by a careless person, and beneficial only when scheduled, and neutral when considered to be an “act of God”? Was any event better or worse than the other?
Beth’s mind wanted the world’s causes and effects to make sense, and she was frustrated by the idea that they might mingle in such a sloppy way.
Some of the blackened tree skeletons stood, and some had fallen to create a maze for anyone passing through. Hastings wasn’t impeded by any of it but carried her on sure footing exactly where Beth’s compass and Wally’s map instructed them to go.
The aspen here flourished, because aspen were not individual trees, but a unified organism that grew from a single taproot. This root was protected deep underground from even the largest, most devastating fires, and it was constantly sending up vibrant shoots while other plants struggled to be reborn from seeds in the charred soil. The great irony of the aspens’ natural durability, Beth often thought, was that the wood itself was too soft for most construction purposes. When these trees were harvested, they were used to make matchsticks.
The group climbed out of the lower elevations that the aspen preferred. It took several hours and more frequent rests for Hastings, who felt the altitude as much as any human might, though he was fit to endure it. The long-needled ponderosas too eventually yielded ground to the spruces—the dusty-blue Colorados and the yellow-green Engelmanns, the hardiest of trees in this oxygen-deprived air. The undergrowth also thinned out, and Beth could see the timberline on the peaks behind the shorter slope she scaled. Even now, in August, remnants of last winter’s snow caked the mountainsides’ shady crevices.
And then they reached a ridgetop, and the ground fell away as if it had been chipped off by God’s chisel. Beth found herself looking down onto the old mining village that was Burnt Rock, which she guessed to be about two miles away. A modern paved road wound up the mountainside and into Burnt Rock from the southeast. She saw fresh paint on restored facades, and colorful signs that shouted out to tourists of opportunities to pan for gold or tour a mine or ride a mule or experience a miracle.
That last one caught Beth’s eye, but she couldn’t make out the details that would explain the meaning.
She saw a hotel, and what she presumed was a post office, and a long string of conjoined shops lining the main drag. The street was like the center vein in a narrow brown leaf, with more slender veins branching off to the north and south, unpaved routes that led to free-standing buildings and boxy, haphazardly arranged homes and cars. A few multipassenger vans were parked in a wide lot at the far end of town. She spotted one building that might be a stable, with mules rather than horses ambling in the corral.
Directly beneath her at the base of the cliff was a squat building with a roof like a wagon wheel turned on its side, the hub a large domed skylight. It might be a church positioned to keep watch over the town.
To the left of Beth was a path that led downward by first going away from the sheer drop. Mercy took this route.
Herriot did not. Facing away from Mercy’s path, she barked once at something Beth couldn’t see. It was a vocalization like her intruder-alert bark, but something about it was different. She stood at attention, ears and tail erect.
“C’mere, girl,” Beth said, and she clicked her tongue as she turned Hastings toward the trail.
Herriot bounded away from her.
“Herriot! Come!” This time Beth whistled. Her dog responded with three short barks and a plunge through a tight stand of spruces, and then she was silent.
“Herriot!”
On the trail, Mercy had come back into Beth’s view and seemed to be waiting for her.
“Your girlfriend’s run off again,” she said to the wolf.
The wolf appeared uninterested in this revelation. He turned around and resumed his walk. Beth took a deep breath, sent up a prayer for Herriot’s safety, and followed Mercy.
He led the descent down a very shallow Z-shaped trail. At one point she thought the trail might bypass the town entirely, but then a sharp left turn offered to put her in the right direction again. A signpost told her that if she didn’t turn, her present course would take her up to a mine called the Caged Bird.
The next leg of the trail was no more steep, but much longer, and