The Boy in the Burning House

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  He worked for a good twenty minutes without stopping. The air was still warm but the wind was freshening. The dry leaves overhead shimmered, gold-edged and dying. There was no sound but the prattle of blue jays, the squelch of muck and, loudest of all, the water gushing and splashing over his feet.

  Jim straightened up, out of breath. Gladys was watching him from her resting place against a sapling birch.

  There was a noise in the woods. Jim turned to look. A moment passed before a squirrel appeared on a dead log and scolded him. A hawk circled overhead, screeching. Jim craned his neck.

  The racing water slowed to a trickle. He had done a pretty good job. He wasn’t sure how much more he could do. The big thing had been getting here at all.

  He leaned on his shovel, sniffed the air — a great big lung-filling sniff.

  “Ah, corn and potato chowder,” he said. It was the kind of thing his father would have said. A set-up for Jimbo. “Funny, all I smell is beaver poop.”

  Jim sloshed his way through the cloudy remains of the pond to dry land and Gladys. He patted her on the shoulder.

  “Glad,” he said. “You did such a good job this summer, you got a promotion. We want you to keep the beavers from fixing up this here dam. You think you can handle it?” Gladys wobbled her head, nodding. “Good for you,” he said. Then he picked up the scarecrow and waded back to the hole in the dam. He drove her broom-handle base down into the mud, twisting it until she stood firmly in place. Then he took a step back and looked solemnly at her grinning mug.

  “Now, here’s the gross part,” he said. “Beavers don’t see so well. So — and I don’t want you to take this personal — the only way we’re going to keep those beavers away is if you smell bad. Bad as a human being.”

  Gladys stared dumbly at him. He felt dumb, too — talking to a scarecrow. He remembered the first time his dad told him they were going to pee on the scarecrow.

  “And that would be because we’re perverts?” Jim had said.

  His father had laughed. “Not so. To a beaver, human beings stink to high heaven. Eau de wee-wee is the answer. They’ll be wary of coming too close.”

  Like wolves, thought Jim, staking out their territory. Then, without further ado, he opened his zipper and let fly.

  There was another disturbance in the woods while he stood there baptizing Gladys. Another squirrel, he thought, as his eyes travelled to the source of the noise.

  But what he saw there wasn’t an animal — not a small one, at least. He caught a glimpse of black hair, a flash of pale skin. Enough to be certain that what he saw was a girl.

  2

  There was the initial shock, and then a moment of bottom-of-the-barrel humiliation followed by an adrenaline rush of blinding rage. Like a rocket, Jim exploded out of the muck, charging over the dam towards the woods, pulling up his zipper as he ran and yelling his head off. The girl had a good head start on him and she was wearing sneakers, not gumboots, but even though he fell a couple of times, slipping in the mud, tripping over branches, something drove him on with a will and he stayed with her.

  It wasn’t just the shame of being caught like that. It was something else. A grudge. Unfinished business with the forest. And there was more. She was laughing at him. Laughing like a crazy person!

  He chased the girl through face-slapping firs, down muddy deer paths, across rocky mounds and over a rotting split-rail fence. He chased her along Incognito Creek and then scrabbled up the steep wooded slope to the back meadow, catching glimpses of her but never catching up to her.

  And then she was gone. He was on the high meadow now and she was nowhere to be seen.

  He heard a train coming. Standing up to his waist in the tall grass, as still as a scarecrow, he watched it pass, a slow freight. From where he stood he saw only the rusty tops of the cars. Then it was gone, rattling its way southeast towards Ladybank. He strode to the fence line and peered down the embankment to the tracks. She wasn’t hiding there.

  He whirled around, as if maybe she was lying low or creeping up on him. He cupped his hands.

  “This is private property,” he yelled at the wild field. “Don’t come round here!” His words echoed off the wall of dark woods that surrounded the field. Big-man words in a high-pitched kid’s voice. He listened for laughter, heard nothing but the distant clatter of the train.

