Boys in the Valley(66)

Once we left the dorm, and David sealed the door behind us, we walked brusquely, soundlessly, down the long hallway. Our eyes never left the open and closed doors on both sides of the corridor: the washroom, the cloakroom, the classrooms. We passed each without incident, without a second attack. My heart was beating so hard I believed I felt it bumping against my ribs, pushing me to go faster, faster.

When we reached the balcony overlooking the foyer, we saw Andrew and the bodies. We stayed there a few moments, inspecting corners and shadows from above, making sure no one waited to spring out at us once we descended the stairs.

The whole thing is terrifying, and I’m grateful that Byron is with me. He’s violent and vicious, but he’s loyal, and even though I am no warrior, I’m glad to have one with me. I don’t wish anyone harm but, given what I’ve seen already this day, I am not so naïve to think the murderers care a whit for my pacifism.

They’d stab me through the heart while I prayed for their forgiveness.

But such is the nature of faith.

As we approached Andrew, I was fearful of startling him, and made a point to call his name as we came down the stairs. He stayed where he was, crouched over a corpse, offering a few last words to God, a whispered “amen” before standing and turning to greet us.

My first impression was that he looked ten years older than the man I knew, the man I’d ridden to the Hill farm and back with only a day ago.

My second impression was that he looked scared.

“Peter.” His eyes flick to Byron, noting, I’m sure, the bloody mallet, but he says nothing other than: “Hello, Byron. Are you hurt?”

“No, Father.”

Andrew nods. His eyes glance around the room. “I don’t think it’s safe here. I don’t know where the . . . where the others are. They might be outside, I suppose. They’re hiding . . .”

There’s something in Andrew’s voice that gives me pause. A shakiness I’ve never heard before. His eyes shift wildly, and I wonder if I appear as trapped and fearful as he does.

I hope not.

“Peter, tell me. What’s happening in the dormitory? How are the others?” he asks, his determination, his lucidity and command, obvious. I shake away my previous concerns. This is Andrew, after all. The very best of us.

“We count fourteen, Andrew,” I say. “That includes me and David, and of course Byron here.”

Andrew nods, doing the numbers in his head.

“How many?” I ask.

He looks at me, not understanding at first. Then he sees my eyes lingering on the white shapes lining the floor behind him. “Oh . . .” He lets out a held, shaky breath. “Nine boys. And Father White . . . those poor children.”

He covers his face with both hands for a moment, sniffs loudly.

“Andrew?”

When he removes his hands, his eyes are watery, he looks ill.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’ll be fine, Peter. This is all just a shock.”

I nod, and share a quick look with Byron, who seems more unsettled every second we stand here talking. Exposed. “What about the other priests, Andrew? Where are Poole and Johnson? It would help if the children could see a priest, an adult.”

“Poole is resting in his chamber,” he says. “His leg was badly wounded and it’s difficult for him to walk. I told him to lock the door and I pray he did. I don’t know where Brother Johnson is. I looked in his room, in the kitchen, but he’s not there. I don’t know where he is . . .”

“What about those kitchen folks?” Byron says, pointing toward the dining hall with the bloodied hammer.

I notice Andrew staring sickly at the weapon. He swallows, then replies. “Gone.”

“Huh?” Byron says, and I share his confusion.

“Do you think they went to get help?” I ask. “Maybe with Brother Johnson?”

Andrew’s face goes slack, his expression vacant. Part of me wants to take his hand and sit him down. Get him some tea, or some wine, until the shock wears off. The other part of me wants to shake him, tell him to keep it together. He’s the only adult we have right now, and we need him. I certainly don’t want to be alone with this. I can’t do it alone.

“Father?” I say, more sharply than is polite, or friendly, but I do get his attention. His eyes focus once more, and he seems to have, temporarily at least, found his wits.

“I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Okay. We need a plan, yes? Peter, I think you should go to the Hill farm. Tell John what’s happened. Get as much help as you can, as quickly as you can, and come back. Do you feel up to that? You’re the only one who knows the way.”

I have a flash of Grace’s face in my mind, then quickly push it away, feeling ashamed. I instead focus on the road I’d need to take through the increasingly heavy snow. I mentally tick off the landmarks that would still be visible despite the snowfall. I’m sure I can do it. Regardless, I’m confident the horses will know the way.

“Okay,” I say. Suddenly, I’m eager to be off, to get help. To take action. I want to tell Andrew what I know, what I believe, but I don’t see what good it would do except to frighten Byron. Right now, getting help is the best idea. What comes after that, will come.

“Good.” Andrew turns to Byron. “I want you to go into the chapel and help out the two boys resting in there. One has a badly twisted ankle and will need assistance getting to the dorm. The other, Paul, has a bad cut to the eye. I’m sorry to say he’ll lose it, despite my best efforts. Both of them are together. I wanted them in there in case. Well . . .”