Wildfire

By Peter Wilks

Lemuel Squirrel is a seemingly harmless, old eccentric, living a hermit’s lonely existence in his Oregon Forest home. But his life is a mere trick, a disguise to deceive those closest to him and hide his real identity – for Lemuel is, in fact, a maverick secret agent, aged thirty-three and a half. Unbeknown to globe-trotting Lemuel, his cover has been blown by mysterious enemy spies. Posing as holidaymakers, these shady characters are watching his safe house from afar, waiting for the opportunity to prove that the treasure map they have been searching for is in his possession...

When lightning strikes spark wildfires in the Oregon Forest, Lemuel finds himself in a desperate struggle to stay alive – and to get his nephew and his wisecracking friends to safety. In the face of impending doom, Lemuel leads them aboard his inflatable airship and before long it’s rising out of his workshop’s skylight, emerging into the orange-tinted night sky. However, Lemuel’s young companions quickly discover that their problems are only just beginning as they are caught in his battle against merciless enemy spies – who are willing to do whatever it takes to get hold of Lemuel’s latest assignment...

Wildfire is a fun and exciting story that will be suitable for children aged between 6 and 11 years old. This action-packed story will take young readers who enjoy adventure fiction on a thrilling journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781784629113

Peter Wilks

Having previously studied law, Peter Wilks has written several children’s adventure books, including Vampire Hunt (Matador, 2013), Flashpoint (Matador 2011) and Escape from Below (Matador, 2010). As well as writing books, Peter has also written screenplays. In his spare time, he enjoys taking singing and dancing lessons.

Book preview

Part I

Paradise Lost

Chapter 1

The deep stillness of the American night was suddenly penetrated by the rumble of ear-splitting thunder. A flash of lightning came next and it briefly chased away the brooding darkness to reveal the Oregon landscape densely forested with trees and undergrowth. A quiet gravel road, broad enough for vehicles to drive on it two-abreast, led to a small camping ground filled with weathered picnic tables and trash cans. Shadows lengthened like tiger stripes across the odd glade and hollowed dell before the flash faded just as quickly. But not all of the brightness went with it, because rectangles of bedroom lights were switched on from the village’s nests, bird boxes and squirrel’s dreys as the black specks of their rudely awakened occupants looked out their windows at nature’s fireworks.

The smell of rain was in the air. Thunder roared closer and lightning flared sharply again, zigzagging across the cloud-studding sky. A cold wind sprang up, disturbing the dry, late summer foliage and making pleasant noises as it blew between the musical wind chimes decorating the many tree branches – moving the small pieces of metal, pottery and seashell dangling down on strings. Tacked on a few of the trunks were old human, fire-prevention posters: either showing a burning cigarette and a forest fire or a pointing bear wearing a hat and holding a shovel with worded advice underneath. The colours of the artwork were faded from long exposure to sunlight and curled over at the corners.

Thunder crashed menacingly overhead now and the strength of the wailing gale increased, buffeting bats and owls that had to abandon their feeding behaviours to frantically search for shelter from the approaching storm. Just then a lightning bolt crackled down to earth and hit an ancient cottonwood, splitting the tree’s knotted and twisted trunk in half. At the same time the ignition temperature for woody material was instantaneously achieved along the scorch mark, bursting the upper branches and the leafy crown into whooshing flame.

A glowing scout troop of fireflies fluttering their delicate wings between the tree’s leaves pulled up to hover, as they were abruptly startled by the fire surging along and angling down the several layers of branches and greenery to close in around them.

Oh, crumbs, we’re going to be deep fried for sure! Melvyin the firefly said in anguish, as he had a momentary lapse of forgetfulness. Holding onto his white pith helmet, he glanced around him for a direction in which they could proceed, as he and his troop of scouts lost their bearings. "This is almost as awful as the time I went foraging with my chum Noah¹. I just knew I should never have volunteered to become a scoutmaster being as how I’m allergic to work and all that, he shook his head, but a free trip away from the moaning mother-in-law and the authority to boss folk about was too much for even me to resist."

Another firefly with a smaller, dark-chocolate body wearing similar sandals, khaki shorts and a shirt bedecked with badges for certain outdoor activities like climbing and camping, rolled his eyes as he had heard it all before and quickly pointed a finger above them at a gap within the parched, browning foliage, festooned with dusty cobwebs. We could get through there, Dad…er.. pausing as he recalled his official title. I mean Brown Owl, sir.

Melvyin’s nostrils caught the harsh scent of burning wood as his bleak gaze turned towards the indicated direction and the nervous scouts looked expectantly at him. Their immediate concerns gathered in his mind as he took a split-second to appraise the route and nod in agreement. Well, done, Tarquin! Melvyin steeled himself as he remembered his responsibilities to the rest of the troop before addressing them, his voice instilling a sense of urgency with each word. Scouts, come with me and do exactly what I do.

