Boys in the Valley(92)

When he speaks to me, his voice is strong, resonant.

If you can sacrifice this life for the other, then you will know more joy than you can possibly imagine. A joy that will last for eternity.

I want to hug him, to tell him that I’ll always love him as a son loves his father.

Tell him I miss him. Tell him that I tried.

I’m not a fool. I know no amount of words or blessings can save me, no more than they can transform me into something more than I am. But priest or not, blessed or not, I must do what I feel is right. I must believe in something. Even if it’s only myself.

“Come on!” David yells, and I’m thrust back into the narrow, smoke-filled attic.

“Help me, Father,” I whisper. “Give me strength.”

I put a hand on the attic floor and slowly push myself upward. My insides cry out, but there is strength in my legs, and there is strength in my arms, up my back and across my shoulders. The hand not holding my wound is curled into a tight fist.

David sees me rise but keeps it to himself. His eyes flick from Bartholomew to me.

I am light. I say it again and again. A mantra. I am light. I am light.

There is light all around me.

There is light inside me.

I raise a hand so David can see it clearly. I turn it, fingers straight up and flattened, then motion it to one side. I pray David understands. Still, he says nothing, but I see a flicker of comprehension in his eyes. I notice him grip the shirt of Timothy behind him.

“Demon!” I cry out, and am gratified when Bartholomew spins. I relish the shock in his face, take courage from the fear in his eyes.

“Your time here is done,” I say, and charge.

This time, he truly is caught off guard.

He tries to move aside, but is kicked from behind, throwing him off balance.

I don’t see if David has pulled the others out of the way. There’s no time for me to know for sure. As I leave my feet, I can only hope.

I throw out my arms and lower my shoulder, ramming it square into his stomach. I hear his breath come out of him as I propel us both backward through the smoky air and down, down through the opening of the ceiling. Into the flames.

For a moment, we are falling, and there is no sound, no pain. His arm is wrapped tight around my back, as if holding on for safety.

We land with a massive, bone-crunching impact, his body beneath mine. But we do not hit the floor, landing instead atop the sloping iron at the foot of a metal-framed cot. I hear the snap of Bartholomew’s back as he connects with it, my weight crushing down atop him.

We both collapse off the bed and thump down to the floor. I roll onto my back, panting for breath, staring at a gaping hole in the ceiling high above.

There are flames surrounding me on all sides, and the wound in my gut sends lightning streaks of pain through my body. Yet I am able to turn my head, to see Bartholomew crumpled beside me. His eyes are wide with shock, but I swear they are his own.

Here, then, is nothing but a boy. Broken, dying. His mouth opens and closes, as if gulping desperately for air. He is bent unnaturally, his legs lifeless and limp, twisted at the hip to lie nearly perpendicular to his torso.

I’m surprised he’s still breathing, but he is.

And he’s staring right at me.

When he speaks, there’s no menace in his voice. No mockery. No command. Only the voice of a frightened child. A little boy, terrified of death, like all of us.

“I think . . .” he says, having gained some control of his breathing, “I think my back is broken.”

I press a hand to my bleeding stomach, but I keep my eyes on his. I’ll stay with him now, in his final moments, if that’s what he needs. There’s little else I can do.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. I’m sorry for everything, for all the horror and death that has taken place. I’m sorry I couldn’t save everyone. That I can’t save him.

He closes his eyes. His face is peaceful, if saddened. “I don’t want to die.”

I study him as he slips away, his breath labored. I can’t help wondering.

“Is it finished?” I ask, even though I’m unsure whether I really want to know the answer.

Bartholomew’s eyes spring open, locking onto mine, and for a split-second there’s something else there staring back at me. Something unfathomable.

And then, it’s gone. And there’s nothing left before me but Bartholomew. He lets out a heavy sigh, and his body seems to deflate.

“Yes,” he says. “For now.”

I don’t know what else to say, so I simply stay with him. I reach out my free hand and place it on his head. He begins to weep, and I can hear the rasping of each breath as his body fights to function. “Forgive me,” he rasps at the end. Then he grips my hand tight, his word barely audible. “Absolve me, Peter.”

I nod, then close my eyes and say the words that, in this religion of men, takes away the sins of those who ask it. I do this as a vessel of God, as a servant of the spirit, in order to cleanse the light we all carry and release the weight of our doings—both good and evil—from that infinite space inside each one of us.

When I remove my hand from his head, his eyes are open and still, his charred lips pressed into the floorboards. He does not move again.

In the next moment, hands grip me hard beneath my shoulders and I’m being pulled away, backward through patches of flame. The last thing I see of Bartholomew is the fire catching in his hair.