The Boy in the Burning House

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  It was heavy. It barely moved. But it could be moved. He rocked back, pressing his knuckles into the pitted surface of the spool, leaned his shoulder into the wall, getting as much leverage as he could, and shoved hard with his bound feet. The crate slid with a racket that echoed all around them. It now rested more or less under the lantern. It would have to do.

  Jim stood up, lost his balance, sat down again. He needed his arms for balance but they were as securely out of commission as his legs. He tried again, getting up cautiously. He made it. He stood there, trying not to think too much, concentrating on not falling over. He felt light-headed. He took a tentative hop. Another. He teetered a bit but managed to recover.

  Some of his confidence regained now, he bent his knees and took a bigger hop. It was a mistake. He began to keel over and it was all he could do to make sure he fell against the crate rather than flat on his face.

  “This is quite a show,” said Stanley. Jim was lying face down on the crate. He turned his head to see Stanley grinning wanly at him. It cheered him on.

  Flipping himself over and using the wall for support, he wormed his way up onto the top of the crate. It seemed to be able to support his weight. Slowly, he manoeuvred himself into a kneeling position. It took several attempts. He didn’t want to make too violent a move for fear of dislodging the top of the crate.

  When at last he was on his knees, he needed to take another break. He was already breathing hard and the hardest part was still to come. He sat back on his heels. His wrists and ankles were raw from rope burns, but at least the blood was pumping through his veins.

  Leaning back on his toes, Jim hoisted himself up onto his feet. He wobbled and for one terrible moment felt sure he was going to pitch forward to the cave floor, but he managed to tip the other way against the wall. The top of the crate held, though he felt it buckle a little. It might not hold up for long.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you are some kind of kid,” said Stanley.

  Jim glowed a little brighter. And something happened inside him. It was Hub. Hub way-to-going him as he sawed a plank clean and straight, drove a roofing nail home in two good whacks, made something fit, did something right.

  The belly of the lantern was now directly in front of him. The reflection of his face was distorted on its brass surface. As he leaned towards it, he felt the heat of it on his cheeks, his forehead. It was almost comforting in the chill dampness, but he was going to have to get uncomfortably close if he was to do what he planned.

  He moved in, sliding his shoulder along the wall until he could take the wire handle of the lantern in his mouth. The handle was already very warm. It would be all right at the top, which is where you would hold it if you were carrying it in your hand, but Jim couldn’t reach that high so he had to grab it from the side, where the handle attached to the body of the lamp. He bared his teeth to avoid burning his lips. His cheek was right up against the kerosene reservoir. Sweat poured from his face. His eyes were dazzled by the closeness of the flame. He closed them, bit down hard on the handle, stretched his neck as high as he could and slid the lamp off the spike.

  There was no time to lose. He could feel the heat beginning to burn his face. He fell to his knees, leaned forward and placed the lantern on the crate. When he was sure it was stable, he let go and pulled his face away, groaning, breathing the cool air in huge gulps.

  “Good on you, son,” whispered Stanley.

  Jim rested his cheek against the cold stone. He didn’t dare stop now. He didn’t dare think too much about what he still had to do. He kneeled again, bent over and grasped with his teeth the lever that raised the glass chimney. He raised it and locked it in place.

  Then, with his teeth, he turned the brass knob that raised the wick. The brass burned him and he pulled away. He kissed the wall to kill the pain. It tasted sour but deeply cold. He repeated everything. Turn the knob, kiss the wall, turn the knob, kiss the wall. The flame shot higher and higher and straight up, for there was no wind to make it flicker.

  Now Jim manoeuvred himself around until his feet were again on the ground and the lantern was behind his back. Gritting his teeth, he held his bound wrists up to the open flame. He craned his neck but he couldn’t see what he was doing. He stared at Stanley sitting directly across from him. He pushed his arms out behind him as far as he could. He burned the back of his hand and stifled a howl of pain.

  He tried again, bending forward this time so that his shirt didn’t catch on fire. With his eyes clamped shut, he screwed up his courage. Knowing what was going to happen next, but beyond caring, he thrust his wrists right into the flame.

