Seattle's Great Fire

By Jordan Kidd

EVER BEEN TO SEATTLE?
The way Laura Hillenbrand's Seabiscuit and James Cameron's Titanic made people want to be adventurous and pick up reins or experience epic love, Seattle's Great Fire will make you never want to leave the Pacific North West again:

Ash only tells one story—the end. It's hard to fathom that one of the most devastating tragedies never heard of, The Great Seattle Fire of 1889, that torched over one-hundred acres of businesses and what would equate to twenty million in present time dollars in damages, wasn't thee "Fire" the native Duwamish tribe Chief Seattle had spoken of in his premonitions.

Seattle's Great Fire genesis is set in mid-1800s Seattle, from the perspective of the land itself, as it unearths the town's "first citizens." The region's progressive thinking Chief, whom the city would be later named after, had the tall task of not only getting the message out about the coming destruction but also trying to get his people to align with the pioneers who had their idealistic ambitions of how the land should be colonized. An unlikely ally and dear friend of the last great chief was a pioneer and local doctor, David "Doc" Maynard. As stewards of the territory, they both surmised, aside from the coming blaze and teetering communities' issues, such as the not so uncommon Treaty and fight of which all other skirmishes would be measured, The Battle of Seattle, their people problems would outlive them.

Chief Seattle would grow fond of a Duwamish boy named Catóri (Ca-tar-ri) and Doc of a young orphaned girl he took under his wing and would later become an extension of himself, named Milá. These two bared witnesses to the town's tribulations as they leapfrogged across the 19th century. As faith for a peaceful coalitions takes on a new form in Milá and the "spirit" of the Emerald City, they realize time is running out, not just on their love confession but on the town's trial by fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jordan Kidd
• Release date: Sep 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201378325

Jordan Kidd

Who is Jordan Kidd?  He’s whoever he needs to be at any moment in time. He hopes that with his debut as an author, if you ask ten different readers to describe his work, you’ll get ten different answers. His love for stories and their ability to shape the world gave him the resolve to take on writing while working a 9-5 job in construction.  As an indie author, he wears many hats when he’s not writing. He’s passionate about being any and everything his son and wife need him to be. Being from Seattle has given him an unshakable foundation he’s indebted to and intends to pay back through literature.  You can keep in touch on social media platforms to stay updated with Jordan or by email for any inquiries,  Email: [e-mail] IG: @skywaypress

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Premonition

I CAN TELL YOU five different stories while trying to explain just one. A century time has eclipsed, vast forests have disappeared, people outnumber salmon five to one, and the native Duwamish tribe has practically vanished. Much has changed, except the soil beneath one’s feet. Imagine the stories it could tell and what truths would be uncovered if it could speak. Get a fish to trust you, and you’ll meet God. Maybe that’s why you’ll never see a great white shark in a zoo. The union between early settlers and the indigenous is caged in time by that trust. America would have you believe everything has been written already. A city buried in the past is determined to tell its side of the story, but not just any story, history!

Such Genesis is curved in the land in the furthest northwest corner of the country, where seeing the moon’s dark side and good days is an anomaly. It’s here, a vast tribe called home. The Duwamish and Suquamish indigenous numbered in the thousands and owned a territory approximately the size of Rhode Island. Chief Si?ahl (Seattle) led this tribe, and depending on whom he conversed with he would settle for a specific alias over another.

It’s the halfway mark into the 19th century, and every deep breath filled your lung with brisk air like a snail when it meets salt, so it had to fall. Mt. Rainer stood dormant and isolated by the snow, for a barking dog poses no threat, so all knew the coming winter would be one to remember. There was a part of the world where no season existed, only time between winters. Chief Si?ahl birthday wasn’t more than two months ago. The Chief had endured over forty winters, and anyone fortunate enough to live that long would just stop keeping track. The winters had helped mold the Chief into a wise-looking leader. Others would say it molded exaggerated cheekbones or that he was old and wise enough to know father time and as a favor, he intertwined grey strands in his mane. He had an intimidating demeanor but was overshadowed by his calm yet focused dark honey-colored eyes. If stress and tranquility were a person, the Chief was it!

Such wisdom comes at a price. The bill came due in the form of nightmares. One stormy night of sleep and you look forward to the next time your rest your head, a week of restless nights leads you to scratch one’s head, but over a dozen straight moon cycles, one must question if this nightmare is committed to being a hallucination.

If water is the world’s reflection, the Chief was having a hard time of late acknowledging his reflection. These strenuous ordeals started having a ripple effect. Lines were blurred. His reality had become his future and his obsession with it as he was stuck between the old and new ways. He felt wedged between the other tribes and their Chiefs, the European settlers. A decision had to be made. How does one explain a premonition without sounding crazy? On that gloomy early morning, fate would intervene…

In a panic, Chief Si?ahl propelled up off the buffalo hide he was sleeping on and started gasping for air. His eyes had looked as though they were pried open as they sweated and were in desperate need of oxygen. The pulsating veins in the whites of their eyes made his honey pupils stand out even more so than usual. He was cold to the touch but looked like he had just emerged from a river. Struggling to gather his wits, he remained confused as he couldn’t escape the thought of what felt to be his lungs filled with a strain of black smoke as he gasped for air! Rapidly choking and coughing, it’s not until his oldest daughter Angeline, whose commotion had awoken, came running into the longhouse that he realizes it was all a dream. As he struggles to gather and collect his thoughts, the worrisome Princess appears to be more unsettled than he.

FATHER, FATHER, are you all right, Princess Angeline repeatedly hollers as she forces a burl to his lips.