  Then he heard a dog.

  The barking came from up the tracks. It sounded ferocious. Scared stiff, Jim swore under his breath, wishing he’d kept his angry outburst bottled up. Once in a while, wild dog packs came around, more dangerous than wolves. Berserk. They would kill cattle just for the fun of it.

  But as the barking came nearer, Jim realized it was only one dog, and as it came nearer still, he recognized its voice.

  The cornfield dog — that’s what he called it — coming up the tracks like a noisy caboose trying to catch the train. Then it veered up the embankment from the railroad bed, shinnying under the fence — a lab retriever with a pelt the colour of corn husks, shaggy and uncombed, full of twigs and burrs. It came straight for him and ran around him like a dirty blond whirlwind, barking up a storm.

  “Cut it out,” said Jim. “Shut up, you stupid mutt.”

  The dog sat, but its body wriggled with excitement and its mouth lolled open. It wore a collar but Jim had no idea who it belonged to. It showed up sometimes when he was out on the land, always with this eager look on its face, as if anything you might be up to would be more interesting than sitting around the farmyard watching laundry dry.

  “Whoa, boy,” said Jim, calmly now. He reached out to scratch the dog’s head, but it suddenly tore off again before he could lay a hand on it. It stopped over by the woods to see if he was coming.

  “I don’t have time for games,” Jim shouted. The sun was already nearing the tree line and he didn’t plan on walking back through the woods in the dark.

  But the dog barked again and raced towards a towering pine tree right on the property line. The dog stood at the base of the tree, four-square, looking up, barking for all it was worth, its tail wagging hard enough to start a brush fire. And following its gaze, Jim saw the girl, all in black, perched like a crow on a branch, scowling down at him.

  Jim ran over to join the dog. “Good boy,” he said. “Good dog.”

  The next thing he knew, a pine cone hit him on the head. It was followed by a cascade of laughter and more pine cones.

  Jim stepped back, covering his head. When he was out of range, he looked up and cupped his hands.

  “You can laugh all you want,” he shouted. “But my dog here is a killer.”

  The girl laughed so hard she almost lost her grip.

  “That dog’s name is Poochie,” she shouted down to him. “Poochie’s Bryce Hoover’s dog and he couldn’t kill an apple.”

  Poochie barked at Jim, a big doggie grin on his face as if he had been in on the joke all along.

  Then the girl slithered down the tree. She swung out in an arc from a branch above Jim’s head and landed like an acrobat before him. He backed off, but then he recognized her.

  “You’re the pastor’s daughter,” he said.

  “Wroooong!”

  Poochie had gone to her and she scruffled his neck feathers with long pale fingers, the bitten nails painted black. The dog smiled up at her, drooling like a fool.

  “You are so,” said Jim. “Father Fisher’s kid. I remember seeing you in church.”

  She snarled. “I haven’t been to church in three years.”

  Jim didn’t say anything, unsure all of a sudden. It had been most of a year since he had been to church himself. Didn’t see much point in it anymore.

  He stared at the girl. He could be wrong. If it was her, she had changed, got herself some breasts and an attitude. She was all in black from her sneakers to her dark-and-stormy-night hair. It was inky black, from a bottle, he guessed. Even her lips were black. She had a gold nose ring. She looked tough as nails. And yet there was something sweet — a s
cent of roses — which was how he remembered her name.

  “Ruth Rose,” he said.

  “Bzzzz!” she buzzed like a bee. “A hundred points for Jim Hawkins who pisses on scarecrows.”

  Jim grabbed at her but she danced back out of his way.

  “Give it up,” she said. “You couldn’t catch me if you tried. You only found me because I wanted to be found.” There was something about the way she said it that made Jim realize it was the truth. “You’ve done a fair share of tree climbing yourself,” she said with a snarky smile. Jim went cold all over.

  Suddenly, Poochie tore off towards the tracks. They watched him go. When he was out of sight, Jim tried to change the subject.