  He smelled something burning. It might have been the rope, it might have been his skin, but he only pressed harder.

  He grimaced and then he howled, no longer caring if anyone heard him.

  “Holy Jesus!” he whimpered, gritting his teeth.

  “Hang in there, boy!” cried Stanley. “You’re almost there!”

  And then, suddenly, Jim knew it was working. Even through the pain he could feel the pressure of the rope lessening. He forced his wrists apart. Yes! It was giving. Just another few seconds. Another. The smell of hemp filled the air. It was on fire. He pulled his wrists away from the lantern and the flame followed him. He waved his hands around behind his back pulling at the ropes, feeling them give, pulling some more until finally they let go.

  The flaming rope fell to the crate, writhing like a snake in a death agony. Jim brushed it onto the floor and then he rubbed his hands and wrists and arms against the front of his shirt. He glimpsed melting flesh and almost passed out. But he thought of his father — “You can do it, podner” — and made himself go on.

  The firey rope went out. He squatted on the floor, leaned against the wall, pressing his hands palm down against the coldness of stone.

  Releasing his ankles was almost as hard. His hands hurt terribly. His fingers were numb and useless against Fisher’s knots. But he persevered and, after several agonizing moments stood up, a free man.

  He went to Stanley.

  “No,” said Stanley, shaking his head. “You get yourself outa here and go for help.”

  Jim ignored him and started in on the man’s bound wrists.

  “It’ll take too long,” said Stanley. “Fisher could be back any minute.” He smelled horrible and he was shivering badly. Up close Jim could feel how feverish he was.

  Jim worked with a passion. Worked with rage. He needed Stanley.

  “Look,” said Stanley, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The way he left just now is the way he brought me here. It was treacherous — past a deep pit, along a ledge down a cut so narrow and low I thought he was walking me into my own grave. But that isn’t how he brought you here.”

  Jim looked up at him, alert.

  “He carried you in over his shoulder. There was no way he could have done that the way he brought me. Besides, look around you. This car seat, the cable spool — this stuff didn’t get here the way I did. You can bet on it.”

  At that moment Jim pulled the rope free from Stanley’s wrists. Sick and weary as the man was, he immediately bent to the task of undoing the rest of his ropes while Jim sat back on the cavern floor cradling his burned hands in his shirt, rocking back and forth as if his hands were a baby. He was trying not to faint from the pain.

  “Hurry,” said Stanley. “Take the lantern. Go! This here stope has another way in, I’m sure of it. Ten to one it’s an easier way.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Wave to me with the lantern when you find it. I don’t need eyes to tug on these ropes. Just move. I’ll catch you up. You’re our only hope.”

  Jim clambered to his feet. Behind him the lantern on the crate started to flicker. They both looked towards it. Raising the wick had used up fuel far too quickly.

  “Get out of here,” said Stanley.

  The light flickered lower still and Jim didn’t wait. He lowered the chimney back into place, then quickly trimmed
the wick to preserve what fuel there was left.

  “Git!” shouted Stanley.

  Grabbing the lantern, Jim set out. He found a tunnel soon enough. He hesitated on the threshold. There might be any number of exits. The ceiling was low — what if it petered out altogether? The thought terrified him. But he gathered together his courage, waved the lantern shakily at the dim figure of Stanley, who waved back, and entered the tunnel.

  He hurried along now, taking encouragement from the fact that the floor seemed to be heading upwards. The way grew steeper and steeper. He slipped more than once.

  Then, suddenly, he saw a break in the darkness ahead and, simultaneously, he smelled a change in the air.

  Autumn. He smelled autumn! Earth and rotting leaves. It was the most excruciatingly beautiful aroma he had ever experienced. And the darkness — it was speckled with stars, dimly glowing with moonlight. He turned to go and get Stanley — it wasn’t far, now that he knew the way. But even as he turned, the lamp flickered and died.

