Nobody knew the story of this fire, but it went like this: the flames had started as a small ember amid the gorse. It had burned bracken, burned brambles, set fire to grass and leaves. During the first night, it had almost died several times, but again and again it had found the strength to continue and had survived. Come daylight, it held sway over two hills, innumerable fields and pine woods, and now it was going after the rest. It had been joined by the wind, which nourished it, enabled it to grow, gave it a direction and purpose. By then, the teams had arrived with their tractors, together with the lumberjacks from a nearby ridge, carrying their chainsaws, which were dripping oil. But it was all a bit late. The fire was in control now.

Confusion reigned. The chief of the operation had to shout to make himself heard, such was the noise coming from the flames behind him.

‘Isn’t it amazing?’ said Penelo to young Salva.

The two boys gazed at the flames gaining hold of the treetops, the trees falling to their knees as the chainsaws parted their souls. Nearby, a man from the land reform agency, standing on the back of a van, measured the wind speed with a pocket anemometer. With the wind being so strong, he covered the upper end of the tube with his finger and took a reading from the panel on the right.

The wind was gathering speed.

Bad news started arriving over the walkie-talkies, which were frisky as dogs. It seemed the wind was opening new fronts all over the place.

In the end, a patrol chief, a tall man wearing Nomex, came up to them.

‘I have a job for you,’ he said, sweating inside the orange outfit. The walkie-talkie crackled on his waist. ‘I need a line of defence in Saia Wood. Do you know where I mean or do I have to explain it to you?’

‘We know,’ said Penelo.

‘Then get some axes and spades, and come with me. If we don’t stop the fire over there, it’s going to cross the cemetery and cut off the road behind us.’

There were six of them riding in the back of the van: the patrol chief, Penelo, his brother, someone from the agency, a fresh-faced civil guard and young Salva.

First, they travelled along the road, where they met locals coming to warn them about the fire heading towards the cemetery.

‘Go straight to the cemetery!’ they shouted. ‘The cemetery! The rest can burn.’

It was the cemetery, more than the houses, that worried them.

Shortly after that, one had to follow a forest track and climb in the direction of the wood. The van writhed and moaned as it made the ascent. This was the way to the cemetery.

The track ended when it reached the cemetery, so they got out and walked between the niches. Apart from the patrol chief, they all had relatives who were buried there. They carried on downhill, along a short slope.

Along the way, they bumped into an old couple from the houses at the bottom. They were coming from the river, carrying buckets of water. The woman begged them:

‘For the love of God, children, I entreat you. Stay here with us and help us save the house, it’s all we have!’

‘We’re heading to the top of the hill,’ explained the patrol chief. ‘We have to stop the fire there, or it’ll reach the cemetery and then the road.’

‘God help us!’ exclaimed the old woman.

Leaving them behind, the men clambered up the flank of the hill. The fire was on the other side and in half an hour would reach the summit. If they couldn’t stop it there, it would roll down the hill and engulf the houses.

As they climbed, they felt the fire drawing closer, as if they were on the side of a volcano, but they still couldn’t see it. Young Salva found the rucksack with the axe and spade heavy. The patrol chief, a strong man, was the first to arrive.

‘Take a look at this!’ he shouted.

The fire was advancing up the other side, towards the brow of the hill. With the wind blowing in the other direction, the flames took strength, filled their lungs and flung their arms apart. They devoured pine trees, which crackled and oozed resin. The pine tree, when it burns, gives off large sparks, and its smoke is pitch-black. This is how a pine tree burns.

The slope was so steep they’d have to create a line of defence just before the summit. They’d have to hurry up or they’d have problems with the small eddies of fire forming under the lee of the hill, one of the fire-fighter’s worst enemies.

‘Quick! Get a move on! I want to see you dig.’

The flames consumed ten metres every minute, while the men dug as fast as they could. They had little time to finish before the fire reached the summit. The ditch needed a kind of barrier to prevent the sparks from passing, and they had to line up the logs, so they wouldn’t roll if they caught fire.

