Fire and Brimstone

Jamie Eyberg

          It had been a basic church: four walls, in a rectangular shape.  The clapboard siding had layers of paint on it, the north wall was peeling again, same moisture problem since they built the place.  It had a small steeple with a wooden cross—painted black— and a sign out front.

          The sign said: “Abandon all hope, all ye who don’t enter.”  It gave the time of the church service and Daniel’s name as the pastor.

          That was the description anyone in town might have given five hours earlier, anyway.  Now it was best described as “burned to the ground.” 

          Flames shot from the windows in an apocalyptic vision of hell.  The steeple was the last thing to go.  It fell to the ground in a mass of sparks and smoke, striking the ground as the roof fell in and the volunteer fire departments fell back, having realized long before, they had gone from saving a structure to containment.

          Pastor Daniel Roberts stood on the sidewalk watching the scene.  Many in his congregation, those who weren’t in the fire department, were milling around, offering him an occasional pat on the shoulder or word of encouragement.  Daniel knew he didn’t need to be there. 

          He had seen this before, not that long ago, although the circumstances were very different.  The last one he knew he couldn’t have prevented, but his soul felt that he could have done more.

          In that one, others considered him something of a hero, going back into the blaze many times to save relics and records, things that couldn’t be replaced by the meager congregation or their insurance company.

          Everyone said it was a miracle he wasn’t hurt more seriously during that fire.  They thought it was a blessing to be kissed by a burning tapestry as he wandered through smoke and flame when it could have killed him, instead.  

          When the flesh on his back healed, he moved on.  There was an opening for a pastor in a small town several hundred miles and two states away.

          He questioned why that first fire had happened, even though he knew.  It simmered in the back of his mind.  Fire, he was always told, had always been used by the Lord to punish.  Punishment for sinning, and he had seen plenty of it in the year he spent in the last place.  Coveting, lying, stealing, cursing.  It all went unpunished by man’s law. 

          This new place seemed different, more ashamed of its indiscretions, and he wondered why this church had to go.    

          A large man walked up to him, his shoulders slumped from age and his face lower than it would have been, twenty years earlier.  “It’s okay, Daniel.  These things happen,” he said. 

          The pastor nodded and said nothing. 

          “Come tomorrow, we can talk to Gene down at the insurance office and get started on a new church,” the old man said.

          Daniel knew the old man was just trying to cheer him on, keep his spirits up, but as the sparks continued to float into the air, he knew it would take more than words, not even from the book he had devoted his life to, to lift him up.

          He knew that when the fire marshal came and inspected the building, they would chalk it up to arson, and the gasoline residue on his hands would more than likely implicate him. 

          Justly so. 

          The match was supposed to end his own life but had failed.  The flame, instead of emblazing him, raced down his clothing instead, curling the nubs of fabric and  barely touching the scar from the previous fire before it set the ground ablaze in a liquid fire race to the wooden steps of the church where the gasoline pooled. 

          Life, he found, was more resistant than that.  Perhaps the Lord was more forgiving.  Maybe he was still being tested and the next time would be the final. 

          Even as the fumes rose from his head and fell in his face, like invisible needles that stung his eyes, he wondered why.

          Why not?

          The last time, it was an accident.  The fire marshal had determined that the ancient wiring in the church building sparked the last blaze.  There was no way of preventing it or stopping it. 

          Daniel knew differently.  Accidents don’t happen like that.  Those people in his last congregation weren’t going to change.   No one ever changed.  They just went though the motions in public.

          This time was different.  These were mostly good people.       

          He stood and watched the remains of the church, which had been standing as a testament to the small town for nearly one hundred thirty years.  Its brittle wood interior was quickly lapped up by the flames, devouring each last morsel like a dog that had fasted for a week. 

          As he looked up, smoke churned across the streetlights and the moon.  “Forgive me,” he said quietly.  He waited for an answer that he was sure would never come. 

          Even then, no one paid him any mind, their eyes on the fire as the last bit of wall collapsed. A shower of sparks shot into the night before burning out and landing harmlessly on the ground.

          Eventually, the flames were doused, and the crowd dispersed, their imaginations loaded with gossip for the coming days.  Daniel eventually followed them from the sidewalks and walked into the parsonage.  It smelled of smoke, and a light fog of soot covered every visible surface. 

          He plopped down on his couch and reached into his slacks for the book of matches with the logo of the gas station down the street on the cover.  He flipped it open.

          One match was missing.  

          Its work still smoldered in the window behind him.  He knew all he had to do was pull back the curtain to look to know it wasn’t a dream he had just woke up from.

          He pulled another stick from the book and struck it across the sandpaper strip.  It flared to life. 

