The Wanigan by Gloria Whelan

noise and a fireworks of sparks as the flames leapt from the crown of one pine to the next. The fire was catching up with us. Black ash sifted over the wanigan. The smoke was so bad I could hardly breathe. Papa climbed onto the wanigan’s roof. Jimmy handed him pails of water and Papa sluiced the roof. Behind us Teddy McGuire was doing the same to the bunk shack. Pail after pail was lowered, filled, and emptied.
    Sparks flew about. A bit of fiery branch landed on the deck. Mama grabbed at the brooms, dipped them into the water, and handed me one. She quickly swept the branch into the river. More branches landed on the wanigan and we swept those off, too.
    â€œWilliam,” Mama asked in a trembling voice, “ought we to get off and onto the other shore?”
    â€œIf the fire jumps the river, Augusta, we’d be safer right here in the water.”
    I thought of the river crowded with wood and I wasn’t so sure.
    Big Tom said, “This is a good river. I’ve known it all my life. It’s not going to give us any trouble.”
    But the smoke got so thick we had to wrap wet handkerchiefs around our faces.
    Jimmy laughed at me. “You look like a robber about to hold up a stagecoach.”
    I tried to come up with something to say in return, but I couldn’t think of anything but the fire. Mama was coughing, so she had to go inside. I saw that Papa wanted to go after her, but he had to keep sluicing the boat. I looked at Papa, wondering if I should go to Mama.
    He shook his head. “Your mama will be all right. We need all the help we can get, Annabel.”
    Lighted branches, like small torches, fell around us. Papa took care of the roof. I went after the branches that landed on the deck, sweeping them into the river. When the glowing torches fell into the river, you could hear the sizzle and see a little puff of smoke. The reflection of the fire on the water made me think of Mr. Poe’s lines:
    The waves have now a redder glow —
    The hours are breathing faint and low…
    Three deer plunged into the river just ahead of us. They scrambled over the logs and clambered up the opposite shore. Jimmy and I looked at one another. I knew we were both thinking of Bandit and of all the birds and animals we had seen in the woods. We might be in danger but at least we were in the river and safe for now. But what would happen to the animals?
    The men took turns at pushing the wanigan along. One hour went by and then another. Drops of rain began to fall. We all looked up at the sky, hoping and praying. Our prayers were answered. Sheets of rain came down, soaking the woods and the wanigan and soaking us. We didn’t care. We just stood there cheering the rain.
    The fire died out. There were no more flames now, only burnt trees like black skeletons and wisps of white smoke rising up from the damp earth like a crowd of ghosts.
    We got no sleep that night. Mama had recovered and had tea and molasses cookies for everyone. Penti Ranta laughed and said, “If I had jumped into the river back there for my morning bath, the water would have been nice and warm.”
    â€œIn Canada,” Frenchy said, “we had us one grand feu. Dat feu , it lasted two days. Nothing left for miles. Next year, all green again. Wid de trees all burned up we got us good farmland. De feu , it did de farmers’ work.”
    â€œThe lumber company that owned that land surely won’t thank that fire,” Mama said.
    â€œThose trees weren’t hurt by the fire,” Big Tom said. “Just a little scorched on the outside.”
    I couldn’t help thinking of the frightened deer escaping the fire and wondering if Bandit was safe. I guess I was pretty tired because I went inside the wanigan, where no one could see me, and cried. Not even Mr. Poe, who was always miserable about something, had a poem that was as sad as I was.

THE WEARY, WAY-WORN WANDERER
    It was a week after the fire when I awoke and