It was twenty minutes of exhausting work. It was all they could do. The men went fast, but the flames went faster. And then the worst thing imaginable occurred. It happened in a moment.

They felt it on their skin: the wind had changed direction. It had gradually turned behind them and was blowing from the blaze in their direction. It was now a hot wind, the breath of an animal. The pines’ inflamed needles came shooting to the ground, while the chestnut trees and oaks in the wood burned majestically. The fire-break still wasn’t finished, and the wind had already crossed it, carrying small sparks like tiny, luminous insects, which passed overhead and nestled among the dried bushes, igniting them like wool.

‘Stop, stop! There’s no point!’ shouted the agent, and the six men abandoned the useless ditch, staring impotently at the flames passing overhead and igniting the bushes behind their line of defence.

‘All that work for nothing!’

They watched in amazement as the flames crackled in the bushes and the fire broke out behind them. The fire had crowned the summit and, standing on both feet, with the wind’s encouragement, was preparing to sweep down the hill towards them.

‘We have to retreat to behind the old people’s houses and try to dig another line!’

The speed of the fire went from twenty-five to sixty metres, which was getting dangerous. They literally had to run. The six men hurried down the slope, carrying the fire flappers and hoes.

When they arrived, they were met again by the old couple, who were desperate by now.

‘Children! Don’t go! Our house is going to catch fire!’

But there was nothing they could do. The flames would consume everything in a matter of minutes. The animals knew this and were stamping about nervously inside the stables.

‘Listen! You have to release the cattle!’ the patrol chief shouted in the old man’s ear.

To begin with, the old man didn’t hear him, but then he nodded. He’d understood.

‘These old folk are crazy,’ remarked Penelo loudly. ‘The way they’re going, they’ll burn as well, if they don’t get a bloody move on.’

The patrol chief and the man moved towards the stables, gently pushing the old woman, who didn’t want to let them pass. The chief opened the gate with two blows of his axe, while the man released all the cows he had, all six of them, giving them a kiss before herding them along, as if they were children. They were followed by the pigs and hens, which came running out into the yard in confusion, turning this way and that, not knowing which direction to go in.

The pines’ black smoke, the black smoke of the resin, was against them.

‘Have you any petrol?’ the patrol chief asked the old man, who appeared confused. ‘Petrol!’

‘You what?’

‘Do you have any petrol!’

The old man nodded and pointed to the shed where he kept all his tools.

‘You!’ the patrol chief ordered the fresh-faced civil guard. ‘Take these old people to the van and go for reinforcements. The rest of you, take these petrol cans and come with me. We’re going to make one last effort.’

‘One last effort?’ shouted the land reform agent. ‘There’s nothing for us to do here! We have to leave right now!’

‘One last effort, I said. You only have to stay if you want to.’

‘You can do what you like. I’m going back to the lorries,’ he said. He took the old couple and left with them, shielding his face with his hand to prevent the ash from getting in his eyes.

The others retreated three hundred metres to a field of wheat, carrying the petrol cans. The patrol chief tested the wind and saw that it was blowing sideways on account of the hill. He thought it was a suitable spot for what he had in mind.

‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ he explained, ‘but we have to try. We have to light a backfire. We’ll light from those rocks to over there and pray for the wind not to change direction.’

They divided the line between them. Young Salva was posted next to Penelo, who was in a state of excitement.

‘There’s no better smell in this world than the smell of petrol!’ shouted Penelo. He was a mechanic and loved cars. The truth was the smell of the petrol intoxicated young Salva as well, getting in his nose and making him dizzy.

‘This is going to burn like crazy!’ said Penelo when he saw all the grass soaked in petrol.

‘Get ready!’

It was the voice of the patrol chief.

‘Start lighting and move back!’

