Boys in the Valley(22)

“No one but me is gonna mourn him,” Baker says, nodding toward the graveyard. “Rather he be buried out here, in the open, near a holy place. Maybe his soul will find rest.”

Finally, Poole agrees, albeit reluctantly.

Meanwhile, Andrew grows more anxious about the children. It’s getting late in the morning and he knows they’ll be waking up, expecting to be told the day’s responsibilities, to be fed a meager breakfast.

But it had taken hours to clean up the mess. The kitchen staff had been woken by Johnson, and despite being horrified by the scene, they had nonetheless proceeded to sponge blood from the walls and floors. With Johnson and Andrew’s help, they wrapped the bodies and brought them outside. Poole’s mattress and bedding had been dumped behind the orphanage with other trash meant for burning, replaced by a mattress from the spare guestroom.

The bedframe, and its broken, jagged bedposts, remained.

Poole had insisted upon it.

“Let it serve as a reminder of the work we have left to do in this world,” he’d said. “A reminder of the strength of the evil we fight against.”

As Poole agrees to bury the diseased man in the orphanage graveyard, Andrew holds back a shudder. He has no wish to be reminded of last night’s battle, of the poor man’s mutilated body, that sonorous voice betraying the hidden voices within, the pure evil of his enraged face, those blood-splotched eyes.

Regardless, it is Poole’s decision to make, and he will abide by it.

The two remaining deputies load their murdered associate into the wagon, gently lay him down where the sheriff’s brother recently lay, bound and hooded. When Sheriff Baker isn’t looking their way, Andrew sees one of the men spit on Paul Baker’s corpse.

He can’t say that he blames him.

Sheriff Baker shakes Poole’s hand, tips his worn, brimmed hat toward Andrew, and gives orders to what remains of his posse.

As the riders and wagon pull away, the dead deputy’s horse tethered behind, Paul Baker’s body lies on the ground where they’d left it. A parting gift from their late-night visit.

“I’ll have Johnson and the kitchen man Stewart bury him this morning. No need for the children to see a body lying around,” Poole says wearily, exhaustion etched deeply into his face. “A horrible thing,” he says, as he and Andrew watch the sheriff and his men ride off. The wagon rattles and bumps over the snow-covered road, the wrapped body rolling and swaying in the rear.

“Should we ready the children, Father?” Andrew isn’t sure what the day will look like. Everything feels out of sorts, and although he’s too tired to analyze the true events of what occurred during the night, he feels it’s important the children not be affected.

“No,” Poole says, staring at the distant horizon, Baker and his men already small shadows pushing up the gentle slope of the valley road. “I think we all need a day to recover, including the children.”

Andrew looks at him questioningly, and Poole chuckles softly.

“I’ve been doing this a few decades longer than you, my son. I guarantee you those kids heard a good amount of what went on last night. Johnson told me this morning he’d spotted the two oldest boys spying from the top of the stairs.”

“Peter?”

“Yes, and David. An unlikely pairing, those two. But good boys.”

Andrew nods. “Peter will make a fine priest. It’s my hope he’ll stay on. He’s good with the young ones.”

Poole nods but says nothing. After a moment, he turns back toward the orphanage. “I must rest, Andrew. I think you should, as well. Neither of us have slept, and tomorrow will be a big day.”

Andrew turns away from the horizon to follow Poole’s departure, and sees Bartholomew and Johnson are stepping inside. Somewhat surprisingly, Andrew notices that Bartholomew looks none the worse for wear. Still, maybe Poole is correct. They could all use a day to rest and reflect. Tomorrow, after Mass, he’ll be going to the Hill farm for supplies, and for that journey he’ll need to be refreshed. Even if he is planning on enlisting help.

Andrew calls after Poole. “I’ll see the boys get breakfast.”

Poole lifts a hand and waves without looking back.

Andrew’s eyes travel up toward the dorm windows. He sees the faces of many of the boys peering out, some looking down his way, most likely having noticed the sheriff and his men.

Which means they’ve seen the bodies, he thinks, and sighs deeply.

He wonders how he’ll explain it all to Peter. He suppresses a smile at the thought of he and David sneaking out last night. Poole was right about them, they are an unlikely pairing, but Andrew has a suspicion they are also more tightly knit than even Poole realizes. Perhaps more than they fully realize themselves.

He sighs once more, feeling the weariness from lack of sleep infiltrating his mind and body. He stares down blankly at the wrapped corpse of Paul Baker. Something tells him that whatever evil, whatever power, had been locked inside Baker’s body has since been released. Unbidden, he recalls the story of Jesus and the wild man who lived in the tombs.

We are many.

“My name is Legion,” Andrew mutters, quoting the passage from the Book of Mark. “For we are many.”

In the story, Jesus commanded the demons out of the man and cast them into a herd of two thousand pigs. Driven mad, the pigs rush into a nearby lake and drown.