The Second Fire
"Mama?" the boy said, touching the woman's shoulder. She lay still and pale on a pile of blankets in the corner of the shed. One grimy window let in weak evening light, which fell on the boy where he crouched next to her. He had uncut black hair, like her, and dark eyes. He wore a ragged vest and trousers that had once fit, before he began the growth spurt of adolescence. He shook her shoulder harder, calling her again. She stirred, and he called her again. She began to move, and he helped her sit up.
"Water," she murmured weakly. The boy reached across to where a pitcher stood on the uneven dirt floor, and brought it to her lips. She drank, then sagged back in his arms.
"Do you want food?"
She shook her head.
"I think you should eat. Here," he said, giving her a bowl of watery soup and a spoon. He helped her lean against the wall, then sat back.
"I have to give the bowl and spoon back to Mr. Hill soon."
She looked up at him. "You begged this from him?" She began to put the bowl down, but he stopped her.
"You need to eat, Mama."
"And what have you eaten in the past few days?"
He shook his head. "I'm all right."
"I don't want you getting sick, boy."
"You know I've never gotten sick in my life, Mama. Don't worry about me."
"And what will happen to you when I – " She began to cry. The boy crawled over and put his arm around her.
"It's all right, Mama. Everything will be all right."
She shook her head and began to cry harder.
A knock sounded at the door, startling both of them. She immediately began wiping her eyes and arranging her dress.
"Open the door, boy."
He stared at her. "All right, Mama."
He opened the door, and a man stepped inside. He was clearly drunk, and yet was carrying a bottle.
"Good evening, Mr. Foxworth. It's good to see you again," she called.
"Sure it is." He stopped and rubbed his eyes, focusing on her. "You bin sick, woman?"
"No, of course not," she said rising. "I'm feeling quite energetic."
"Goo'."
The boy pressed himself back into the corner by the door, sat down, and put his face in his arms.
"Let me take that bottle for you, Mr. Foxworth," she said, moving close to him.
"No! I'm not finished yeh'."
She sat down on the blankets, and he joined her. The boy pressed his head deeper in his arms. After a few minutes, she cried out, then started coughing.
"Whazza matta witchoo? You sick?"
"No, I'm all right. Please. Relax."
She tried to pull him down, but fell back, and began coughing again.
"No! I ain't gettin' sick offa you!"
His eyes fell on the boy.
"I'll take him." He reached over and grabbed the boy, pulling him so that they were nose to nose. The boy could smell Foxworth's hot, sour breath.
"No! Leave him alone!" she cried, pulling at Foxworth. He pushed her frail figure away easily, but at the same time the boy pulled away, making Foxworth fall.
"Go! Take that bowl back to Mr. Hill!"
"Yes, Mama," he gasped, and ran out the door towards the tavern. He slowed to a walk, and entered the tavern.
"Mr. Hill, I brought your dishes back," he said, showing them to the man at the bar.
"Not here, you dunce! Take them to the scullery!" Mr. Hill said.
"Yes, sir. And thank you!" The boy pushed through the crowded tavern into the kitchen and greeted one of the maids.
"Hello, Nancy. Here," he said, giving her the dishes. She grabbed them, giving him a look of revulsion.
"Go out the back door," she commanded. He nodded and left, walking as slowly as possible to the shed that he and his mother had lived in for the past year. He walked around to the back and sat down on a rotting stump, trying not to hear what had become almost the soundtrack of his life. He hugged himself, shivering from more than the cool, windy night. Suddenly he heard a scream.
"Mama!" he cried, and ran into the shed.
Foxworth stood over her where she lay on the ground. They were both naked. He held a broken bottleneck in his hand.
"Mama!" the boy cried again. Foxworth turned.
"You!" he said. He grabbed the boy, pulling him close.
"You're a pretty boy. What do you do? Sit and watch while she works? Dirty boy. You ought to work for her too. She slaves away to put food in your mouth…"
Foxworth dropped the bottle and hugged the boy tightly.
"Pretty boy," he muttered again, and kissed the boy roughly. "Not like your dam. Who's your sire?" He kissed the boy again, holding him tighter. The boy pushed hard, knocking Foxworth off balance. He spun to look at his mother, lying in a mixture of blood, alcohol, and broken glass.
Foxworth grabbed him. "Forget about her."
"Leave me alone," the boy cried, pushing away.
"You shut your gob, you! C'm'ere!"
"No!"
Suddenly both man and boy screamed, and the boy ran back to the wall of the shed. Foxworth had erupted in flames! The boy's eyes went to the puddle surrounding his mother, and gave a little cry. He began trying to drag her out of the shed. Foxworth grabbed him, and he screamed and fled. As he left the shed, trying to beat the flames off his shoulder, villagers began coming out onto the street, staring and pointing.
"Arson!" someone yelled. The growing crowd surged forward, increased by the sudden outpouring of men from the tavern.
"That little rat set my shed on fire!" screamed the man with the house next to the shed.
"Get him!"
"No! Save the village!"
The boy turned and fled down the street, but strong hands grabbed him.
"You stay here, boy," said Mr. Hill.
"My – my mama…"
"She's – Was she in there?"
The boy nodded and wiped his tear-streaked face. Mr. Hill stared at him, then at the crowd and the shed.
"Oh, no," he muttered. The whole shed was consumed, and the fire had leapt to the closest barn and houses.
"My horses!" someone screamed, and several men surged forward to open the barn doors.
"Form a bucket chain," Mr. Hill shouted, and began running towards the crowd.
"No," the boy said, and Mr. Hill stopped and stared at him. "It won't help."
Mr. Hill shook his head and continued running. The boy stared after him. Several horses came running out of the burning barn, and some people laden with belongings out of the house. People began shouting about their own homes, and running to save their possessions.
"There he is!"
The boy turned. Six men were running towards him, armed with torches and an array of homely weapons. He started to run away, but before he could get very far, they laid hands upon him.
"You won't be trying arson again, you little rat!" one of them spat at him.
"Should we kill him now, or bring him before the headman?"
"Do it now – there'll be less to worry about later."
"With pleasure!"
One of the men, armed with a sickle, began approaching the struggling boy.
"No!" the boy cried. The men screamed: they were all engulfed in flames. They dropped him, and he promptly ran away.
The bucket chain seemed to have failed. Four homes were now on fire. The boy sat down and hugged his knees, looking about him for possible assailants.
"The tavern!" someone shouted, and a group ran past him to it.
The house closest to the boy was burning. One of the bodies of the men who had attacked him lay against it. The boy hid his face.
The would-be firemen ran out of the tavern, shouting, seconds before it exploded outward in flames with a strong smell of tar and alcohol and fear. Everyone who was not already in a panic was now. The screams of people and animals mixed with the crashes of collapsing buildings and the crackle of the fire. The boy whimpered, turning around and around and seeing only fire. A burning person ran towards him. That was the last straw. The ground introduced itself to him violently, and he knew no more.