The moisture in his mouth dried as Melvyin waved at them. He fluttered upward in the lead and his hand covered his nose and mouth with his neckerchief so he wouldn’t breathe in the wisps of smoke rising from the burning wood. The dozen scouts were feeling a mixture of anxiety and dread in equal measure as they followed Melvyin instructions in every detail.

Terror-fuelled adrenaline coursed through the insects’ bodies as they soared after Melvyin into dancing shadows and flickering firelight. Between the branches were a number of luminescent foxfire lamps shining on little doorways, each through an arch and before them there were strung washing lines pegged with clothes that burned up. Elsewhere, large wooden barrels for collecting rainwater stood under drainpipes attached to the sides of the multi-storey homes, but the spreading flames heated up these water butts, boiling the contents and producing stream at high pressure and at a higher temperature.

Hurry up slowcoaches, Melvyin glanced back to check on the scouts’ progress and galvanised them to fly faster. Last one out has the honour of massaging my feet’s corns and bunions for a solid week. It will be sheer bliss for me.

Something to look forward to, not, Tarquin said, pulling a disgusted face as he sped up, knowing it was out of character for Melvyin not to keep to his word.

A wall of flame erupted from the left and the scoutmaster barrel rolled out of its path. The young fireflies mirrored the sideways revolution and went on, to swept around a number of branches on fire and swerved to dodge falling, red-hot leaves, the edges curling up as they blackened. Beneath the fireflies, the building pressure became too much for several of the water butts and one after another, they exploded nosily, excavating cavities in the tree’s trunk. The cobwebs loomed before Melvyin only for the orange tendrils of encroaching flames to finally reach it and rush across the snapping strands.

Sweating like lawn sprinklers, Melvyin and all the scouts plunged through the bellowing smoke and the cobwebs clung to their faces and their uniforms as they dramatically broke free of the inferno, emerging high above the greedy flames. Melvyin yanked down his neckerchief to take a gulping breath of fresh air and looked left and right to count the number of heads belonging to his scouts.

Is everyone alright? Melvyin asked the troop, sighing deeply in relief as he received a collection of nods and he accounted for everyone that had safely made it out.

Tarquin puffed and wiped the web strands away from his long face. Yeah, but that was too close for comfort.

I won’t count our blessing until we can get indoors somewhere far away and drink a nice calming cuppa. Come on campers, follow me.

* * *

Elsewhere at the same time, half a dozen lightning bolts crackled down to ignite more trees and the after-image of one of the strikes briefly burned onto the eyes of the fire marshal. He blinked to clear his vision and blew his whistle loudly again as the bark of the burning trees smouldered and the overpowering heat of the spreading blaze drove frightened families of holiday makers with only the clothes on their backs, from their time-share apartments to escape the danger as they had practiced in fire drills along foxfire lit walkways and roped bridges connecting the burning tree to the neighbouring trunks. Perched on a handrail, a small wingless flea watched the panicky flow of animal traffic moving beneath him.

Can’t walk down there, I’ll liable to be stamped on for sure, he mused to himself, as a short weasel in a bellhop uniform zigged and zagged, undertaking and overtaking the animals like a speeding motorist. But I can hitch a ride on a dog.

Ho! Outta the way, mush, the weasel said in a tizzy, his long body quivering as canvas awnings above them and silhouetted wooden buildings burned. The hotel manager put me in charge of you lot, so I’m coming through to guide you to safety whether you like it or not. He shoved his way through the flow of nervous animals that parted instinctively and got in each others’ way.

Off to their far right, another line of tourists urgently streamed in single file onto one of the rope suspension bridges that didn’t look particularly inviting to their eyes, but they coughed and pressed on regardless. Anchored by metal rings embedded in each of the tree trunks, thick hemp lines made up handrails and vertical support sides tied to additional ropes connecting footpaths of rough-hewn wooden slats.

Fire spat and crackled above them, thick smoke spiralled towards the swollen clouds, but not one drop of rain fell as embers and sparks were thrown off in combustion and glittered in the gloom as they were carried by the wind toward the surrounding forest.

Sacre bleu, Jean-Luc, a French tree shrew said in surprise to her pyjama-wearing husband. We must hasten. Ze flames are catching us up.

I know my little dumpling, Jean-Luc replied in concern as he ushered his wife and children cautiously ahead of him across the swaying bridge towards the drooping centre. He glanced over his shoulder and shouted to the old tree frog lagging behind. Come on, Monsieur Jasper.

I’m trying, whippersnapper, Jasper moaned, using the adhesive disks on the tips of the fingers to grip tighter the loose waistband of his boxer shorts so they wouldn’t fall down as his long, wrinkled legs hopped nearer to Jean-Luc. They just don’t make knicker-elastic like they used to in my day.

