Fire Monks by Colleen Morton Busch Page A

smoke rising from the ridge.
    But she knew many were being asked to leave who would have stayed if they could, and she deliberately modeled, We go now. That’s what we do. We go .
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    Eight was not enough. That was the number of residents David had been told could stay behind. Aware that three times that amount had stayed at Tassajara during previous fires, he had tried to negotiate for more. With more hands, they’d have a better chance of getting the remaining work done and making a stand against the fire if it came through Tassajara. Eight, the commander had said again.
    A convoy of vehicles stretched from the work circle past the shop and pointed up the road. A carload of four senior students, former residents whose presence David had requested after the guest evacuation because of their particular skills and knowledge of Tassajara, arrived from San Francisco just as the departing vehicles filled up. Those four plus five others—residents David thought had useful skills and the physical capacity to engage a wildfire—made nine, one more than they’d been granted permission to keep. But the fire commander who’d called with the evacuation order hadn’t been to Tassajara. David had never even heard his name before the morning’s urgent call. As students loaded into cars, David decided to up the number. If they kept five more, they’d have fourteen, and fourteen could fit in two evacuation vehicles if it became necessary for everyone to leave.
    David turned to Mako and Graham. “Who else should we keep?”
    He hadn’t made a list of candidates, maybe in defiance of this moment of inevitable, and inevitably unpleasant, picking and choosing. David knew well what it was like to lose your home, and here he was, in the position of deciding who could stay and who would go. That pained him, even if he intended to use his power responsibly, for the benefit of all. But he knew what mattered for Tassajara. Who was strong and physically capable? Who had a practical, useful skill, such as carpentry? Who knew the infrastructure? Who could handle the emotional stress and strain of being in the middle of a wildfire? Who would promote harmony in the group?
    It was a spontaneous, somewhat random process. They started going to vehicles, knocking on windows, asking certain individuals to stay. These individuals tended to be young and male. In many cases, they weren’t the most senior students or residents of Tassajara, but rather those who could dig ditches, fell trees, fix a malfunctioning pump—and maybe run from flames.
    Sonja Gardenswartz had lived at Tassajara for ten years. A former head cook in her late fifties, Gardenswartz had answered the phone in the stone office that morning. When the commander said that everyone had to leave Tassajara right away, she’d told him he had to speak with the director. She’d already told David she wanted to stay and cook for the fire crews, and David had said yes. But at the last minute, he decided instead to keep a younger female resident who was strong-bodied, emotionally resilient, and skilled in both the kitchen and the shop.
    â€œI’m sorry,” David told Gardenswartz. “I changed my mind. You need to leave with the others.”
    He watched what looked like anger flash across Gardenswartz’s face, her fair skin already flushed pink from rushing to the lower barn for the bag she’d stuffed with her belongings. To be told yes and then no would be painful for anyone. In Gardenswartz’s case, David suspected, it might be worse that the denial came from him. As the current guest manager, Gardenswartz was also a member of the senior staff. But Gardenswartz had a history of feeling overlooked at Zen Center, while David had been fast-tracked to positions of responsibility.
    â€œAre you leaving?” she asked.
    The question, in David’s mind, implied that an old rotator cuff injury that limited his