No More Water be the Fire Next Time

No More Water Be The Fire Next Time

When Jesse Brown was only seven-years old his father drown in a boating accident; his mother was committed to a mental facility shortly there after. Devastated by guilt over an extramarital affair, Jesse's mother lost her mind and attempted to drown Jesse in a bathtub. If not for a seizure disabling her before the deed was done, he would have certainly died. Jesse Brown grew up terrifeid of water and believing the world was a very bad place. He also refused to bathe.

By the time Jesse dropped out of school, at seventeen, he lived in ten foster homes and was completely out of control. Sadness and anger consumed him. At wits end, the State emancipated Jesse and sent him out on an unsuspecting world. His caseworker figured that Jesse would most likely end up in prison, or worse, but she empathized with his plight. Washing his face with a wet cloth was all he could muster. The kids called him "Dirty Brown" and tortured him continually. Not without consequences. Even though Jesse was small of stature, years of fighting made him as hard as a principal's paddle and resourceful as a pocketknife.

Jesse traveled from town to town working at whatever he could find. He preferred labor jobs where his appearance was less important. He might have become an able carpenter, or brick mason, if his inability to socialize hadn't betrayed him at every turn. When made fun of, or criticized, Jesse Brown did ruthless things. However, he did become a proficient horticulturist. Folks were always looking for someone to maintain their lawn and garden-and less interaction with pesky humans was required. Caring for living things that didn't judge him brought Jesse an enormous sense of satisfaction. He studied flowers, plants, trees and their indigenous diseases wherever he traveled. Jesse spent most of his spare time reading in the county libraries.

One evening a small elderly woman, who had occasionally observed Jesse, paused to see what subject enthralled him so. "Interested in nature, are we?" she asked in a frail voice. She could plainly see that he never bathed.

"I do lawn work and such," Jesse shyly pointed out.

"Nothing better than outside work," she said, readjusting her cane. "Until I broke my hip, I loved working in the garden. You might be able to help me out, if you're interested. I'm in need of a groundskeeper and will supply everything you need. It pays seven dollars an hour and a nightly meal. Simply start at your convenience."

"Leave me the address," he muttered.

Jesse could use the work and the little lady would surely be less vocal than his present benefactor, who ranted and raved every time the wind shifted.

Jesse found the old house the next day. Unruly shrubs encircled it, with a large backyard filled with apple trees in need of trimming. The place functioned as a church of sorts, with a makeshift soup kitchen in the courtyard. Every evening a group of disheveled looking people meandered in and waited for the festivities.

The old woman read from the bible and told how Jesus could cleanse those who believed, whiter than snow. Before serving the food, she always sang several songs and then asked if anyone wanted to speak. Other than eating the food, Jesse Brown never participated. Although he found the old woman's words comforting, he couldn't bring himself to believe.

Jesse began noticing an unusual stench; it followed him everywhere. So awful was this smell that he couldn't enjoy his food or sleep at night. He finally confided in the old woman. She told him that it was the odor of sadness and loneliness and hatred and fear. "Life is too short," she insisted. "You're missing out on so much."

A month later after leaving the employ of the old woman, Jesse gazed through his binoculars at the sweeping forest in southern California. His job as a ranger suited him; he could go two weeks without seeing another living soul. His duty was to spot fires. Today they were all around him. The Santa Anna winds were overwhelming the firefighters, and Jesse had waited too long to make his getaway. In a panic, he recalled a song the old woman use to sing. He couldn't remember the verses, but strangely, the refrain whispered softly to him over and over. No more water be the fire next time, children, no more water be the fire next time.

Jesse hurried down out of the lookout tower over a ridge to a small pond. He stood there, paralyzed, more afraid of the water than the fire. The prospect of jumping in terrified him. A rush of thoughts cluttered his mind: Is it possible that I could be cleansed whiter than snow? After all the terrible things I've done, do I deserve to live? Will this stench ever go away? The refrain whispered in his ears.

No more water be the fire next time, children, no more water be the fire next time.