Free Boy on the Edge by Fridrik Erlings

John!”
    Then everybody sat down, clasped their hands, and bowed their heads. Except for John. He glanced over the table, his eyes a shimmering green, a faint hint of mockery on his lips. Reverend Oswald had hardly begun the prayer when John stretched out his arm and started to scoop porridge into his bowl. The reverend fell silent and looked up. Everyone froze. John continued like nothing had happened, poured milk over the porridge, and began to eat.
    “There are rules here, which you will have to follow like everyone else,” the reverend said. “Put that spoon down.”
    “But I’m hungry,” John replied.
    “We’re all hungry, John,” the reverend said. “But before eating, we give our thanks to God.”
    “I don’t believe in God,” John said dryly, and continued eating.
    There was a moment of silence, and the little boys sank in their seats. Finally the reverend spoke, obviously trying hard to restrain his anger.
    “But we do. So perhaps you would be so kind as to show us some respect and courtesy by not eating while we pray.”
    The words were polite enough, but the tone of his voice was not. John shrugged and put the spoon in his bowl with a loud clank.
    “Sure,” he said, and leaned back in his chair, smiling, folding his arms on his chest.
    Reverend Oswald began the prayer again, his voice trembling a little.
    Henry felt a surge of joy; finally here was someone brave enough to challenge the reverend. Finally! Henry couldn’t wait for the chance to talk to John, to let him know that they could be in this together, that he wasn’t on the reverend’s side, but on John’s side.
    But he had to be careful so the reverend wouldn’t suspect anything. And Henry had to choose his words carefully, form a clear sentence in his mind before speaking to John. If he started to stutter or forget what he wanted to say, then John might think he was a retard after all, a stupid, worthless cripple.
    But the days went by and Henry never found a chance to approach John. He continued to behave stubbornly at breakfast, lunch, and dinner; he even stormed out of the garage in the middle of a Sunday service. The reverend stopped the service and followed him outside. While Emily, Henry, and the rest of the boys sat quietly inside the garage, the two of them had a heated argument out in the yard. The reverend came back alone, said a short prayer, and then left, while Emily played the organ and the boys sang.
    For a whole week John was nowhere to be seen: he had been locked up in the Boiler Room.
    When he appeared again at breakfast he was pale in the face and his green eyes didn’t shimmer anymore. Now he clasped his hands like everyone else and murmured “Amen” after the reverend’s prayer. Henry knew the power of the reverend’s words. He could well imagine that their influence was even stronger when one was locked up in a small room while the reverend gave thundering speeches, demanding that one should say one’s prayers out loud, the prayers that the reverend had ordered one to learn by heart. John looked tired and worn out. The reverend, on the other hand, had regained his confidence as well as his oratory skills, beaming with energy and power at the head of the table.
    That morning, the Brute arrived after breakfast, for the day had come to clean out the sheep sheds. The reverend and the Brute had a short conversation in the yard before the reverend got in his car, an old yellow Volvo with freckles of rust on the paint. The Volvo disappeared in a cloud of dust on the road, and the Brute took John with him to the sheep sheds.
    Henry stood in the doorway, which opened into the barn, and watched as they picked up the slatted floorboards and dragged them out into the yard, where the little ones took over and began to scrape them clean.
    Below the boards, the cistern was full to the brim with coal-black, tightly packed manure. The stench was bitter and awful. The Brute stood on the firm slab with a cigarette in his mouth