  26

  The last bit was the hardest. There seemed to have been some kind of a cave-in at the mouth of the tunnel. It was overgrown but the footing was still treacherous, the rock fragments giving way as Jim slipped again and again. On his third attempt he lost the lamp, which clattered down the scree and rolled into the cave below. It was only then that he wondered why he had been holding on to it at all. With two hands free, he was better able to make the climb. It was almost straight up.

  Finally, scratched and bleeding, he dragged himself over a threshold of thorns onto the forest floor. He lay there, his cheek pressed against the mossy ground. How sweet it felt, how beautiful was the stirring of the fir trees. He curled up like a baby, holding his burned hands close, holding himself together. He wasn’t sure he would ever move again.

  Then he thought of Stanley down there in the dark and he climbed shakily to his knees. On all fours he craned his neck, all his senses straining, a cautious animal. He must not get caught again. Adrenaline might get him home, but he had no energy left to face Fisher.

  He saw nothing, heard nothing. Nothing human. A whippoorwill. An owl. He stood up.

  Where was he?

  There was moonlight but the moon itself was nowhere to be seen. It was in its second quarter now — almost full. He scanned the sky. It seemed brightest along the top of the ridge. It had risen in the east, so he must be on the western side, the home side of the ridge. Good. Jim started south, keeping the ridge on his left.

  The wind had settled. A fog came down, whisper thin, wet on his face, soaking up the forest before him, soaking up sound. Everywhere was silence. The woods were thick with it. He resisted the urge to run, remembering his fall.

  He passed muddy test pits, signs of another dilapidated shed, an overgrown slag heap with the fog settling on it like a huge slow eiderdown.

  And then suddenly he was walking through waist-high sumac. In the moonlight refracted through the drifting fog it stretched before him like a placid river through the trees. He knew where he was now.

  He made his way as slowly as the fog, wading through the undergrowth that opened before him and closed after him with scarcely a sound. On his left he saw the dim outline of the ridge etched by eerie moon-glow. Wraiths of fog rose from the dark wall of rock like ghostly smoke from a fire that had gone out years ago.

  Jim ducked below the surface of the sumac to collect his wits. Fisher could be anywhere.

  He listened. Nothing. No, something. A distant train? Cars on the highway? He sat up tall. He heard the sound again. It was definitely coming from the south. Fisher leaving in the four-by-four? He tried to follow the direction of the noise, and that’s when he saw the light that was not the moon’s. It was low in the trees, lighting up the underside of the canopy, scattered by the fog into an unnatural glimmering. The light was rising, coming his way.

  Jim held his breath. A car’s engine. He heard the motor whining, watched the dim light grow, reach out into the darkness. It was someone climbing the road that led up to the plateau. It could be Fisher returning from somewhere. But, no. It wasn’t just one vehicle. The noise was growing nearer all the time, reverberating up the wooded hillside, loud enough to drown out any noise he might make.

  Jim started to push through the sumac at a faster pace, stumbling on the rails, grabbing the slender limbs of the trees to keep himself aloft, frightened that whoever was coming might turn around and go before he could reach them. He could see the shadowy shapes of the cavalcade, twin beams of headlights, and on the lead car, a cherry, spinning round and round. The police!

  They were drawing up onto the plateau, and Jim found himself once again at the dried-up stream bed. The four-by-four was still parked, swaddled in a bright gauze of mist. He couldn’t tell if Fisher was in it, but he was too wild with excitement to care. He pitched himself down the embankment, falling, slithering on his backside, running, landing in a heap at the bottom.

  Meanwhile, the police vehicles had pulled into a semi-circle on the plateau. There were three of them already — more coming. Their headlights were all aimed up at the ridge.

  Jim was blinded; he didn’t care. He heard doors opening and slamming shut. Shadowy figures emerged and trained spotlights up at the bush. He heard voices.

  “Here!” he cried, waving his hands. “Over here.”

  Immediately, a searchlight swung around looking for him, dazzling him so that he had to cover his eyes from the glare.

  “Jim Hawkins? You all right?”

  “I’m okay!” he shouted, waving his arms victoriously

  Then suddenly a shadow peeled itself from the trees and blocked out the light. Fisher. Jim swerved around him but not far enough or fast enough. Fisher’s arm flew out and a huge hand closed around his burned wrist, yanking him clear off his feet.

