Candles

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

It was a beeswax candle and it burned alone in the musky cabin silently eating itself until it was noticed.

Ben’s weary eyes squinted observing the glow.

“What do we have here?” Ben spoke aloud not to himself but as if he spoke to the trees. There was a small flame taunting him from beyond the mossy glass. A small flame that has no business in an old-growth rainforest during a drought.

Ben was a forest ranger. In fact, he had been a damn good forest ranger for 43 years. Or had it been 44 years? It was easy to lose track of time in the forest. Days, weeks, months, and years seemed to pass without remorse once the trees have become your only friends. He had seen many of his friends grow up through the years, but it was like looking into a mirror every day. You don’t witness father time wrinkle your brow or change your hair to grey. One day you just look in the mirror and see a 67-year-old looking back at you. Or am I 68?

The twigs crunched as Ben left the trail towards the old goldrush era cabin. The cracking sound turned into a squelch as Ben’s weathered hiking boots squished through the mud. Ben crossed a moat of mud that surrounded the cabin, and his feet sank deeper with each step filling a puddle like an elephant creates a natural breeding ground for frogs. His foot stuck and he pulled it out with great effort as he stepped back onto dry land and up the porch steps. Out of instinct Ben knocked on the door 5 times with the back of first knuckle like he was hitting a snare drum. He chuckled at his habitual knock reserved for inhabited cabins but this one was dilapidated. He pushed on the door, but it stuck. Decades of wood swell without any entry was bound to lock this up. He burst through with a final heave of his shoulder and twisted his ankle as he suddenly stepped forward.

“Shit!” Ben limped into the dark room and towards the glow of the candle. The cabin stank of old rainwater, mildew and something Ben hadn’t smelled since 1971. He approached the windowsill where the beeswax candle loomed and without hesitation snuffed it with his fingers. The smell of smoke drowned out the scent of death and decay that Ben couldn’t shake.

Outside he scanned the surrounding moat of mud where the sky was clear through the opening in the tree’s canopy. Not a single footprint besides his own which meant nobody had been here since at least the last rain which had been weeks ago. Then why did it look like the candle had just been lit?

“Another careless hiker must’ve camped here last night.” Ben said to the trees. “I know, I know. Just asking for a bushfire.”

Ben returned to the trail and finished his loop not thinking of the cabin or the candle again until he was back home tying a compress around his swollen ankle. He pondered who could’ve been inside and if they were aware of the current fire restrictions. It had been a hot dry summer and wildfires raged far too commonly in this remote part of Washington State. The last person he saw up here was at least a year ago when two teenagers camped on the lake to fish for trout. He watched them for 3 days making sure they didn’t start a fire. When they finally caught a 10 lb. rainbow and lit a fire to roast it Ben emerged from the bushes and politely yet firmly asked them to put it out.

He took pride in preserving the forest and caring for it. The wilderness had been good to him.

It might be nice to talk to another human being for once… And introduce them to my pal Smokey. “Only YOU can prevent forest fires!” he recited.

The next day Ben packed an extra canteen of water into his travel bag and headed out on his route. A daily ritual of a 7-mile hike around Deer Lake had kept him in decent shape for a 60-something year old. About 90 minutes in he approached the cabin and once again there was a candle burning in the window.

“Son-of-a-bitch! Did you see who lit this?” Ben asked the trees. There was no reply aside from a faint breeze smelling of cedar.

Once again, he waded through the thick, sloppy mud towards the cabin. With each difficult step his anger grew at the carelessness of the would-be hiker responsible.

He held his breath as he entered and snuffed the candle with his calloused fingers once again. It had been burnt down a little farther this time about 1/5 of the candle’s length. Ben realized in that moment he had left the candle here yesterday in his rush to escape the suffocating aroma. He pocketed the candle and chastised himself for leaving it yesterday. Might as well have just handed the guy a Jerry can full of gasoline! Gasping for fresh air as he got outside the sweet smell of cedar and wildflowers uplifted him and followed him home.

“Thanks Darlin’ love you too.” Ben said to the trees.

On the third day there was still no sign of any hiker on his route. He finally came across a discarded cigarette butt on the trail towards the cabin. His blood boiled with murderous rage, as he picked up the cigarette and then picked up the pace. Of all the disgusting, irresponsible things to do in a goddamn tinder box. Ben thought to himself as he practically speed walked en route to the cabin with his ankle throbbing.

“We’re gonna find this guy!” Ben promised the ancient trees as he pushed away the pain.

