Boys in the Valley(82)

David gives a loud yell, a battle cry, and runs directly at Johnson. He has no weapon but his hands and his raw shout of defiance. Johnson turns at the last second, catches David at the chest and lifts him, then hurls him crashing through a window like a stone.

My last glimpse of my friend is his body shattering glass before disappearing into the night. The wind buffets through the opening, charges into the room like an angry spirit. Flurries of snow rush through the broken window, gleefully filling the air of the dorm, swirling around the combatants—the murderers and the dying alike.

All of this happens in a matter of seconds.

And now time restarts.

I must force myself into action. I must defend who I’m able. No matter what comes.

As if released from an unseen hold, I move.

I run first to the cots nearest me, gather those children who have not yet been harmed, pull them from their beds, yell at them to run to the far end of the room, away from the attackers. The poor things cry and wail, and some take more convincing than others, but there’s little time so I’m pushing them, screaming at them to MOVE! RUN!

I’m reaching for a child just as I’m knocked hard by a body and thrown to the ground. Two boys I can’t recognize in the dim light are clutched in snarling combat, tearing at each other, screaming into each other’s face as they tug and punch and kick, each trying to best the other.

I roll onto my side and find myself looking beneath one of the beds. Lying on the other side of the cot, blood boiling from his mouth, is Andrew.

I cry out, then scramble beneath the bed to reach him, yelling his name.

He turns his head toward me; his eyes are pained and scared. Blood flows from his mouth in a weak stream. His staff lays on the floor between us.

“Andrew!” I grip my father’s pale hand. It’s icy cold. “What’s wrong with you . . .” I frantically study his body for injury.

And then I see his stomach.

Someone—I don’t know who, and can’t begin to imagine the strength needed to do such a thing—has plunged the length of the heavy iron cross through his gut, deeply enough that I wonder if it might have gone through him completely.

I bury my head against his chest. “Father!”

He puts a hand to the side of my head, raises my face to see him.

With his final breaths, he speaks to me.

All around us is horror and death and pain, but for a few moments, it’s only me and Andrew, together for the last time. I pray that I’m hidden from view beneath the cot; and with Andrew almost dead, bleeding out, run through, perhaps they’ll leave us this peace.

“Peter . . .”

I force myself to meet his eyes. “I’m here.”

He swallows with a bitter grimace.

When his voice comes again, it’s impossibly clear, impossibly strong.

“Are you resolved to exercise the ministry of the word . . .” He takes a breath, eyes locked on mine with almost preternatural determination. “. . . preaching the gospel and explaining the Catholic faith?”

In this instant, my life rushes past me.

Within this split-second of time, I see my real father, a shotgun pressed to his face, the room around him alive with flames. I see my childhood at the orphanage, the disciplinary moments with Poole and the other priests, my battles of will with Johnson, my study sessions and many conversations with Andrew. My friendship with the children, with David and the others I’ve come to think of as my family. My brothers.

I think of Grace. Of my deep love for her. Of our hidden letters, our secret love. Her warmth, her goodness. I think of our future together.

A future that will never come.

“I am,” I say. Tears sting my eyes.

It’s decided. I’ve decided.

I’m sorry Grace.

“Are you resolved to consecrate your life to God . . . for the salvation of his people, and to unite yourself to Christ?”

“I am, with the help of God,” I say, and feel something shift inside me. A rush of strength flows through my body, coursing from my heart to my limbs. A growing warmth that clears my mind like an elixir.

Andrew moves his hand into his pocket, pulls out the small jar of holy water.

“Help me . . .” he says.

I press his fingers around the bottle with my own, pull free the cork stopper. He puts a thumb on the opening and tilts it until water trickles out. I stopper it for him once more, then take it from his dying hand.

He moves his thumb to my forehead. With a shaking finger he makes the mark of the cross. “May God, who has begun the good work within you . . . bring it to fulfillment.”

It’s done.

Only now do I notice a single witness to this bloody ceremony. Hiding under the bed beyond Andrew is Finnegan, wide-eyed and watching. Listening.

Andrew’s eyes roll wildly away from me. He blinks rapidly and coughs a spray of blood.

“There is light . . .” he says, then his head rolls to me a final time. He looks almost relaxed. In a strange way I can’t fathom . . . content. His eyes are bright, as if in wonder.

“There is light all around you . . .” he says weakly, then closes his eyes.

My father is gone.

After a brief moment, I slide out from under the bed. I grip the crozier.

Pushing gently against Andrew’s body, I’m able to squeeze out and stand, still holding the staff. I tuck the holy water into my pocket.