand, "Hello, Mr. Daysinger. I'm Allyn Hays."

Her hand hung in the air. "I didn't order an Allyn Hays."

She kept her hand out and said, "I know, but I ordered a Lawrence Daysinger."

A slow smile started in the creased corners of his eyes and then his hand came up to meet hers.

The unpacking took only a few minutes, and then Robby disappeared into the forest with three horses tethered behind him.

Lawrence Daysinger was a Lakota Sioux Indian who wrote a song in 1967 that became an emblem for a generation. "Firestorm" became a rally cry at Vietnam War protests, college sit-ins, and the 1970 Indian occupation of Alcatraz. Daysinger was only seventeen, and he became a hippie hero. His handsome dark features made him a teenage heartthrob. His rapid rise to fame brought him many music accolades, but it also took him to the same tragic doorstep as Janice Joplin and many other young talents of the era. Early one morning Lawrence Daysinger crashed his car, and his young girlfriend was killed. Because he was seventeen, he was not charged as an adult. He served time in a detention facility and disappeared after that.

Allyn studied his famous face as they carried the last box up the stairs. His hair, pulled back now in a ponytail, was still jet black, but flashed a few strands of silver at the temple. Since there were no recent pictures of him, she'd half expected to find a man weathered by time and recriminations. But his eyes were quick and his face serene. He looked up at her from two steps down and she quickly looked away.

"So, this is a fire tower," she said, taking in the room at the top of the tower. Screened windows all around gave a 330-degree view of the surrounding forest. There was a gas cook stove, radio equipment, a small single cot, and a drum in the corner. "Does Yoda live here, too?"

"No," he smiled and said, "his hut is about a mile away."

Allyn smiled back. "I'm so grateful for this chance to talk to you, Mr. Daysinger.

"You've said that about ten times already. And please, call me Law. Now, before we talk you'll have to help me with dinner. I put some wire around the base of the tower and planted a garden. It's not all Spam and Green Giant corn here."

"So you left rock and roll to become a homesteader?"

He turned and rummaged in a drawer.

"I'm sorry. That was meant to be a funny segue."

He held up a can opener and handed it to her. "You open the beans and I'll open up some ancient history."

The evening sun filtered through the pines as Law spooned out chili on tin plates. "I was a hothead back then," he said. "There was a revolutionary zeal that burned in everybody. I'd look out from the stage and see hundreds of people dancing and singing my words. It blew me away every time."

"There's been a new recording of 'Firestorm,' did you know?"

"Well, new life for an old song. That's something. In my second life I was a smoke jumper. We were the guys who jump out of planes to fight fires. It seemed safer to me than returning to music, and it kept me on a good road."

They moved outside to the top step and sat, perched above the treetops. Dark clouds forming on the horizon rumbled a soft drum roll. "I brought dessert," said Allyn as she pulled two chocolate bars from her pocket. "These were easier than a cheesecake."

"My favorite. I gave up alcohol, but being a chocoholic is one illness I won't try to be cured of."

They both bit into a bar. Allyn breathed the clear air and let the chocolate melt on her tongue. "You said you feel like you're on a good road. What else has helped you?"

"An Indian tradition called the Red Road," Law said as he looked out at the sky. "It's a path connecting the past and the future that draws on spirituality, bravery and respect. It helps me keep my Indian identity and it led me here."

"To this tower?" she asked, folding her candy wrapper into a little fan.

"Yes. The Sioux believe life is a circle. That's why drums are so important. They are a circle that reminds us that all the rhythms of nature are connected to the past and future. A smoke jumper is a young man's job, and so after a few years I needed something else. I was ready for a quiet job like this. Now, I spend the summer and fall surrounded by all this natural beauty and watch for fire. It's not for everyone, but it's perfect for me. It's funny, Law, a lot of Native Americans are leaving the reservations and moving into mainstream society. You're the opposite, You left society to live in the woods." He laughed. "Ah, another circle. Indians in the past suffered from the traumatic dislocation of leaving their land. I had a traumatic relocation. The troubles of my youth forced me back to the land." The sky was darker now and thunder cracked. "We'd better move inside. You're not afraid of storms, are you Allyn?"

The hilltop location exposed them to the full intensity of the storm. Law watched her wide-eyed expression. "Thunderstorms produce thousands of lightening strikes," he said. "They are the most common cause of fire, after people."

"This is soä" Allyn searched for the word, "exhilarating!" Lightening flashed like paparazzi at every window. "The energy is dazzling," she said, squeezing his hand.

"I'm glad you could see this," he said quietly.

Allyn turned and looked at his face. It almost glowed, illuminated by a thousand lights. "What would happen if lightening struck us?"

"You're safe," he said as he took her hand and held it. They stayed that way, silhouettes illuminated by the wild elements.


Bucks County Writers Workshop