  Jim howled in pain and crumpled into Fisher’s arms. Then he heard his mother call his name and he fought with all his might, yelling at the top of his lungs until Fisher forced his right arm up high between his shoulder blades, and the pain punched the voice right out of him. Fisher’s arm closed tightly across his neck.

  An amplified voice came out of the translucent wall of fog.

  “The area is completely sealed off, Fisher. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Jim felt Fisher’s heart pounding against his back. Then he felt the mighty chest expand, heard the pastor clear his throat.

  “Lome? Is that you?” he said, as if he was calling to an old friend.

  “You know it is, Fisher”

  “Father Fisher, Lome,” he said. He actually chuckled, as if the chief were guilty of a lack of respect. “Listen, Lome,” he said smoothly. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “I’m sure we can, too,” said the invisible voice over the loud-hailer. “Just as soon as you let the boy go.”

  Fisher sighed. “Ah, but that’s just it. I can’t let the boy go. Surely you must see that.”

  More spotlights blazed from the left and from the right. Jim watched spectral figures fanning out around him. Through slit eyes, he saw them crouching, running, conferring. He heard the unmistakable sound of firearms being prepared for business. Fisher immediately tightened the grip of his forearm across Jim’s windpipe.

  “The boy and I are friends, Lome.”

  “I know that, Father,” came the voice over the loud-hailer. “We’re all friends here, so let’s take ’er good and easy. Have ourselves a talk.”

  Jim could hardly breathe. He was on the brink of passing out when, all of a sudden, the pressure across his windpipe lessened. Something had distracted Fisher’s attention.

  Then Jim heard the dog, the cornfield dog, barking somewhere in the woods just off to the west.

  “Over here, Poochie!” screamed a girl’s voice from below.

  “Ruth Rose!” shouted Jim.

  Fisher’s huge hand, stinking of kerosene, closed over Jim’s mouth. But Jim would not be silenced. Knowing Ruth Rose was there gave him a jolt of courage.
He shook his head just free enough to bite down hard on the flesh at the base of his captor’s thumb. Fisher yowled and withdrew his hand, but Jim wasn’t finished. He lifted his right foot high and brought the heel of his work boot down with all his strength on Fisher’s foot. Fisher grunted with pain and Jim tore himself away from the man’s grasp and rolled out of his reach.

  “Stop!” yelled Braithewaite. “Somebody grab her.”

  Ruth Rose had broken through the police cordon and run to Jim’s aid. She reached him before Fisher and stood between the man and the boy, crouching like a wrestler, daring him to come closer. Others followed Ruth Rose but Fisher seemed not even to notice them. Something in his stepdaughter’s eyes seemed to bring him up short. Then the cornfield dog burst into the light and went directly to Ruth Rose’s side. She held the dog by his collar, and Fisher backed away as if it was a hound of hell.

  Fisher retreated up the stream bed, stumbling, falling. Jim lay watching as several armed police swarmed past him.

  Suddenly Jim gasped. For one startling instant, Fisher must have stepped into the convergence of all the searchlight beams. His face became radiant, shining. His clothes glowed as if they were made of light — as if beams of light were passing clear through him.

  Then, out of the dazzling haze behind him stepped a fog-enshrouded ghost. It was Stanley Tufts, but his long pale hair was loose and wild and the light was trapped in it like a broken halo. His blue eyes were half mad and in his hands he carried a rock the size of a child’s head.

  Fisher did not see him. He stepped back right into his path, turned, looked up, cringed and covered his head. Stanley brought the rock down, a glancing blow on Fisher’s shoulder. But enough to fell him.

  27

  His mother held him and, somehow, Jim held her and managed to hold onto Ruth Rose at the same time. Then Hec joined in, holding them all. Even the cornfield dog got his licks in before bounding off into the night.

  All the hugging put some colour into Ruth Rose’s cheeks but she seemed in shock. She watched two attendants carry Fisher on a stretcher to an ambulance, and her wide eyes blinked like someone waking up from a nightmare.