In a flashback to the 1973, we learn of the fire that took the town's main source of employment.  Kenny is in his early teens and he is in a hurry to get out the door and to the mill site.

There was an area north of Kiosk that had burned many years ago. It was a great place to find blueberries and Kenny had often marvelled at the size of the blackened stumps. What must it have been like before the fire? Now, it was an ugly area of tangled bush and weeds, and if it were not for the blueberries, he would have never gone there. What if the entire forest burned like that?
He put on his sneakers, ran down the stairs, and out the front door. "Kenny, don't go near the fire!" his mother yelled, but he was already trotting up the dark road toward the train bridge. From there he would be able to see how bad the fire really was.
He crested the dusty hill and saw the stark shadows created by the light of the fire. It had not limited itself to one section, but seemed to have spread to the entire mill. The fire was so bright, it was difficult to watch. As he walked up the road toward the train bridge, he noticed the people around him. They ran in every direction shouting and yelling and they drove their vehicles jerkily along the road, grinding gears and over-revving their engines. The air shook with an explosion, which Kenny felt deep inside his body, and the fire roared and whooshed up into the night sky.
"Get out of the way!" a man yelled and Kenny quickly stepped off the road. A truck passed him, its tires growling in the soft gravel and its engine whining.
As he neared the bridge, he could feel the heat. It hadn't spread to the entire mill and it was still a distance away from the bridge, but it looked like it was too big to stop. On this side of the river, there were thirty or forty people, just standing and watching. Some stood in groups and some alone.
Not too far away, he saw Mrs Connolly sitting on the riverbank, her head resting in her hands. She was not even watching the fire. Kenny watched her for a moment, heard her sob, and quickly walked away.
He looked back to the fire and saw, silhouetted against the reddish-orange, the shapes of men frantically running back and forth. They were attempting to put out the fire, but they looked so small in relation to the jagged flames that it was obvious they would lose.
"Looks bad, Kenny." Mr. Callahan said from his side.
"Sure does," Kenny agreed. Mr. Callahan was one of the older men. He had retired from the mill and spent his time gardening and fishing. They would have probably thrown him out as well, but he owned his house. "You think it could spread to the town? Or the forest?"
"Fire has its own mind, boy, but the town's lucky that line of box cars is where they is."
Kenny squinted and raised his hand over his brow to block out some of the bright light that was now high in the sky. A long line of metal boxcars stood on the siding between the mill and the town. The lake was on the other side of the mill, so the only way the fire could get out was to the east, through the giant lumber yard. "I sure hope it don't get out into the forest."
"You, and a lot of other people," said Callahan walking away.
Kenny knew he should go back home and help his parents, but he was a little excited and he wanted to cross the river to see the fire. There was a charge in the air that was hard to ignore.


Pat shoved the soft duffle bag in the car, closed the rear door and stepped back. The car was heavily packed and there was little room.
"You stay here with your Mom," his dad said. "I'm gonna park the car on the highway so we can get to it if we need to." He tugged on the gearshift lever and the car pulled away.
Uncle Roy had already moved his truck and he walked toward the house. "My truck's just up past the sign," he shouted to Pat's Dad. A large sign marked the beginning of the town on Highway 630. Roy walked to Pat's mom. "Well, it looks like they got us out."
"Whaddya mean?"
"The birdwatchers wanted the town closed down and now," he turned and pointed to the mill, "they've done it."
"Tis grand, you startin' rumours, Roy James. Are you tellin' me that somebody started the fire?" There was a tone of incredulity in her voice.
Roy put his foot up on the wooden step and lit a cigarette. "Well Lisa, it's mighty convenient that the night shift gets called off by Smith and then as soon as the place is empty, a fire starts."
She shook her head in disgust. The rumours were starting to spread as quickly as the fire. "That's daft!"
"Well, I'll tell you this. The government was surveying these lots so that people could buy 'em. Your husband would have bought this place for sure and other people would have bought their lots. That would have meant the town was here for good. That would have made it mighty hard for the birdwatchers to get anyone out. Now that the mill has burned, I'll bet you that the government reneges on the deal."
Pat's mom pulled her cardigan tightly around her middle. She hadn't thought of this. She had been looking forward to owning the land on which their house stood. Still, she was sure no one would deliberately burn the mill. "You just don't be causing any trouble. There's enough of that on the horizon." She pointed back to the mill.
Roy turned to Pat. "What do you think, lad? Wanna get a closer look at the mill?"