Young Salva took a lighter out of his pocket and began setting fire to the dark liquid. The flames sprang up immediately, and they had to take several steps backwards. The wind pushed one fire against the other.

‘How well it burns!’ exclaimed young Salva. The two of them stared at the flames for quite some time.

When they came to, they realized they couldn’t see the others.

‘Where are they? Where the hell are they?’

The smoke prevented them from seeing and, when it moved, what it revealed didn’t please them at all.

‘Shit!’ exclaimed Penelo, glancing from side to side. ‘The wind has changed direction.’

The bushes and oaks were burning in front of them; behind them, the wheat. They were trapped.

They shouted out for the others, but no one answered.

They couldn’t breathe. Their eyes were pouring out water. Ash-stained tears. Young Salva lifted the scarf tied around his neck and used it to cover his mouth, but it didn’t help. He kept on coughing and could barely open his eyes.

‘On the ground! Get down on the ground!’ shouted Penelo, and young Salva flung himself to the ground.

‘Breathe in the grass!’

Amid the sweet, dirty grass, young Salva found a small amount of oxygen. He couldn’t stop coughing, and the tears from his eyes moistened the dried earth. He saw Penelo lying beside him, digging the soil with his hands, and he did the same. With his mouth in the hole, he could breathe better. After that, he stopped seeing Penelo. The smoke, which was a result of the wind having changed direction, was even darker now. Gusts passed overhead like a storm of sparks. Inflamed leaves, like tongues on fire, ember-red branches, fell on top of him. He felt something slithering over his body, his arms and back. It was something cold and alive, he felt it on his hands and in his hair. When he opened his eyes, he saw it: fleeing from the flames, in desperation, dozens of snakes, toads and cobras were moving on top of him. The cobras clambered over his arms and carried on their way without biting him, they were so afraid. Young Salva closed his eyes. He was normally frightened of snakes and cobras, but now he didn’t experience fear. He felt a kind of pleasure on noticing something timorous and alive coming into contact with his skin. His fear evaporated, and he was transported to an unreal, intimate place, something like his own tomb. ‘This is how my father is,’ he mused, ‘in a place made of smoke, ash and wind.’ Absurd thoughts crossed his mind, and the terror he would normally have experienced was replaced by a sense of security and strength. So much so that he came to the conclusion that the fire wouldn’t kill him. He felt something soft caressing his head, a warm hand stroking his hair and forehead. The hand of his late father. And the tears he wept no longer seemed stained with ash, but had turned into pure water. Perhaps as a result of having cried so much, or because they were coming from a different place inside his eyes.

Someone was pulling hard on his feet. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the grass. Penelo had pulled him out of the fire and dragged him to a place where he could breathe a little better. Young Salva could see where he was – in the middle of the cemetery. He gazed sadly at the withered flowers, bouquets and wreaths being toasted and consumed on top of the stone. All around, branches were falling, and it was snowing ash.

‘You fell unconscious! Do you want to die or something!’ his cousin shouted angrily.

The wind, however, clearly didn’t want to kill them this time and provided a solution.

The wind’s hand dispersed the black smoke and, pushing aside the ears of wheat in the field behind them, showed them the way to the river.

‘That way! We can get to the river!’

They ran as fast as they could through the middle of the wheat swaying all around them, being buffeted by the hot, furious wind, in swirls of ash and fire, like a swarm of flames. Young Salva couldn’t see where he was going. He was still confused and coughing, holding the scarf to his mouth. He stepped on the soft ground, the ploughed soil, soft and fine as flour.

‘I can see some willows!’ shouted Penelo, his mouth in the other’s ear. ‘That must be where the river is!’

He was right. The willows, which only like water, had not deceived him. The river was in that direction. Having reached it, they couldn’t do any more and fell into the water. They were both exhausted. On either side of the river, the trees were on fire, so close they could feel the throbbing of the flames. The heat licked their face and hands. Up to their knees in water, they followed the course of the river downstream. The tunnel of fire seemed to go on for ever. The short, stout trunks burned. Since it was the end of March, they were covered in silver catkins, which also caught fire and fell into the water. They carried on walking over pebbles and sand until finally emerging from the fire’s body.