          He watched it burn down to his finger before dropping it.  It extinguished itself and landed on his lap. 

          Before him was an ashtray, the grey dust of another book of matches scattered in it.  Small holes and black marks pocked his furniture.  He breathed the smoke-filled air, the scent of sulfur and burning wood, charred plastic, and singed hair.  It wafted into his nose and rang in his brain.  All good scents, he thought. The Lord made them so.  Of all the possessions in his place the only one untouched was his Bible.  It lay on the table beside the couch, green and pink Post-it notes stuffed in the pages. 

          The sticky papers marked the passages about the burning bush and the fires of Sodom and Gomorra.  After the last fire, Daniel had taken it on himself to find every reference to flame and fire in the pages of his book. He’d marked them all, looking for answers.   

          There were a lot.

          God had liked fire, too.  He had been known to destroy a temple or two, Daniel  thought.  He knew he would have to find those passages and mark them as well.  Maybe in yellow, or purple.  

          The doorbell rang, its tones weak, the electronic bell fading with age. 

          He took the ashtray and slid it under the couch before going to the door.

          With a solemn look, he opened the door, to one of the church elders.

          “Hello, Pastor.  Rough night?”

          “At least no one was hurt.”  It was a well-rehearsed line that had played in his head since the first match flared up.  But the words were hollow.

          “Is there anything I can do for you?” the elder asked.  “I know you don’t live in the church, but I can understand if you’d want to get away for awhile.  I think most of the church would.  Losing two churches in less than three months . . .” The old man shook his head.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d take that as some kind of sign.”

          “Horrible coincidence,” Daniel said.  The first blaze flared behind his eyes, an imprint on his mind, two states away and what seemed like a million miles.  He knew it was real and the scars on his back and neck proved it: rough and devoid of hair but easily covered by a tall collar.  

          The elder patted his shoulder.  The hand was rough and strong, despite his age.  The worn fingers dug into the scar tissue without prejudice.  “Well anyway, I was talking with Larry Cromwell, and he thought maybe, if you were up to it, you’d want to be in charge of the rebuilding.  We’d understand if you don’t want to, but . . .”

          Daniel looked away. “I’d be honored to help restore this grand old building.”

          “Well, then it’s settled.  You are the new general contactor.”  The elder gave Daniel’s shoulder one more hard pat , then took a short step back.  “One more thing, Pastor.”

          “Yes?”

          “Did you see anyone roaming around last night? Rumor around town is, someone was sneaking around the church last night before the fire.”

          Daniel had never considered what he was doing “sneaking.” 

          “The only person I know of, was me.”  It was a small lie Daniel knew the Lord wouldn’t mind.

          “Okay,” the old man said, turning to go back down the sidewalk to his Buick.  “Just thought I’d ask.”

          “Thank you for stopping by.” Daniel wanted to use the man’s name, but it escaped him, like so many of the people in the pews before him every Sunday.

          He watched the man leave, the car’s engine glugging through a muffler that was beginning to rust out.

          Daniel walked back into the house and looked around.  It looked like a normal parsonage.  His memories were still fresh but he liked to think of past memories that had occurred.  Memories of other lives that had moved on. 

          The walls had just been painted, white, the color he had requested when asked.  The shag carpet was old and worn down, but better than a wooden floor under bare feet in the morning, especially during the cold Iowa winters.  The trim was stained and fitted with the same craftsmanship that had been put into the church, even though the house was considerably newer, a ranch style popular in the 1950s. 

          He looked at the drawn shades and wondered what all they had seen in their years on these windows. . . . If the teenage children of the last pastor had drawn them shut when they had guests over, so their father couldn’t see what they were doing.  If the marijuana cigarette he had found in the register duct was any indication of what had gone on before him. He’d found it when he was looking to hide his spare diary, and figured it belonged to either the pastor’s children, or the pastor, himself.  Perhaps it belonged to the pastor’s wife.

          Daniel pulled out the ashtray out from under the couch.  The couch’s skirt brushed the ashes and flicked them into the air. A smoky odor was released.

          He breathed it before reaching into his pocket for another match book. 

          Again he lit them, one by one, watching the fire explode and then settle down, before burning out and falling into the ash tray. 

          He could still smell gasoline on his hair, although the combustibility of it had long since dried off. All that would happen when he put a match to his hair, would be the acrid smell of singed hair and nothing else.  Another test of his faith that would prove nothing to him accept denial of the heaven he truly wanted. 

          The red jug he had poured the fuel from was now a molten, and probably completely incinerated, blob on the foundation of the building across the alley from him, unrecognizable from the rest of the debris.

          He made a mental note to pick up another jug. 

          Later. Maybe this afternoon, after he’d washed his hair and spoke to the fire inspector.