Boys in the Valley(70)

But Johnson doesn’t reply. Even though he can hear the words, he doesn’t allow himself to feel the words. He focuses instead on the noise inside his head. The instructions.

He loses himself to the swarm, lets his body go slack.

“How are we feeling, Father Poole?” Bartholomew says. There are snickers from the other boys, seven in all. The lion’s share of the rebels. The totality of what evil has brought to the small orphanage.

And yet, there is another.

But, like Johnson, each of the boys has their own instruction. Their own tasks to perform.

“Your leg looks rather angry, Father Poole,” Bartholomew says, tutting. “That wound is deep.”

Despite himself, despite the swarm, Johnson dares to lift his eyes. He wants to see this . . . this command over Jeremiah Poole. He wants to see the man humiliated, the way he has humiliated Johnson for so many years.

Your dog is sick, master. The thought flows through the noise and he grins, loving the sound of his own inner voice mingling with the swarm. It feels glorious. Your dog is sick. It’s been bitten by a bat, or a rat, or a boy. Johnson shows teeth. Yes, bitten by a boy, and now it’s sick. Now it’s rabid.

The swarm sings: Lyssa! Rabere! Rabhas!

Poole begins to pray. Johnson watches him from the floor; watches as he presses his cross to his lips, eyes closed. Murmuring nonsense to a deaf, uncaring god.

Bartholomew laughs, then turns and catches Johnson’s eye. Something passes between them. Instruction.

Still, Johnson does not move. Not yet.

“Enough, Father. You’re boring us, and we have much to discuss.”

Poole’s eyes snap open, lock on Bartholomew. Filled with hate.

“Are you so weak, demon? That you infest the innocent?”

Johnson looks from face to face. A few of the boys are frowning now. Not so confident. Not so cheerful. Simon, seemingly unfazed, studies the drawers of Poole’s dresser.

Bartholomew sits at the foot of Poole’s bed. Unbothered.

“Why not ME!” Poole screams, holding the cross on his neck aloft, aiming it like a weapon at Bartholomew. “Why not infest someone who deserves your scorn and your hate? You coward! You spiteful trickster!”

“Enough!” Bartholomew snaps, and slaps a hand down on Poole’s thigh, where the bandage wraps the wound. Johnson sees him squeeze, sees the blood spill from the cloth, run down the skinny white leg and into the sheets.

Poole shrieks in agony until, finally, Bartholomew releases his hand, wipes it on the bed. “I need you quiet, Father. I need you supple. I need to tell you things. I need to whisper things to you.” He grins. “Think of it as a type of communion.”

Poole’s face, pale and stricken, turns to stare directly at Johnson, who feels caught in the old man’s eyes. Trapped. “Johnson . . . for God’s sake, help me.”

The swarm swells—the sound it makes is deafening. There is a mad, insane clamoring in his head, a division of his mind, his reason torn apart by a million legs, ingested by thousands of black mouths. He shuts his eyes and moans, presses his hands to his ears.

Listen!

LISTEN!

Johnson nods, and obeys.

From one heartbeat to the next, the intensifying sound of the swarm becomes muted, soft and warm. He lowers his hands. He has pissed himself but does not know it, would not care if he did. He smiles, keeps his eyes closed, falls into the dark warmth.

“I’m sorry, Father, but Brother Johnson is with us now. That must be disappointing, given how much you’ve done for him. But your God is weak, is he not? We are so much stronger.” Bartholomew’s voice is distant, dreamlike. “You have no idea how strong we are.”

Johnson hears the creak of metal, the rustle of sheets. A few boys begin murmuring in a dull rhythm. Something hits his face, falls into his lap.

He opens his eyes to see a stained, brown sack.

Bartholomew, ignoring Poole for the moment, turns his back on the priest and stares at Johnson instead. His eyes are gleeful and cunning, and he holds a brightly lit lantern. “Brother Johnson, please pay attention. That hood in your lap was left behind by a dead man, thrown into a corner and forgotten. Can you believe it? And now it’s yours, Johnson. Aren’t you lucky? Aren’t you thankful?”

Johnson looks down at the sack. His thick, trembling fingers clutch it, feel the stiffness of dried, dark stains, the coarseness of the weave. Thankful . . . he thinks, not knowing what to do with the word, so he leaves it.

“Put it over your head, Teddy.”

Johnson’s eyes lift to Bartholomew in surprise. The boy is now kneeling beside him, black eyes intent, wide irises flickering in the lamplight. “Put it on now.”

Johnson doesn’t hesitate. He finds the sack’s opening with his fingers, then lifts it and slides it down over his head. The stench is intense and instant. His tongue flicks out, tastes the sour fabric. He grimaces and studies the room from within his mask. The weave is loose, and it’s as if he’s peering through a veil. He can see shapes. Bodies. There is sight, but no clarity.

He glories in it.

“Let me show you something, Father Poole,” Bartholomew is saying. “Let me show you an example of our strength, so that you do not doubt.”

“May God rebuke thee! May he cast you back to Hell!” Poole shrieks.

“Keep praying, Father. Keep praying. But please, watch while you do so.”