They were out by now.

In the clean meadow, the sirens of the Rural Action and Civil Protection Land Rovers whirling furiously, young Salva kneeled next to an ambulance and clutched the oxygen mask like a thirsty man. As he drank, he seemed to feel his lungs dilating and his blood cooling down.

‘Breathe slowly, boy, breathe slowly,’ suggested the medic standing next to him.

‘Get these people out of here! Come on!’ shouted a corporal in the Lugo dialect.

The medic shook his head:

‘Look at the state you’re in. If you could see yourself…’

Young Salva saw his shoes and trousers were badly scorched.

‘That hand, we’ll have to take a look at that hand. I’ll bandage it for you, but tomorrow you’ll have to go to Lugo.’

The back of young Salva’s hand was raw.

‘Does it hurt then?’

It was Penelo, in a good mood, drinking water from a plastic bottle he’d been given by a civil guard.

Young Salva shook his head.

‘Leave the oxygen now, boy,’ said the medic, removing the mask, ‘or you’ll float off like a balloon.’

The guards and Penelo laughed.

‘That was good, eh?’ said Penelo. He was happy as a sandboy. He’d also been afraid, but this was something he liked.

‘What about the others?’ he asked the guards.

‘The others have gone down already. There’s nothing more to be done. We’re also going to leave.’

As they were returning, sitting in the back of the van, Penelo hummed to himself. Behind them, the fire burned, victorious on every front. It had been impossible to stop. The fire had consumed the road, the cemetery, the houses all around… The operation had been moved back a whole mile, and now all hope rested on the aeroplanes that had yet to arrive.

‘It’s going to be a long night. We might have to come back tomorrow.’

Young Salva was thoughtful.

‘You know something, Penelo? Up there, in the fire…’

‘I was frightened,’ said the other quickly, thinking this was the problem. ‘But that’s good. You have to be a real man to experience fear.’

‘I saw things…’

‘It’s the smoke,’ said the land reform agent, who was with them. ‘Carbon dioxide. If you breathe it in, it makes you feel bewildered. Makes you see things that don’t exist. It’s like a drug.’

That night, Salva could still smell the smoke. His bandaged hand prevented him from sleeping. He lay in the dark, while the glare from the fire entered through the window and shimmered on the whitewashed wall with its portraits of his grandparents, old clock, and prints of virgins and saints. When he heard the sound of the planes, he leaned out to watch how they dropped the sweet water of Belesar Reservoir on the castigated mountains. He then went back to bed. His hair and forehead had burned where he’d felt the fire stroking him. He passed his charred hand over the same place where he’d sensed his father’s warm hand, but all he felt now was pain, intense pain.

On the following day, the whole district awoke in the middle of an unexpected silence. The mountains were bare and quiet, bereft of birds. The fire was heading somewhere else, far away. His mother woke young Salva so he could accompany her to the cemetery.

‘Get dressed, and let’s see what there is,’ she said.

They walked over the scorched landscape. Where no pine trees had burned, the ash was white like a snowfall of sugar. The fire had reached as far as the eye could see. The higher they went on their way to the cemetery, the more scarred areas became visible. There were lots of other people, cleaning the gravestones with wet cloths and changing the flowers consumed by the fire. It’s said that ash contains all the strength of the things it’s burned. The ash on the ground was still warm, young Salva could feel its heat through his shoes. His mother, having washed the portrait on the gravestone, kneeled in the ash and muttered her prayers, while young Salva, who never prayed, stood beside her and gazed at the surroundings. He breathed in the scent of charred cypresses, the peculiar scent of cypresses, like some strange perfume, and didn’t cross himself in case he touched the open wound on his forehead, which still hurt and which, he thought, would remain with him for the rest of his life.