He could see the light of the candle already and it made him feel sick. Sick at the thought of his magnificent forest burning alive. The spruce, hemlock, redcedar and fir trees that were hundreds of years old that he had loved since he escaped his past into wilderness. The forest that would consume his body after he dies and remain for hundreds of years after he’s gone because the forest eats itself and lives forever. He was one with the forest and as much as he hated that tree-hugging hippie-crap, for him to lose these woods to a fire would be like burning away his soul.

Spit flew from his mouth as he blew out the candle reminiscent of a 3-year old’s birthday party. The candle had burned down to just above the halfway point and must’ve been burning for hours. Ben snatched it and stuffed it into his pocket stomping his muddy boots with fury out of the cabin. His ankle hurt and now his shoulder ached from once again bursting through the swollen wood door. His brain hurt most of all. Who could be doing this?! And more importantly, why are they doing this?

Ben knew 85% of all wildland fires are caused by humans. Unattended campfires, burning debris, malfunctioning equipment and discarded cigarettes were responsible for some of the most horrific wildfires in history. Ben also knew 20% of these man-made fires were intentional. A beeswax candle repeatedly left in an abandoned cedar cabin?

“Chalk that one up to arson, Chief O’Hara.” Ben mused to himself. Arson. The word both terrified and excited him. He considered himself the protector of this forest. I am the authority and this is my jurisdiction.

Ben took his time walking home. His body ached and he couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. A faint whiff of smoke entered his nostrils and Ben would proceed off trail attempting to track it. The surrounding area sloped upwards at the base of the mountains. The topography unnerved Ben even worse. Heat rises and wildfires spread easier uphill, and in the right conditions they move fast, over 14 miles an hour fast.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Ben caressed a gigantic Douglas fir as he lost the scent of smoke and returned to the trail.

On the fourth day since finding the candle Ben’s weariness and age had caught up to him. He hadn’t been this worked up about something in years. He hadn’t hiked the trails with such ferocity. He brought his walking stick, an old ski-pole to keep weight off his ankle which had since turned a deep purple. When he found another cigarette butt he maintained his composure, calmly picking it up and placing it into his fireproof hiking bag. By the time he found the 19th cigarette butt his rage had reached a point of frenzied mania. He seized the butt amidst the dry earth stuffing it into his front pocket causing a cloud of dust to cling on his sweaty forehead. Today felt like the hottest day of the summer and his clothes were soaking. As he neared the cabin the smell of tobacco grabbed him and he shuffled forward as fast as he could until he found another cigarette, this one still burning. It looked like it had just been lit unlike the others which had been smoked down to the filter. Ben scrambled for his canteen and doused the burning smoke with water until it was empty. He bent over and inspected the cigarette recognizing it as a Lucky Strike.

“Is this a fucking joke to you?!” Ben yelled into the ether. “Huh?!” His only reply came in the constant humming and buzzing of the forest insects. A sound that normally comforted Ben felt like it was stabbing his eardrum. The sun’s rays beamed through the space between the trees and God it was hot.

He arrived at the abandoned cabin and again the candle was burning. He was on autopilot now and traversed the patch of oozing thick mud with relative ease. He grabbed the candle paying no mind to the horrific smell of the rotting homestead. The whoosh of the action put out the candle as he stuffed it into his backpack. He felt a slash along his knuckle and retracted his hand that was now bleeding and dripping on the floor. Somehow his tactical folding knife had become unfolded in his bag and had caused a significant gash across the top of his hand. He wrapped it using the bottom of his shirt while he fished for his first aid kit. The bubbles of the hydrogen peroxide stung briefly before offering relief and he wrapped it in a bandage. Pull yourself together, Ben. It was cool inside the cabin and for the first time in 4 days Ben was in no rush to get out.

Ben lost track of time in the old, abandoned cabin reeking of death. The sun lowered in the sky changing the vibrant blue into a purply orange. He was daydreaming about catching the son-of-a-bitch and what he would do if he did. This had reached a point beyond a warning or a fine. Even jailtime was off the table as far as Ben was concerned.

As he headed towards the trail he slipped in the mud. The slice of his hand made gripping his walking stick more difficult and he mistimed his second step falling face first. His hands sank as he shifted onto his elbows and the moist earth smeared up his body. The shit and the muck. Ben tried to stand but he couldn’t find his footing so he crawled forwards in the mud toward the trail. This action transported Ben. He thought of being 20 years old crawling through the thick mud that was a world away. He thought of that fateful day in 1970 when the man on TV said his birthday and he had to go fight in a country he’d never heard of. The shit and the muck. That’s what they called it. Vietnam.

