Tim Wynne-Jones: The Boy in the Burning House

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 scent 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.