I would be if you’d lower your voice, Chief said, still coughing the smoke out his lungs from his dream.

Noticing his present state isn’t getting much better, she quickly fetches one of the young riders. An opportunistic young boy no older than twelve but no younger than eight that sprints into the longhouse. The boys’ name is Catóri. The boy stood at four-nine but was the fastest rider in the village.

It had been the fourth time this week that Chief had woken up half the tribe with his excessive shouting and moans from his premonitions, so upon princesses Angeline’s prominent discomforting face, a young Catóri knew he’d be tasked with retrieving the neighboring doctor. Time not being on his side, nor the weather for that matter. He quickly contemplated the fastest route but realized it was a path less traveled. The trail to the white settlement would take some time that the Chief didn’t have. Which meant the spry young boy would have to cross through Arrowhead. A close point of land that the lake funneled into and where a river weaved throughout the native territory led to the settlement. He was familiar with the path. The boy knew every ditch, rouge tree branch, and straight away better than what day of the week it was. It behooved him to know, as he confided in that certainty, as a branch reached out and closed line him off his horse a while back, or maybe the tree moved entirely and got in his way, depending on whom he told his story, his mishaps changed. He got tired of explaining the scar above his right eye to everyone, so he started to forget which truth he told.

Crossing the river was the least of the boy’s worries. It was roughly a three to five-mile journey through the forest brush that would take the average ride thirty minutes or more if they were hauling ass, but Catóri had would cut that time in half, easy! He knew the Chief depended on him; death waited on no man. Nearly a year had gone by since the brave boy stepped a toe outside the reservation, and for a good reason. Catóri needed a miracle to make it back in time and since he wasn’t formula with the settler’s God, Jesus, he put his faith into the person he was sent to summon and hoped he could walk across a frozen river.

Native tribes and the settlers were never meant to meet. Such friction was never in God’s plan. The tension could be cut with a knife. This is explained to Catóri, but such experiences can only be endured. Upon his arrival into Little Crossing Place (Pioneer Square), it comes to a head as he comes in hot. He does his best to slow down but not in time! He startles a woman and her dog. It didn’t help that the little ankle-biter was obnoxiously barking, and the overdramatic woman started cursing so that much her grandparents were surely turning in her grave. The woman wasn’t frightened. She had her tough guy hat on. A kind of boldness that can only be seen at a zoo. Everyone is tough with a piece of glass between them and a tiger.

I’m so very sorry; I tried to stop in time–my apologies, Catóri said in a hushed tone, trying to remember what he was told about encountering white folks. So many instructions on the dos and don’ts of foreigner etiquette. Catóri was wary of meeting a white woman more than hoarding buffalo.

I don’t understand your gibberish, savage. Can’t you people speak English, said the woman, not understanding a single syllable of his native tongue?

Before she has a chance to carry on with her rant, Catóri is down off the horse, lifting her dress slightly so that he can clean the speck of dirt.

Oh, my word! What in God’s name do you think you are doing… the lady rhetorically asks as her cheeks turn bloodshot red.

Unbeknownst to the boy, the situation worsens once the women begin to yell for help! Her voice carries sharply across the courtyard as some townsfolk are startled by the ruckus—a few nearby men who’d been working in Yesler’s sawmill. First one, then they came in twos like sneezes, along with boozed-up locals, make their way to the noise. A frantic mob forms as the lady tells the people a far cry. Only able to understand parts of English but unable to speak it, Catóri attempts to explain it was merely an accident but is cut off by a sharp cutlery eagle head knife pressed against his carotid artery.

The crowd of Euro-Americans is a mix of blood-seeking mongrels and a few peacemakers surrounding the boy. With everybody shouting at the top of their lungs over each other, it’s damn near impossible to make out what someone standing three feet away was uttering. Standing completely still, Catóri feels a singular cold sweat drip down his forehead. It’s not fear that grips him but a heightened sense of the situation. Swallowing a gulp of saliva, his eyes lock onto the older man’s menacing eyes as he kneels to eye level.

I always wondered, where did the name Eagle Head knife come from? Is it how the craftsmen make the handle curve like an eagle’s wing, or rather…it’s a nameless blade, and it becomes what takes, the man says, smelling like rotten cabbage? You see, I’m no mathematician; I can barely count to my age, but I’m positive this here blade is responsible for slaughtering more of your kind than I can count. With that, what in Sam’s hell are you doing here boy, he asks menacingly as he presses the blood-stained knife harder into Catóri’s throat.

Pardon me, sir, a calm but soothing voice said from behind the man. I wondered, how long do you think it would take a man’s jaw to heel if dislocated, a man casting a giant shadow abruptly asks?

Catóri smirks cheerfully!

What…? Go away! Can’t you see I’m a little busy now? Besides, do I look like a doctor, says the white man with the knife at Catóri’s throat as he turns to face the figure standing behind him.

Towards the back of the mob, some say they heard a loud bang and thought they saw lighting, and others swear they heard thunder, which wasn’t true on account of the lack of clouds, but people who were close testify it was both; swifter than a butterfly can flap its wings, and as sudden and painful as a bee sting, the mysterious voice landed a bone-shaking left hook to the right jaw of the knife-wielding man. Like a tree that falls in the forest and if nobody’s around to see it fall, did it fall, as did the man’s stiffened body hit the ground after the crunching blow, and just like a falling tree, you’d missed it had you blinked.

Since you’re unable to speak, just listen, said the bruised fist man, hovering over the guy he’d just knocked to the floor! "As long as

Reviews for Seattle's Great Fire

[Danielle F · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed the story and the characters but I found the spelling and the punctuation really difficult to navigate.