Boys in the Valley(16)

Simon seems to lose interest and walks to one of the windows, stares outside. I wait for him to comment on the snow, but he surprises me. “I hope Bartholomew is okay,” he says, standing so close to the window that the breath of his words fog the glass.

At the thought, shame fills me. In truth, I’d forgotten about him. I’m equally sure that, with the ruckus of whatever is happening below, the priests have likely forgotten about him as well. I doubt if it would matter. After all, part of the punishment of the hole is dealing with the elements, hot or cold.

Bartholomew’s luck is simply worse than most.

Still, others have pulled similar short straws. I recall David once spending the night in the hole during the heart of a brutal winter. Johnson had to shovel two feet of snow off the door just to get him out again. He’d laughed about it later, said the insulation of the snow and earth had kept him warmer than he would have been in the dorm. But the next morning I’d seen his blackened toenails, heard him weeping in the washroom when he thought himself alone.

Of course, I’d said nothing, only praised his strength and resilience to nature’s foils. They’d already taken his boyhood, I wasn’t going to let them take his pride, as well.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” I say, hoping I don’t sound uncertain. Hoping it’s the truth.

“What’s going on?” David is fully awake now, feet on the floor, eyes alert.

I shake my head, wanting them all to be quiet so I can listen. The voices are in the foyer now; the words grow louder, crescendo, then lessen to foggy murmurs.

David moves in next to me, his own ear to the opposite door. “Sounds like they’re going to the chapel, or the priests’ rooms.”

The heavy, hurried footsteps fade. After another moment, there is nothing left but silence.

A few more boys are out of their cots, standing, whispering, excited for anything out of the ordinary to be happening. Byron kneels close by, looking eager, relishing the disruption. Some others have shuffled close as well, sitting cross-legged, or resting apprehensively on their knees, as if I’m about to tell them all a story. Others are up and strolling the room like sleepwalkers, mystified to be seeing their world this late at night. They stare out the windows at the falling snow with a look of awe on their faces. Surprisingly, more than half the boys are still asleep in their cots, buried in dreams, oblivious to the night’s excitement.

“I don’t . . .” David starts, then stops. His brow furrows, and his eyes take on a sheen of fear.

“What?” I say.

But then I hear it.

Behind me, another boy must hear what we do. He groans in despair, as if he might start crying. I feel like joining him.

Instead, I lock eyes with David. We both listen to this new sound flowing through the orphanage, filling the air like smoke.

Someone is laughing.

But not cheerful laughter. There’s certainly nothing casual, or remotely uplifting, in the sound. It’s horrible. It sounds deep and ragged. Hysterical. Like listening to a madman lose what remains of his mind.

David leans back and pulls on the iron handle, opening the door a few inches.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“I can’t hear . . .” he starts, then just listens. We both do. The sound is twice as loud with the door open, and I suddenly realize what he’s trying to understand. “The laughing . . .” he says, and I already know what he’s going to ask, because I’m wondering the same thing. He closes his eyes in concentration. “Is that one man?”

When his eyes open, they are wide. Frightened.

I shake my head, wondering if I look as afraid as he does. Icy fingers brush the back of my neck, raising the hairs on my skin.

“I can’t tell,” I say.





9


ANDREW ENTERS POOLE’S BEDROOM—THE LARGEST OF all the priests’ quarters—and almost reels in horror.

I’ve entered hell.

He can’t help the thought. It comes unbidden. Multiple lanterns are alight, including two wall sconces, and the room is doused in the orange glow of dancing fire, as if the crowded space has been somehow detached from the world and submerged within the burning lake itself. Paul Baker lies flat on Poole’s narrow bed. The deputies have removed the ropes from his hands and legs, but are now re-tying them—one to each wrist and ankle, pulling the limbs taut—securing the man to the bedframe’s speared posts.

The bound man does not struggle, but simply continues to laugh—heavy, deep-throated bellows, guttural and sonorous, that emanate from beneath the soiled sack covering his face. Andrew wonders if the man’s intent is to show the others that he isn’t afraid; or perhaps to indicate that he is the one in charge of the drama taking place here, the sole writer of the horrific play being performed before Andrew’s eyes.

Once the knots are secure, Poole, looking stricken but determined, notices Andrew and points toward the door. “Go to the chapel. Bring me the Rituale Romanum and holy water. My vial if you can find it, otherwise grab a cup and fill it to the rim.”

“Father Poole . . .”

“Go! It is more than disease or wound of the flesh that sickens this man,” Poole says, then turns to the sheriff. “Remove the hood.”

“Father, he’s already bitten one man. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”