Pat's mom said nothing. She stamped angrily into the house displaying her anger with Roy and his idea to take Pat closer to the fire. Pat was uncertain of what he should do. His guitar and other belongings were already in the car and there was no point in hanging around the house. His mother did not want him to go, but the fire was the biggest thing to happen in Kiosk for many years. He nodded and Roy led the way.
The huge fire was way beyond control. Sparks, angrily buzzing and dancing, competed with the stars for attention, and translucent bands of flame crept up through the darkness and then detached themselves and drifted before disappearing in the void. At the centre, the upward movement of air was fast and furious and large smouldering pieces from the fire were carried high in the sky before falling into the water with a sisshh. Luckily, the wind fanned the flames out over the lake, because if it had been coming from the opposite direction, the town and the surrounding forest would have been subjected to a rain of fire.
At ground level, the flames, jagged and brilliant, arched and jumped as if alive, and they were so bright that they were difficult to watch. A few of the buildings had already collapsed and a weird grouping of wheels, drives and gears could be seen silhouetted against the bright background of dancing light.
A pumper truck sprayed a pile of lumber off to the side, but the atmosphere and the resigned movement of the crowd made it clear that most people had given up. The mill, the veneer plant, the kilns, the semi-dimension mill, were all gone. There was little left to save. Large groups of people stood or sat a distance from the fire, drawn to the flames like moths to a candle.
"Hey Pat!"
Pat turned and saw Kenny Campbell walking toward him.
"Pretty mean, isn't it?"
Pat nodded and looked past Kenny to the street. Cars and trucks were moving in all directions. It seemed like every vehicle in the town was being driven somewhere. He looked at Kenny and did not know what to say. He turned back and stared at the macabre dance of flame.
A group of boys hustled by and one boy grabbed Pat's sleeve. "Come on!" he said in French. "We're going to get the boats away from the fire." Without even realising what the boy had said, both he and Kenny allowed themselves to be pulled along.
As they passed the bunkhouse, they saw a group of men watering down the buildings on the concrete path. The flames were tall here and the wiggling fiery glow cast strange dancing shadows. The men were covered in sweat and they moved methodically.
"Come on!" one man cried, still full of energy, "if it gets out of here, it will run into the town and into the forest!"
Kenny looked over his shoulder and saw that the bunkhouse would take the fire into the town, just as the man had said, and he started to slow his run, deciding if he should help.
"Get away from here, boy!" another man yelled, anticipating Kenny's intention. "This is too dangerous! Go help your family!" The man wiped a sooty hand across his sweat-soaked face and turned back to the fire.
Kenny hesitated and one of the boys grabbed his shirt and pulled him. "Come on, let's get to the dock."
They ran behind the train station, across the tracks and down to the shore. Despite the bright flames that lit up the sky and reflected off the water, the boathouse was dark. There were a few motorboats inside and some of the boys began to untie their mooring ropes. Without the keys, there was no way to control the powerboats, so they pushed them out toward the centre of the lake and let them drift.
There was less danger on the dock. It seemed safer surrounded by water and boys ran back and forth acting as if they were at a company picnic or a rodeo. They were whooping and hollering.
"Over here!" someone yelled.
"Yahoo!" A boy in a boat turned a discovered ignition key and screamed in delight as the engine roared to life. Instead of using the boat to round up the other boats, he roared off toward the centre of the lake. The wake of the boat washed back and the other boats bobbed and banged into the wooden dock.
Another large explosion rocked the air and bright light spilled across the water. "I'm getting out of here!" someone cried. Pat let go of the rope he was holding, ran outside and stood on the dock. The flames roared up into the sky carrying hot pieces of wood that fell into the water and sisshed.
"Pat!" Kenny yelled. "Give me a hand!" Kenny was untying the ropes of the company tug, which sat off to the side of the boat house.
Pat ran over and worked on another knot. It was difficult and his fingers fuddled uncooperatively. The reflection of the flames rolled on the surface of the water and he looked up while he continued to pull and strain at the knot. He could feel the heat on his face.
An older boy pushed Pat aside and finished the task. The pounding of footsteps on the wooden dock competed with the jubilant shouts as the company tug was slowly pushed away from the mill and the fire. One boy, leaning on the side, fell into the water and everyone screamed and laughed, trying to draw attention to themselves and their ingeniousness, but the fire was just too big and few people saw their actions. The tug would be available for work tomorrow, but there would be little for it to do.
