The End of Nanga Brook

NYCM Rhyming Story Competition 2024

Final: Historical Fiction (3rd Place)

The rainless thunder rumbles in the dirty orange sky

And storm winds howl in hillsides where the timber's tinder dry.

On Thursday, lightning strikes ignite the scarp near Nanga Brook

And runners rouse the crews to fight with mattock, hose, and hook.

So, we grab the gear and get up

And we push with nary let-up.

We swear and sweat and swelter in the stinking, smoky haze.

For the ember storm is nearing,

But the breaks that we’ve been clearing

Mean that Nanga Brook, just barely, might survive the coming days.

Slow winds dangle hope in sight then, suddenly, they change.

On Friday night, the Wrath of God rolls down the Darling Range!

The flames have leapt the breaks and now they're marching on the town

But our tanks are out of water and the radios are down.

And we’re broken and we’re weary

And our eyes are scorched and bleary.

We need to shift out now or else be taken by the flames.

For the Jarrah trees are burning

And the choking smoke is churning

And the list of missing persons now has over ninety names.

On Saturday, the wind's still up, and orders are imposed:

“Evacuate to Dwellingup, before the roads are closed.”

They say it will be over soon, and then we'll all come back.

But ‘though it's early afternoon, the sky is midnight black.

No help, no pumps, no water.

But we give the blaze no quarter.

We work the crews through Sunday, and we almost catch a break.

No rest, no slack, no slowing.

For while the hills are glowing,

We soldier on despite the fact we've spent four days awake.

We think we may have won the fight, but then the bastard turns.

The sky explodes on Monday night and Dwellingup soon burns.

We face the conflagration and we hold the inner lines.

Our raging indignation swiftly breaks our own confines.

For we’re roaring and we’re beating!

And we send the flames retreating!

It’s taken half the buildings but the rest of them survive.

We watch the flames diminish

As we pound them to the finish

And on Tuesday, bloody miracle! For everyone’s alive.

Now Wednesday's sky is grey and blank. The bush is black and white.

We've come back home to Nanga Brook, and sink down at the sight:

There's nothing left. No home survived. Just smoking ash instead.

Dwellingup could be revived, but Nanga Brook is dead.

We gaze on desolation

In stoic contemplation.

We didn't lose a single life. For that we should stand tall.

We tell ourselves to cheer up.

We're hard men, but we tear up...

When at that moment, far too late, the rain begins to fall.