  “You don’t live around here,” he said.

  Ruth Rose shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and jutted out her chin. “See that railroad? That’s my home. Ruth Rose Way. I own that railroad. I know every farm, every gravel lot, every lumber yard that backs onto that track all the way to Ladybank.”

  “So?”

  “So I know everything. Like about you, for instance.”

  “Big deal.”

  She smiled slyly. “Mr. Tarzan,” she said. “I saw you out here leaping from tree to tree like a maniac ape.”

  Jim looked down.

  “I saw you climbing to the top and whipping the tree back and forth and then jumping — WHEEEEEEEE!” She waggled her arms around in free fall. She paused and when she spoke again her voice was low and almost tender. “Trying to kill yourself, would be my guess,” she said. “I know all about that.”

  There was a hook in the last sentence that dragged Jim’s chin up off his chest.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re doing here,” he said. He saw something like doubt flit across her eyes, as if she had known exactly what she was doing until this very moment. She pushed her hair back, put her hands on her hips, looked away towards the tracks, as if maybe, like Poochie, she was going to bolt.

  “Listen,” said Jim impatiently. “My mom goes to work soon and I gotta be home.”

  “She doesn’t leave ’til nine,” said Ruth Rose.

  “This is creepy,” said Jim. “Why are you spying on us?”

  “Because I’ve been checking you out,” she said.

  Jim had known one crazy person in his life, Billy Bones. On the few occasions Jim had been close enough to look into Billy’s eyes, he’d seen a kind of looseness of focus, as if Billy couldn’t hold onto where his thoughts were going to take him next, and his eyes had the devil of a job just to keep up.

  Jim looked into Ruth Rose’s eyes — moss green they were — to see if she was crazy, too. She stared right back at him without a flicker. Maybe there were different kinds of craziness.

  “I’m here,” she said, “because of that Fisher-man. He may have married my mother, but he will never be my father. If we’re going to work together you’d better get that through your tweenie skull.”

  “Work together?”

  “Just listen!” she said. Her hands had curled into fists, and Jim didn’t doubt she would use them. He swallowed, listened.

  “Fisher is a murderer,” she said.

  Jim snapped his head back as if, with a lightning sucker punch, she had hit him.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Her voice was all breathy now. She looked around as if Father Fisher might be in the field somewhere. Then she returned her gaze to Jim, her green eyes flashing. “And you’re going to help me put him away.”

  It was obvious now she was crazy. Jim shook his head in disbelief and turned to go.

  “Don’t move,” she said. Jim froze. She walked around him, blocking his path. She was a head taller than he was and bristling with wiry strength.

  “That’s better,” she said. She blew the hair off her face. “You don’t really know anything about him. You probably don’t even know that his name actually is Father. Even my mom calls him Father, which is gross.”

  Jim tried to speak as gently as he could, not wanting to disturb her any more than she already was.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  She went on as if she hadn’t heard. “When he became a pastor, he got his name legally changed to Father. He used to be Eldon, Eldon Fisher. Do you know what a fisher is?”

  “Like Christ, a fisher of souls—”

  “Wroooong! I mean the animal.”

  “Like a weasel,” said Jim.

  “Worse,” said Ruth Rose. “More like a wolverine.”

  “Yeah.” Jim had seen a fisher that a trapper caught. And he remembered what the trapper had called it. “A killing machine,” he said.

  Ruth Rose nodded appreciatively. “Do you know how a fisher kills a porcupine, Jim? It hides up in the tree where the porcupine lives and when the porkie comes home in the morning and heads out to its branch to sleep, the fisher drops down in front of it from the branch above. The porcupine can’t turn around — the branch is too small — so it can’t defend itself with its tail. And then do you know what?” She stepped right up to Jim as if she were the fisher and he were the porcupine. “The fisher bites the porcupine’s face off.”

  Jim tensed. Then he relaxed a bit and rolled his eyes.

