A flock of brown-speckled meadow
pipits burst from the sedge and veered through the air in pursuit
of swarming insects. The birds darted in and out of heathery hiding
places, repeating their forays at random intervals. But for their
constant song, the bog lay quiet beneath the June sun slowly setting
in Ireland's northwestern skies.
Behind the ruins of a stone cottage,
Gene Cuddy scratched his bristly beard and inhaled the pungent aroma
of peat. Sunsets were best for shooting County Mayo's peaceful landscapes.
An innovative panoramic camera, on loan from his editor, clicked
and whirred in Gene's hands as he captured the scenic vistas on
film.
All across the bog, sheep and
cows grazed among scant clusters of purple heather and white bog
cotton. Squares of cut turf stood drying in tepee-shaped stooks,
as they had since the ages-old right of turbary first allowed the
local folk to harvest peat from designated plots.
An inland lake sparkled beyond
the bog. Hills framed its jagged shores. Tiny islands dotted the
water, their lush greenery safe from chomping livestock and farmers
who burned the scraw to extract the underlying peat.
By nine o'clock the light had
faded to a lambent glow. A gentle wind blew up from the south. Gene
replaced the camera in his rucksack and drew his lighter and cigarettes
from his pocket. Pleased with his day's work thus far, he sat against
the crumbling cottage, puffing away.
On his way back to the village
of Dunmona, he would visit Barney O'Dowd's turbary plot. He'd overheard
the old man in the pub that afternoon saying he'd burn a patch of
scraw soon to prepare a new turf bank. The notion of flames crackling
over the bog set Gene's heart thumping as no girl ever had—and
with a little help, old Barney would have himself a spectacular
blaze.
Though Gene never used matches
to light his cigarettes, he kept matchbooks in a waterproof tin
in his rucksack. He opened one now and spread the matches apart.
Tucking a cigarette between them, he carefully calculated the length
of cigarette protruding from the matchbook and wound a rubber band
around the contrivance.
After repeating the process with
a second matchbook, he slipped both into his pocket. His watch read
nine-thirty and still the sun hadn't set. He gathered his gear and
started over the bog. At nine-forty-five, he stopped at the edge
of the O'Dowd turf and lit one of the match-encased cigarettes.
Once it was glowing well, he placed it in the sedge. Experience
had taught him that the cigarette would smolder a good fifteen minutes
before igniting the matches, plenty of time to be back at Stonechat
Inn before the fire started. A few yards ahead, he planted the other—and
froze.
Barney O'Dowd stepped from behind
a turf bank, his brisk step belying his great age. The ancient face
beneath his tweed cap glowed in the evening sunshine. His wife Tessa
came after him, carrying a small picnic basket. Wisps of her white
hair blew in the gentle breeze. They smiled and waved when they
saw Gene.
"Bless the work," Gene
called to them. Then he sprinted off, ducking behind a hedge of
heather. A quick look around reassured him that no one else was
in sight. He jogged to a nearby hedgerow, scrambled onto his mountain
bike, and raced away, smiling.
While Tessa O'Dowd poured
tea from a thermos, Barney set fire to a small section of the flammable
scraw, a calculated process that would burn away the top layer without
igniting the peat beneath it. He cursed when the ground behind him
burst into flames. Without warning, the wind rose and fanned both
fires into snapping, blazing walls that threatened to trap the O'Dowds.
Tessa screamed. She jumped to
her feet, dropping the thermos of tea.
Barney ripped off his jacket and
beat at the inferno. "Get help, Tess!"
Tessa ran. She cleared the hungry
flames with only minor burns to her legs, but the thick, black smoke
smothered Barney.
The neighbors found his corpse
in the burned-out heather.