Pat grabbed Kenny's arm. "We better get away from here. The wind is blowing toward us. This whole dock could burn." The smell of smoke lay heavily over the water.
Kenny looked at the flames. "I was worried it was going to run out into the forest, but it looks like it won't now. It'll stick to the mill. But you're right, it could come this way."
"I've never seen nothing like this."
A large section of roof collapsed and whooshed to the ground. A huge shower of sparks rose into the sky, danced, and swirled in every direction. People on the dock moaned and for a few seconds, the "wow's" and "ahhh's" seemed louder than the crackling of the fire.
"Come on, let's get out of here." Pat led Kenny toward the train station. Most of the other kids left the dock as well, but a few jumped into row boats and pushed them away from shore. "I better get back to where my uncle is. My mom will freak out if she thinks I'm too close to the fire."
They pushed their way through the crowd, back toward the bunkhouse. The section of the mill closest to the bunkhouse had collapsed and the fire was not burning as furiously as it had when they first passed. The men were still working hard to keep the bunkhouse and the surrounding buildings watered down, but they were not as frantic. As the buildings collapsed, the danger of the fire spreading lessened.
"Everyone's here." Kenny said looking at the people.
They stood everywhere; people in nightgowns and pyjamas, people in summer clothing, people in shorts and dress shoes. Many stood with their arms folded, looking lost and isolated. Some of the women and some of the men had wet cheeks and darkened eyes.
Roy grabbed Pat angrily and yelled: "Where the hell did you get to?"
"I went to help get the boats out of the boathouse."
Roy whacked Pat in the back of the head. "Well, don't take off again. That fire is dangerous and I don't want your mother beating me with a frying pan 'cause I didn't look after you!"
Kenny settled in beside Roy and watched the fire. The frenetic activity had started to die down. Some people were still driving around, trying to get valued possessions up to the highway, but most just stood and watched.
A man standing beside Roy spoke in a loud raspy voice. "I guess this proves that Friday the thirteenth is not a good day!"
Many people nodded and some appeared surprised. Some had not realised the date.
"This has nothing to do with bad luck! Luck played no damned role in this."
The man beside Roy flapped his hand as if to say that he didn't want to hear what Roy had to say. He turned, ready to walk away, and then said over his shoulder: "I guess I'll see you in the U.I.C. line-up on Monday."
"That's where we'll all be in the next few days," Roy said as much to himself as in reply. Most of the men would qualify for U.I.C., or unemployment insurance, but the payments would be much less than a person made for an honest week of work. Life would be hard for many of the families in town.
Pat looked up, his eyes tracking a large board that floated high in the sky and then fell toward the lake. It was almost like fireworks. "Will they rebuild it?"
Roy turned back to the fire. "They don't want to, Pat. And, even if they did, it would take a long time. There's ten acres of building there. The whole thing's gonna go and there ain't nothing gonna stop it. It takes a long time to clean that up and rebuild it."
Mr. Hackenbrook, one of the saw blade filers, stepped closer and spoke to Roy. "What makes you think they won't rebuild it?" His yellow hard-hat had turned orange in the light of the glowing fire.
Roy turned to face him. "Are you kidding?! This is the perfect opportunity. They can get everyone to move out of town and no one will resist. The damned government has been trying to get us out of here for over five years. Now, with the mill gone, it'll be easy. No one owns their land yet, the leases will be up in 1999, and if there are no jobs, who would want to stay here."
Mr. Hackenbrook nodded. "I guess so. But the company won't want to go out of business."
"They'll rebuild it somewhere else - somewhere where they won't disturb the birdwatchers. They'll probably get a government grant to build. You mark my words."
Hackenbrook rubbed his beard and nodded. "Pretty suspicious that they called off the evening shift just before the fire. It was mighty convenient that nobody was in the plant."
Roy nodded. "Even more suspicious is that they emptied the water tower a couple a' days ago and then the power just happens to go off so they can't pump from the pump house!" A few people looked at Roy and started to listen. "I wouldn't be surprised if someone didn't torch the place to get rid of it. And before they did, they made damned sure that no-one was gonna put it out either."
Hackenbrook grunted his agreement.
Roy smiled. "If I ever need one of them heart transplants, I hope I get a heart from one of them politicians or businessmen."
Hackenbrook looked confused.
A woman who had been listening stole the punch-line. "Yeah, if you're gonna get a new heart, might as well get one that ain't never been used." She cracked up and Hackenbrook smiled as he nodded.