  “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” she said. “Go on, say it.”

  “You’re an idiot,” said Jim. Then she shoved him so hard he tumbled right over and before he could move she was standing over him.

  “He got his name changed to Father, all legal and everything. Just like he legally adopted me when he married my mom. He likes to make things look neat and tidy. You know why? Because he’s got a lot to hide.”

  Jim flinched. September nights came on quickly and here he was, far from home, gabbing with a lunatic.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, edging upwards to a sitting position. When she didn’t pounce, he clambered to his feet.

  “Don’t you want to hear who he murdered?” she said.

  Jim shook his head. “No, thank you.” He started walking away, didn’t look back.

  “I’ll tell your mother,” she shouted after him. “About your tree jumping.” He didn’t stop. Those days were behind him.

  “I need your help, Jim,” she said.

  “You need somebody’s help,” he muttered to himself. He glanced back to see if she’d heard. He had only walked twenty paces or so, but he could hardly see her. In her black clothing, she was lost in the shadow of the pine tree. Now that he had opened some distance between them, he felt a little sorry for her.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help,” he shouted.

  “You will be,” she hollered back at him.

  He shuddered at the fury in her voice, but was far enough away by now to laugh to himself at her threat.

  He was heading down the hill towards the creek which flowed by as sly as a rumour, when she called out to him again. He looked up and she was standing above him at the lip of the hill, silhouetted against the light — dark and mysterious like a cut-out.

  “Jim Hawkins,” she shouted, trying to catch her breath. “Fisher killed your father.”

  3

  He wanted to hit her. “Shut up,” he said. “I don’t know how to shut up,” she said, advancing down the hill.

  “Go be crazy some place else.”

  She stopped, leaned against a tree. “Okay,” she said. “I guess that means you buy what they say about him committing suicide.”

  There was a stick near Jim. He picked it up and charged at her like a wild man. She jumped back and the stick, punk to the core, snapped against the trunk of a tree.

  “You don’t believe it, do you!” she said. “Hub Hawkins wouldn’t kill himself. So why won’t you help me?”

  Jim gritted his teeth. He felt his blood surging. It frightened him.

  “If you know so much,” he said hoarsely. “You tell me.”

  She sat down on the hillside, just beyond his reach. “Father prays for him
a lot. I hear him. He has this room with his own little altar in it. He goes there. He doesn’t know I’m listening.‘O, Lord,’ he says. ‘In thy great mercy, guide the soul of Hub to your side.’”

  “That’s his job” Jim said, spluttering with anger. “He’s a pastor.”

  “True,” she said. “But how come he’s the only one who seems to know for sure your dad is dead?”

  “Shut up!”

  Jim tried to leave. It was best not to argue. What he believed about his father’s fate he had wrapped up tightly in a mourning bundle he carried around inside him. He knew what the outcome of the official inquiry had been — that his father had been mentally unsound, nuts. “It was his nerves,” Jim’s mother had tried to explain to him. “His nerves snapped on him.” But that didn’t explain him disappearing without a trace. They called it paranoid delusions, a persecution complex. They said it had been there for a long time. They said that he reached a point where he could no longer bear it.

  Jim didn’t believe a single word of it.

  He tried to leave. He turned his back on Ruth Rose and started down the hill.

  Which is when she blindsided him.

  They rolled clear down the slope through drifts of dead leaves and they would have ended up in the creek if they hadn’t smacked up against a rotting stump. It knocked the wind out of Jim, made his eyes roll around in their sockets. Then, before he could catch his breath, she rolled right on top of him, pinning his arms to the ground with her knees.

  She growled in his face.

  “Nobody listens to me,” she said. “Nobody believes me.”

  He didn’t move, not sure she wouldn’t bite him, she was that close, that ferocious. Then she rolled off him, brushing the flaky leaves off her sweater and pulling them from the tangle of her hair.

  “I’ve got proof,” she said.

  “Where?”

  She tapped her skull. “Right here.”