He hadn’t thought about ‘Nam in years. It had been decades since he allowed himself to think about it. It had been buried so far in his subconscious that only the sense of smell could unearth it. Now here he was with the sensation of his arms sinking in mud and the smell of smokey death in his nostrils. He had no choice but to remember. It was where his love affair with the wilderness began. Not the old growth rainforest of the Pacific Northwest, but the humid jungle of southeast Asia. He remembered the feeling of safety the trees gave him as he hunkered in his foxhole. Death lurked around every corner in the jungle, but he felt peace asking the trees for advice. The jungle was wise and showed him how to be still and silent. When he came home the public rejected him, spitting on his uniform as he walked the streets searching for a sense of pride. The woods accepted him and welcomed him. Ben had been sure there was a higher intelligence governing the trees, communicating with each other, allocating resources. ‘Nam is also where his hatred of fire was born. Fire carried with it the burning image of a village on fire. The horrific feeling of triggering a flamethrower and watching the fire engulf a bamboo hut. Fire carried the sounds of a family coughing and then crying, screaming and then silence. The silence was deafening. But the trees forgave Ben. The shit and the muck.

Ben was still crying when he returned to his cabin. It was dark and he was covered in blood, sweat, tears and mud. He shielded his face so the trees wouldn’t see him weep.

On the 5th day Ben had shaken the cobwebs from the day before. He faced the day with optimism and hope that he would find the perpetrator and prevent the forest from burning down. He was tired and fed up and for a moment he stared at the dusty radio on his kitchen table contemplating using it. He could radio the US forest service and tell them. He could warn them and ask for help. Nip it in the bud now before it was too late. He brushed past the table and opened his back closet taking out a tin lock box and removing his loaded revolver. I am the judge, jury and executioner of this forest. He was willing to kill for it like he killed for his country.

There were no cigarette butts on the trail today and he was meticulous in his search for them. There was no faint odor of smoke either and when Ben reached the cabin he could barely see the glow of the candle it had burned down so low. The door pushed open with ease today and Ben approached the windowsill. The melted beeswax candle, withered down to a clump of wax went out on its own. A candle like this could burn for over 12 hours which meant whoever lit this had done so in the dead of night. Ben pocketed the remains and continued his search. He completed the 7-mile loop twice which meant by the time he made it home he had been hiking for 9 hours and it was getting dark. Everything ached and as he approached his cabin he could smell smoke again. Right in front of his cabin was a ring of smooth river rock covered in ash. A campfire. It was barely smoldering now, a small billow of smoke snaked up from the embers. Ben's jaw dropped and the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. For the first time since he was 20-something years old he was scared. His whole world was on the edge of collapsing with the act of a single spark catching the breeze. The spark would float weightlessly into a pile of dry pine needles and 100 hectares in every direction would instantly become the gates of hell. He frantically dumped the pitiful remains of water from his canteen which caused the coals to hiss and sizzle. When that wasn’t enough, he scooped piles of dry earth from his hands over the faintly glowing element.

Ben wanted to scream. He wanted to rip his pack from his back and tear it apart with his bare hands. He wanted to break every window of his cabin. He wanted to bash in the skull of whomever started this fire with the very river rock that surrounded it. But I’m so tired, Ben thought. He was a man broken and exhausted and he felt like he had been on the losing end of a 12-round fight with Apollo Creed. It had been 5 full days since Ben found the first burning candle and as it turned into the 5th night, Ben shuffled inside and immediately went to sleep.

He was running through the woods and he could smell the smoke, it burned his eyes. He was in his army fatigues and each step he took was labor intensive like he was tied to a rope and being pulled backwards. There was ash floating through the air and sparks carried around him in the breeze like the fireflies of Missouri.

“I need to stop it!” Ben grunted through gritted teeth.

He carried forward through the clouds of smoke and suddenly a deer broke through the clearing, engulfed in flames. The deer ran past Ben close enough that he could feel the rush of heat on his cheeks. The fire was behind him and getting closer and Ben realized he hadn’t been running towards the fire he was running away from it. He could see the lake now and he would be safe if he could just make it. As he got closer his feet got heavier and harder to lift. He fought against the rope pulling him backwards as he slowly gained ground towards the water. The was a rolling sound like the rapids downriver. He rushed into the lake but it was boiling. Rolling bubbles popped as steam hissed up from it and dead fish floated amongst the foam. Ben turned around and watched as the entire mountain range and valley beneath burned to the ground as he slowly boiled alive.

