Jim nodded. “Why’d Boomhower hate Francis?”
Stanley shook his head. “Because Francis, God rest his soul, was an idiot. They were all idiots, the three of them, and I don’t mind telling you that. But it was my brother — without a doubt the biggest idiot of the lot — who took it upon himself to burn down an old shed on Jock Boomhower’s spread. ‘Cept he didn’t know Jock had moved a cow and her new calf in there. Jock didn’t get them out. Anyway, Francis was arrested the same night. The others, I guess, were plum terrified. They hadn’t been with him that night, but it was enough to make them quit their arsonous ways forever.”
“Almost,” said Jim.
“Huh?”
“Almost quit forever.”
Silence descended again. Jim didn’t want to hear any more. He wanted out of the chain of events that had led him here. Out of everything. He wanted to return to the present. He wanted to return to the place where the future started.
He wriggled his wrists tentatively. There was no give. He wriggled his ankles. It was impossible.
“He’s good at knots, huh,” said Stanley. “A regular boy scout.”
Jim tried again until his wrists were chafed and burning.
Stanley didn’t watch. “Good luck,” he said, dispiritedly. “I been trying for as long as I’ve been down this God-forsaken hole.”
Jim looked around the cavern for something sharp, saw nothing. The lantern flickered, caught his attention. They had lanterns just like that at home. When you lived in the farthest corner of the county, power outages were common, and it took hydro crews a long time to replace fallen lines. Jim knew all about hurricane lanterns.
“I think I’ve got an idea,” he said.
25
Jim stood up. With two hops he made it past the shelf made of boards and piled stones to the cable spool. He sat down and shimmied around until he was facing the crate. He put his bound feet up against the crate and shoved.
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.