Cold Fire

been equipped with a Plexiglas fairing for weather protection.
     

----
     
    Light at the windows. A new day.
    His eyes were sore.
    His face felt worse than ever. Swollen.
    The stranger was wearing a clerical collar.
    “Priest,” Jim said in a coarse and whispery voice that didn't sound like his own.
    “I found you in the church, unconscious.”
    “Our Lady of the Desert.”
    Lifting Jim off the pillows again, he said, “That's right. I'm Father Geary. Leo Geary.”
    Jim was able to help himself a little this time. The water tasted sweet.
    Father Geary said, “What were you doing in the desert?”
    “Wandering.”
    “Why?”
    Jim didn't answer.
    “Where did you come from?”
    Jim said nothing.
    “What is your name?”
    “Jim.”
    “You're not carrying any ID.”
    “Not this time, no.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    Jim was silent.
    The priest said, “There was three thousand dollars in cash in your pockets.”
    “Take what you need.”
    The priest stared at him, then smiled. “Better be careful what you offer, son. This is a poor church. We need all we can get.”
     

----
     
    Later still, Jim woke again. The priest was not there. The house was silent. Once in a while a rafter creaked and a window rattled softly as desert wind stirred fitfully outside.
    When the priest returned, Jim said, “A question, Father.”
    “What's that?”
    His voice was still raspy, but he sounded a bit more like himself. “If there's a God, why does He allow suffering?”
    Alarmed, Father Geary said, “Are you feeling worse?”
    “No, no. Better. I don't mean my suffering. Just… why does He allow suffering in general?”
    “To test us,” the priest said.
    “Why do we have to be tested?”
    “To determine if we're worthy.”
    “Worthy of what?”
    “Worthy of heaven, of course. Salvation. Eternal life.”
    “Why didn't God make us worthy?”
    “Yes, he made us perfect, without sin. But then we sinned, and fell from grace.”
    “How could we sin if we were perfect?”
    “Because we have free will.”
    “I don't understand.”
    Father Geary frowned. “I'm not a nimble theologian. Just an ordinary priest. All I can tell you is that it's part of the divine mystery. We fell from grace, and now heaven must be earned.”
    “I need to pee,” Jim said.
    “All right.”
    “Not the bedpan this time. I think I can make it to the bathroom with your help.”
    “I think maybe you can, too. You're really coming around nicely, thank God.”
    “Free will,” Jim said.
    The priest frowned.
     

----
     
    By late afternoon, nearly twenty-four hours after Jim stumbled into the church, his fever registered only three-tenths of a degree on the thermometer. His muscles were no longer spasming, his joints did not hurt any more, he was not dizzy, and his chest did not ache when he drew a deep breath. Pain still flared across his face periodically.
    When he spoke he did so without moving his facial muscles more than absolutely necessary, because the cracks in his lips and in the corners of his mouth reopened easily in spite of the prescription cortisone cream that Father Geary applied every few hours.
    He could sit up in bed of his own volition and move about the room with only minimal help. When his appetite returned, as well, Father Geary gave him chicken soup, then vanilla ice cream. He ate carefully, mindful of his split lips, trying to avoid tainting the food with the taste of his own blood.
    “I'm still hungry,” Jim said when he finished.
    “Let's see if you can keep that down first.”
    “I'm fine. It was only sunstroke, dehydration.”
    “Sunstroke can kill, son. You need more rest.”
    When the priest relented a while later and brought him more ice cream, Jim spoke through half-clenched teeth and frozen lips: “Why are some people killers? Not cops, I mean. Not soldiers. Not those who kill in self-defense. The other kind, the murderers. Why do they kill?”
    Settling into a straight-backed rocker near the bed, the priest regarded him with one raised eyebrow. “That's a peculiar question.”
    “Is it? Maybe. Do you have an answer?”
    “The simple one is—because there's evil in them.” They sat in mutual silence for a minute or so. Jim ate ice cream, and the stocky priest rocked in his chair. Another twilight crept across the sky beyond the windows.
    Finally Jim said, “Murder, accidents, disease, old age … Why did God make us mortal in the first place? Why do we have to die?”
    “Death's not