Boys in the Valley(52)
My history of nightmares is well-known by the others; they are something I’ve been afflicted with since the day my parents died. It was a serious concern for the priests when I first arrived, but gradually my night terrors became accepted, and now not even the other orphans pay it much mind when I wake up screaming, clutching at my throat, or cursing at a nighttime visitor whose face I can never recall.
His cool hand touches my forehead, then strokes my damp hair. “You want a glass of water? I’ll fetch it for you.”
I would like nothing more . . . but I have no intent to ask anything of Simon. He isn’t the friend I remember. Truthfully, he sickens me. The touch of his cold hand on my head makes my skin crawl. “I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep the repulsion from my voice. “Go back to bed.”
Simon takes a step backward, and the void of his face brightens when struck by moonlight. What my mother used to call the light of the dead.
“You’ve always been good to me, Peter,” he says. His voice is not a whisper, but he speaks quietly, the words meant only for me. “I won’t forget that.”
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
Simon turns to the window, stares out into the night.
My breath catches when I see a shadow cross his face, as if something broke the flow of moonlight through the window. Something passing by outside—quickly, silently, in the night.
I want to speak, to yell in alarm, to question what I think I saw . . . but the words won’t come. I’m frozen. I’m terrified.
Simon, perhaps sensing my fear, turns and smiles down at me.
His teeth are silver, his eyes black buttons.
“Goodnight, Peter,” he says. “Sweet dreams.”
32
ANDREW SITS JUST BEHIND, AND TO THE LEFT OF, THE altar. On the altar’s opposite side, also seated, are Father White and Brother Johnson. Poole’s chair, next to Andrew, is currently empty. Poole himself stands at the small lectern, contemplating the upturned faces of the orphans.
“As believers in God,” he intones solemnly, “we do not fear Death’s sting. Like birth, it is but part of life, a gift from Jesus Christ, and the beginning of our eternal . . .”
Andrew’s mind drifts. He’s scattered, exhausted. His thoughts are fragmented, stormy, his attention frail. Anxious and seeking distraction, he shifts his eyes to the altar. They’d covered it with a red tapestry, one that had previously hung in the foyer but was moved, many years ago, to storage when the upper story and stairwell were added on. The retired decoration was large, old, and dusty. It apparently depicted The Last Supper, or possibly a hunting scene; it was hard to say, the once-vibrant colors having long-since faded to blurs. In addition, mice and insects had been at the tapestry while it sat in storage, and the fabric was now badly frayed. It should have been thrown out long ago, Andrew thinks, along with the rest of the artifacts stored in the church’s oversized closet of spiritual junk.
The altar needed to be covered, however, so the antiquated wall-hanging came in handy, after all.
Despite the servants’ best efforts, supervised by Poole himself, they simply could not get all the blood out of the altar’s light-toned wood, or the porous floorboards. Even after several hours of scrubbing and washing, the stains still looked ghastly, a sharp reminder of what lay there only a day ago; of what was hung from the cross that still loomed over his shoulder—a symbol of man’s salvation now degraded to a glorified meat hook. He shudders at the thought, uncrosses and re-crosses his legs, and tries to focus on Poole’s sermon.
“. . . saddens me that young Basil did not come to me with his problems. Or to Father White, or Father Francis. We are all here for you children. We will listen and we will help you if you have feelings of despair, if you need guidance . . .”
As if drawn to it, Andrew’s eyes slide to the altar once more and a sick feeling stabs his guts. His nose twitches at the stink of dust and mildew radiating from the rodent-chewed fabric, and he abhors the way it congeals on the floor, misshapen and ridiculous looking. His eyes twitch higher, and he feels a fresh wave of despair, of deep-seeded remorse, at what rests atop the blood-stained altar and the ancient cloth which hides it from view.
Basil’s coffin.
The child’s corpse tucked snugly within.
And now Andrew thinks he can smell other things, as well: the thick planks of knotted pine Johnson used to construct the box and—yes, another aroma, one that lies beneath the woody smell of pine, the mildewed rot of the tapestry—the body itself, of course. The decomposing corpse bloated with gases, the eyes sunken, the flesh cold.
“. . . praying on the matter, we have decided to bury Basil in the church graveyard. Although what he did is a crime against God, against nature . . . he was also just a child. An innocent. Confused and haunted by grief. Who are we to judge a child? Does a shepherd blame a lamb for wandering near a dangerous wood? No, he gathers the lamb and returns him to the pasture. The burial . . .”
Yes, yes, Andrew smells the boy well now. It’s a putrid, awful smell. He adjusts himself in the hard chair, leans away from the altar, casually puts a hand over his mouth, his nose, as if pondering Poole’s words. He shifts his legs yet again—clumsily so, growing agitated—and nearly kicks the heavy candelabra to the side of him, one of two that bookend the pastoral chairs. The tall, heavy candelabras stand sentry on either side of Basil’s coffin, holding aloft melting candles burning bright, liquid black smoke curling from the wicks.