Pat looked at Kenny and laughed, but Kenny did not. "Your uncle may be right, you know," he said. "They really want to get us out of here and they don't care if we was born here and grew up here!"
"Maybe." He shuffled his feet in the sand and shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe it will be good to move the mill further from the town." He looked down at the ground. "Maybe we all need to get away for a while."
Kenny looked sideways at Pat, tilted his head and frowned. "I don't want to leave here. This is my home."
Pat shrugged his shoulders again and nodded at the fire. "It looks like we won't have much of a choice."
A group of men and women were now talking and the laughter had been replaced by anger. One old man waved his hand dismissively. "This is how things is done," he said. "The same thing that happened in Fossmill! They burned that one too, back in '34."
Fossmill was the mill that had existed before Kiosk. It was a distance to the west along the CNR line, and although smaller, it had once been a thriving town as well. The logging limits were weakening and there had been some money troubles. Then, on a Sunday in 1934, when it was empty, the entire mill burned to the ground. Many of the Fossmill workers walked the railway line, through the bush, to work at Kiosk.
"Ain't no one gives a damn about the people," said the man turning his back and flapping his hands as if he were smacking a dog. "Just use 'em up and then burn 'em out." A few other people walked away from the fire.


Suzette coughed and sat up. Her sheets were dirty from soot. For a second it seemed that she could not breathe, but the sensation passed. It was early and she had slept only a few hours, but she knew she would not go back to sleep. The air in the house was hot, sticky and oppressive and her sheets felt heavy. She listened. No one else was moving about. She dressed, grabbed a couple of slices of bread, and slipped out the front door.
The air smelled strongly of smoke. A patina of grey soot coated everything and, as she walked, she left footprints in the sooty ground. Listlessly chewing on the bread, she walked toward the mill. A plume of smoke still rose from what had once been the semi-dimension mill, the saw mill, and the veneer plant, but the violent swirling flames had disappeared. The scene looked like a charcoal drawing; everything was smudged in shades of grey and black.
Nearer to the collapsed buildings, people stood in small groups. They looked very tired and Suzette guessed that they had been awake all night. Some were wrapped in blankets, but those closer to the buildings seemed to feel the warmth of the fire.
The excitement of the night before had been replaced with lethargy. People moved slowly and looked down at the ground as they spoke. There were no children, just men and women who all seemed to share the same demoralized expression, the same defeated demeanour.
She walked over to Mrs. Richer, a heavy woman, who was sitting alone on a tuft of grass. She didn't know what to say at first and she mumbled in French: "The whole thing burned."
Mrs. Richer shook her head and answered in English. "Oui, it's all gone . . . everyting."
"No one was hurt?"
"No."
"It's good no one got killed."
Mrs. Richer suddenly looked up at her. "The town got killed. The mill will never be built again and all the families here will be forced to move." A tear rolled down her soot stained cheek. "All the friends we had . . . lost . . . forever."
Suzette felt her own throat constrict. She wanted to say something, but she choked and feared she would start to cry. "It will be all right," she said finally as she knelt beside the heavy woman and hugged her shoulders.
"I know, dear. I know." The woman hugged her for a moment and then, gently, but a little impatiently, pushed her away. She took out a cotton handkerchief and wiped her tear-dampened face. From the appearance of the handkerchief, it had performed this task a number of times during the night. "You're young. You got your whole life in front of you. Mr. Richer and me, we lived here all our lives. Our children grew up here and we wanted to be buried here. We don't want to go and live in some apartment somewhere."
"But none of the houses burned. You can stay here."
"Everyone knows the government will kick everyone out. The birdwatchers don't want a bunch of town people spoiling their . . . their . . . canoe ride."
Suzette wanted to leave. She did not want to hear about birdwatchers. "I heard that they might rebuild the mill right here. I'm sure it will be all right."
The woman looked down at the ground. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it will." There was no conviction in her voice.
Suzette walked toward the bunkhouse. From here, if she had not known that the mill buildings should have towered in front of her, it would have been difficult to tell there had been a fire. The bunkhouse had not been damaged and the fire had stayed on the lake-side of the train tracks. Last night she had heard some men say that the line of boxcars on the siding between the town and the mill had probably saved the town from destruction. Here, the only indications of the fire were the ash on the ground and the smell in the air.
As she crossed the tracks, feet sinking into the gritty brown gravel, her nostrils were assaulted by the acrid odour. It was unpleasant. Very different than being near a hardwood campfire, this contained the smells of burned rubber, tar and plastic, and that mouldy, unhealthy smell of smouldering cardboard. The damp lake air strengthened its attack so that it almost could be tasted on the tongue. She wrinkled her nose and continued to walk beside the box cars.