Behind them on the bridge, the gale carried the scents of grass and earth, the cold biting through night clothes and leaching the warmth out of their bones, as more fleeing animals clapped their hands against their ears as thunder resounded to shake the air and lightning dazzled the sky to almost banish the night, jagged bolts lancing down to strike a holly tree and a couple of evergreen oaks spectacularly in quick succession. The waxy leaves of these trees were perfect fuel for the fire to erupt up and grow in the branches as migratory birds took flight from their resting places and the wind blew in to fan the blazes until they were out of control and belching smoke.

The thinning crowd of holiday makers jumped from the shock of the noise and screamed, desperation lending their muscles fresh strength as they doubled their efforts to put some distance from the writhing wildfires. Burning debris and grey ash from the rotten, charring branches of the first cottonwood fell earthward, the passing flames clipping the handrail of the bridge Jasper was progressing along. The rope start to burn sluggishly without flame, but with much smoke as the red-orange debris hit the forest floor and set alight a bed of resinous needles that had fallen from nearby conifers.

A few fat drops of rain sizzled in the spreading fires and spattered onto the pink perm of a puffing vole, but that was all because the worst of the violent weather was leaving the area for elsewhere. Overhead, lightning was lighting up the sky less often and the thunder had lost volume as it had further distance to travel.

On the forest floor flames spouted up among the needles causing deer and elk in the company of antelope, wild turkeys and foxes to galloped away through the undergrowth, while curling tongues finally rose up and took hold on the bridge, the burning tendrils blackening the ropes and caused damage to underlying fibres.

The wind lifted up leaves and dust from the forest floor and warm updrafts from the burning fuel came together swiftly to form a fire whirl: a straight up cylindrical column of rotating air. It became very high and its sides widened, uprooting saplings before their slender trunks ignited in flame. Shadows and firelight shifted over the fast-emptying bridge, the footpath of slats then reeled as ropes frayed and snapped one after the other to weaken the structure.

A plump tortoise wearing a checkered flat cap was making his way across the bridge when he lurched to the side, but a rescuing hand belonging to Jasper reached out to seize him before the blazing bridge collapsed in sections into the sea of sweltering flames below. The tortoise took a breath to deliberately calm himself down as he looked over the edge of the walkway he stood on to glimpse his flat cap disappearing into the rising smoke.

The name’s Rory and thanks for saving me……

Jasper, replied the smiling tree frog. Anytime.

Hey, what are you two doing just standing there? A short, stocky hedgehog shouted over the noise of the flames at the slowly turning frog and tortoise. He was densely covered with brown spines except for his legs, his underside and face. Get a move on gents, follow me if ya please. The tired-looking holiday representative beckoned at them with a crook of a finger. He carried a venus fly trap in his other hand and a metal badge with the name ‘Barney’ written on it was pinned to his sickly-green turtleneck for identification purposes. It’s this way to the awaiting transport and no slacking.

---

¹ The Foragers

Chapter 2

Wilbur, the forest ranger, hummed Tum-ti-tum! to himself, his wing plucked some more red berries from a wooden bowl as he kept a watchful eye on the darkened landscape. The thunder had dwindled to a whisper and the lightning was now fading into the visible horizon. The black and white woodpecker popped the berries into his long ivory bill and as he turned in his cliff top watch-tower, to stare at another section of the rolling forest country, Wilbur’s good mood was quickly spoiled. His red crest suddenly flared up atop of his head and his eyes widened in shock as he saw the distance glowing with a reddish-orange tinge and the visually spectacular fire whirl climbing higher into the sky. Oh no this is bad.

Being just one of many rangers charged with the job of patrolling and the protection of the forest, Wilbur gulped down the berries and tension stiffen his lean, feathery body as he raised his binoculars to his eyes for a better view of the situation. He knew instantly from past experience that the magnified glow and the vortex were effects given off by an open fire. Carefully controlling his breathing so as to not panic, Wilbur couldn’t stop the worry that began to nag at the back of his brain. He lowered the binoculars and for a moment his wings kneaded his temples as his mind worked furiously, weighing options until he made a decision and then strode purposely around a table littered with a map spread out across the top; mugs, a candleholder and paperweights held down the corners.

Halting before a circular bronze gong standing in a corner, the bird picked up a hard wooden mallet from where it leaned against the lower wall of the watch-tower and swung it, striking the gong, making a resonant sound, not once, but five times in all. Scampering footsteps came up the stairs and a furry head wearing a soft nightcap poked up through the hatch in the floor.

I heard the warning gong and almost fell out of my bunk bed, Wilbur, the young bucktoothed chipmunk said with a yawn, his prominent eyes blinked as he wiped hard bits of sleep from the corners. "Where is