Ben awoke in a sweat to the booming crash of thunder. He sat there panting and in awe at the vivid lucidity of his dream. He made a decision and headed out with his pack and his flashlight before he could talk himself out of it. Whoever was lighting these candles, was doing so at night. Ben knew he had to catch this arsonist; his entire life had been building to this heroic moment. It wasn’t just a hunch it was an instinct. Something was compelling him to go to the cabin, something of a collective consciousness. The trees are telling me to go to the cabin. Ben was sure of it. He knew what he would find there, he knew he would find the culprit and he knew this whole forest would burn down if that fucker lit just one more candle.

The trail was horrendously dark and more than once Ben found himself away from the path. The thunder cracked again, and Ben thought of the natural method of sparking fire. Lightning. The thought exited his brain as the smell of fresh rain marking the path cleaned the air. The drops felt cool on his skin and Ben felt a surge of relief. There can’t be a fire if there’s rain. The thought energized him and he increased his jaunt to a jog as the rain began to pour.

The light of his flashlight beam flickered and he bashed the bottom of it with the heel of his unmaimed hand. The cabin was close he knew but it was hard to recognize the familiar landmarks in the dark. The beam was fading now and the rain was saturating his single layer of clothing. Ben’s hope fading with the light recouped at the sound of his boots stepping into thick mud. The Cabin! Ben wiped rain from his face and looked for the light of the candle but couldn’t see any. He stepped through the mud which was sloshing with the added rainfall. One of his legs sank down past his knee and Ben squirmed against the pull. There was a suction effect and the earth wouldn’t relinquish his boot. Ben dropped the flashlight and reached down into the slick mud using his fingers to pry off his hiking boot and free his foot from mother nature’s death grip.

Ben gasped as he emerged into the safety of the shelter. The rain was torrential and as much as Ben was relieved, he was also disappointed that he found himself alone in the dank, dark cabin. Had the rain scared away the arsonist? Ben fumbled around in the dark to find his bearings. He saw a flash of sheet lighting through the window where a fresh unlit candle resided. He went to the window and stared at the candle for some time before finally picking it up. He lost his flashlight, his left hiking boot and his warmth in the race to the cabin.

“At least I’m finally used to the smell.” Ben forced himself to chuckle loud enough so the trees could hear outside.

He took off his pack and fumbled blindly inside. He found the small pack of a foil thermal blanket and placed it on the dirty floorboards. He felt around in his pack until he had every candle he had taken from that god forsaken cabin and arranged them in a circle around the blanket. Finally he removed the water proof matches and after one lucky strike he had a tiny flame lighting all 5 candles in a row including the little nub of wax that somehow stayed lit.

Broken, beat and exhausted Ben pulled the light mylar blanket over himself and hugged his knees, rocking and trying to get warm. He fought the urge to sleep and sat there unable to help but feel a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. His eyes grew heavy among the dancing shadows and soon sleep took him.

He awoke to the burning sensation of fire consuming the cabin. The light was blinding and he was choking on the black fumes flowing like a river off the peeling walls. He scrambled to his feet burning his hand on the flames encroaching the ring of candles.

“Help!” Ben yelled out of desperate instinct. He instantly realized how useless the word was.

He stood and immediately drowned on smoke and began to cough incessantly. He knelt again to regain clarity and covering his face with his arm felt for the front door. He grabbed the handle and pulled with all his strength but couldn’t budge the door. He pulled again and heaved with everything he had. He bashed his shoulder into the door hoping that maybe it would give the other direction. He pounded on it with his fists. He kicked at the door while he coughed and choked in agony. He shimmied along the door to where the window was but it was blocked by a wall of flames. He could see outside where the rain had stopped and the moon shone from the space in the trees. His eyes gazed down to the patch of mud that had become the bane of his existence. The heat surrounding him was unbearable and it felt like his skin was bubbling. He frantically looked for an object to smash the window but there was nothing. He looked outside and he could see shapes in the mud. Someone is there. People are out there!

“Help! Help me!” he yelled again and his throat burned.

The fire was eating the cabin and the fire would eat him along with it. Then the fire would eat his precious forest and it was upon that realization that Ben lost all hope.

He was crying now, sobbing as the fire grabbed the cuff of his pants at the ankle and began to consume him. He was burning alive as he watched them outside the window. He watched them watching him with peace in their eyes. He was screaming now as he succumbed to the inferno. His last conscious thought was seeing the family standing there and understanding. The rain began to pour again and the family remained standing there and silently observing. In the shit and the muck.