All the buildings were now just jagged mounds of blackened debris. It was difficult to remember their original locations. Among the rubble, a few metal wheels were silhouetted against the lake, looking like some kind of crazy art display. One wheel turned slowly in the wind - performance art.
She walked past the blistered boxcars, which had been warped by the heat. Two men, their faces covered in soot, sat in an open door of one of the cars and nodded as Suzette passed.
To the right, near the water, a huge pile of sawdust still smouldered. No flames were visible, but grey smoke oozed out into the morning sky. A few men with shovels stood near by, dwarfed by its size of the pile, waiting for any re-emergence of the fire-beast, while others picked through the remains of the mill. The faces of the men were so blackened by soot and expressionless with fatigue that it was difficult to tell who was who.
Suzette looked up at the water tower. Curiously, with all the heat and destruction, it still stood. It looked fragile, but very tall, now that the other buildings were gone. Not too far away, the triple smoke stacks of the power plant also stood alone against the sky, like eerie grave markers of the buildings that had once been.
One night last summer, she had climbed one of the three sections of the tower. Her sister Denise had not believed that she would have the courage and this had spurred her on. One section had been enough, however. It had still been frightening to climb the metal ladder. Parents were always saying that the tower was going to fall over, but obviously, it had been stronger than they imagined.
When she reached the train bridge at the mouth of the Amable River, the smell began to abate. The metal bridge had not been damaged, and looked safe to cross. Looking over her shoulder, she realised that there was little danger of any train arriving this morning. The main line was littered with debris from the fire.
She stopped, looked forward and then backward, not sure what to do. With a little reluctance, she set out across the bridge toward the far side of town. Mr. Frederick, the stationmaster, always yelled when he saw someone on the bridge, but Mr. Frederick had other things to worry about this morning - the whole town had other things to worry about.
As she approached the middle, she looked uneasily up the tracks. She did not want to get caught. She had never crossed the bridge before. With a couple of cautious steps, she walked to the side and looked down at the water. It was hard to tell how strong the current was since the water rolled under the bridge without wave or bubble, but she knew that at the weir, only a few hundred yards downstream, the water raged and boiled.
Occasionally, during the summer, some of the kids jumped from this bridge into the river below. They usually screamed with excitement as they plopped into the raging water. It was a dangerous jump because partially-submerged pieces of wood often floated unseen.
In her memory, she could hear the joyous screams of the kids as they cannon-balled off the bridge. Although she had never jumped, she had often joined in the excitement from the bank of the river.
The words of Mrs. Richer returned to her, "All the friends we had . . . lost forever." The sounds of joy that rang through her memory were suddenly silent. The laughter disappeared and only the gurgle of flowing water remained. A song came to her. It was a hit song that played on the radio. She could hear the refrain and some of the words. "In a little while from now . . ." Then some more, and then: "Alone again . . . naturally."
At the end of the bridge, she scrabbled down the loose slag and then walked past the old pump-house. The area looked deserted. She pulled on the door and found the building locked. This was strange because it was often left open. She pulled again, but the door would not budge.
She ambled down the short hill and stopped to enjoy the wild roses that lined the road. They were a pleasant break from the acrid smell of smoke. She reached down to one stem but immediately pulled her fingers back from the prickly thorns.
Deciding to return home, she walked toward the car bridge. Perhaps Pat would be awake and she would find him. Last night, their parents had whisked them away from each other and now she longed for his company. She realised, painfully, that she might lose him for good now.
The water under the bridge roared as it fell over the weir and with its dampness, the smell of the fire returned. An old beat-up Dodge banged across the wood planks and Suzette hugged the metal crank handle of one of the drops to get out of the way. People were in a hurry.
On the other side of the bridge, she climbed the grade that led to the main road and just as she reached the crest, she saw Pat in the backseat of a car. He did not see her, but she waved anyway.
Pat's entire family seemed preoccupied and no one in the car looked right or left. The car accelerated toward Highway 630. Again, the words of Mrs. Richer echoed in her mind, "Friends, lost forever." She ran a few steps toward the car before she realised the futility of this. She stopped and watched. Her body jerked with three ragged short breaths. Pat, don't go, she said to herself as tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She knew he would be coming back, but there was something about the image of the car that burned and left her short of breath.

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Last modified: 09/01/02