Free The Boy in the Burning House by Tim Wynne-Jones

“We’ve been doing a mighty job of praying for you over at the Blessed T.” He liked to call the church the Blessed T., as if it were a ranch and the parishioners were all cattle waiting for God’s brand to be burned into their hearts. His homilies were always ripe with metaphors. Cattle sometimes, fish other times, needing to be schooled, lest the Devil shark gobble them all up. The children in the congregation would laugh out loud and the parents would chuckle and nod their heads in appreciation. He was a good storyteller.
    He was still holding Jim’s hands. It was odd, thought Jim, because it was the second time in less than five minutes that a grown-up had held onto him as if maybe he was going to slip away.
    â€œAre you library bound?” he asked.
    Jim nodded.
    â€œWell, bless my soul, I was heading that way myself. They’ve got a new Colin Dexter on hold for me. Do you like mysteries, Jim?”
    â€œNot much.”
    â€œI like a good mystery,” said Father Fisher. “Mind if I tag along?”
    â€œNo, sir,” said Jim. He had been flustered when he first saw him, but it was hard to keep Ruth Rose’s loathing of the man in mind when you were in his presence. The pastor seemed almost ready to explode with good will.
    They started walking and each time the pastor turned towards him to ask how his mother was doing, how school was going, his cross caught the light. It was roughly crafted but contained chips of a beautiful green crystalline stone. It dazzled Jim.
    Then the minister said, “I gather you’ve been seeing something of Ruth Rose.”
    Jim answered, “Yes, sir,” before he could stop himself. “I mean, I ran into her,” he added quickly.
    â€œGod love us, she’s something, isn’t she?”
    â€œSomething?”
    The minister chuckled. “I guess you’d have to say she was her own person. An original. I admire that.”
    They were almost at the library; Jim was counting the steps.
    â€œShe’s full of fire,” said Father Fisher. “Full of
passion
. That is surely God’s gift to teenagers, isn’t it, a fervent spirit.”
    Jim knew he had to say something. “She’s pretty spirited, all right,” he said. Then suddenly he felt as though he had betrayed her.
    Father Fisher stopped walking. Out of politeness, Jim stopped, too. The minister was looking into the distance but not at anything Jim could see — his head tilted back a little to one side, like a man listening to some distant sound. It made Jim nervous.
    â€œShe’s a troubled child, Jim,” said Father Fisher. His voice had dropped. He spoke tenderly. “Did you sense that, son?”
    â€œShe seemed okay to me.” Jim’s eyes skittered away from contact. The minister turned to him, stepped between him and the library, blocking his way as if he could see Jim’s impatience in his eyes.
    â€œJim, I’m not sure if it’s my place to be telling you this, but I feel I owe it to you as a family friend.” His voice dropped further still. “Young Ruth Rose has had a hard time of it. The death of her father has resulted in some severe psychotic episodes. Do you know what that means?”
    Jim shook his head.
    â€œIt means that there are times when she loses it, as you might say. Misapprehends and misinterprets the true nature of reality.”
    Jim felt the hairs on the back of his head stand up. Father’s voice was so sad and so persuasive that Jim suddenly felt every bruise the girl had dealt him in their first meeting. He could see her bared teeth as she pinned him to the ground.
    â€œAre you okay, Jimbo?” Fisher asked.
    Jim couldn’t look at the pastor. He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I mean, about Ruth Rose.”
    Father Fisher smiled at him and rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
    â€œYou’ve seen it happen, haven’t you?”