Basil pulls open the door. The interior is pitch dark. He can’t see Simon, or Terrence, and certainly not any snake.
“Where are you?”
“Get inside!” a voice says urgently. Terrence? “You want it to escape? Close the door!”
The urgency of the voice prompts Basil into action. He steps inside quickly. The wind slams the door shut behind him. He reaches out one arm toward the dark, then steps cautiously forward, moving deeper into the large shed. It’s so dark he can hardly see his hand in front of him, and he’s afraid of running into something sharp.
“I don’t see you!” Basil nearly yells, and—as if he’s only now realizing what he’s done, what kind of situation he’s put himself into, as if waking up to find you’ve been sleepwalking—turns to leave.
Idiot!
Once outside, he’s going to run hard and fast as he can, back to the orphanage and up to the dorm. To the safety of his warm bed. He’ll wait there until Peter comes back, and then he’ll make him listen. Make him understand what’s going on. What he can’t see for himself.
“I’m leaving!” Basil yells into the dark, surprised to feel tears running down his face.
“Basil! Wait!”
Basil turns back, flustered and scared and angry. “What!”
A warm hand closes over his and pulls him hard into a world of living shadows and shuffling feet. The air is heavy with the weight of others.
Now more hands are on him, gripping him, tugging him, shoving him down.
He grunts and struggles. All around him is hard breathing and laughter. He’s about to scream when something coarse wraps around his neck—and now he can’t scream.
He can’t even breathe.
“Stop . . .” he croaks.
Oh please stop it hurts!
There’s a heavy, painful pressure on his arms, as if someone is driving their knees into his wrists. He can’t move. His throat is on fire.
He feels his clothes being ripped from his body. The air clings to him like ice.
Something sharp pierces his skin . . .
He wants to beg. Wants to tell them he’s sorry, to ask them not to tease him any further, to please stop, to stop and leave him alone.
I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell. Just please stop now please please . . .
But he can’t speak, so he can’t beg.
And he can’t cry out.
And they don’t stop.
21
JOHNSON SITS AT HIS TABLE, OF WHICH HE IS THE LONE member. Away from the raised table of the priests. Away from the children. Every once in a blue moon he’ll be joined for a meal by Carl, the head cook who lives in a cabin to the west. He’ll talk Johnson’s ear off about hunting, about how to properly cut and smoke a wide range of animals, none of which Johnson could give two shits about. But, for the most part, he sits alone. Tucked into the corner like a dog. But watchful, always watchful. Ready to heed his master’s call.
Even now he watches as that doddering old fool, Father White, handles inspection. Ridiculous. White couldn’t see dirt under fingernails if you gave him a magnifying glass. The old man is nearly blind in one eye and can’t see the side of a barn from ten paces with the other.
Johnson scoffs. What does he care? Let the boys eat with filthy palms. Get disease. They could use a good culling, anyway. There are too damn many of them. Too many mouths to feed. A few years ago, they were down to twenty boys. It was glorious. Lots of room, plenty of food. But now, with this overcrowded, slack-mouthed lot of pissants? There is never enough. Not enough to eat. Not enough discipline. Not enough priests to school and care for them all.
And now, to make things even worse, with a hard winter coming down on their heads, they’ll be lucky if . . .
“Father Poole?” White’s shaky voice carries from the middle of the dining hall, where he stands, agitatedly working his hands together. “It seems we have a boy missing.”
Johnson rises to his feet. His eyes fall on a gap between children next to the old, feeble priest. White simply stands there, hunched and uncomfortable, offering a watered-down smile. As if a tardy boy is some sort of a joke.
Already doing his own count of heads, Johnson begins turning over possibilities. The boy isn’t asleep; the others would have roused him. He could be hurt somewhere—always a chance—but an unlikely one. Again, someone would have noticed, or seen him.
A runaway?
Johnson almost salivates at the idea. In his mind he’s already saddling up one of the horses. There is only one direction they’d run, and that’s west, toward town. Any other direction in this weather is a death sentence. He looks over at Poole, waiting on the order.
Before Poole can respond, White’s smile becomes a frown. He begins muttering nervously. “Oh, wait, wait . . . hold on a moment . . .” Father White glances around the room, mouth moving in silent calculations. The boys all stare back at him, innocent and curious. When he speaks once more, his quivering voice is a whining wind, whistling through the cracks. “I fear my count is actually two short.”
Johnson’s nerves twitch, his mind racing.
Two boys?
Together then! Yes, that makes sense. But who? Johnson resumes his scanning of heads and faces. But then he remembers: Peter is with Andrew, of course. He feels his energy sour, his apprehension lose steam like a slowing train. That stupid fool must not have been told that Peter had left. As for the other, the old priest probably miscounted . . .
“Who?” Poole is standing, his voice iron.
“Benjamin is one . . .” White looks around, confusion wilting his face. A boy whispers at White, but Johnson can’t see who. The priest nods, grateful. “Ah, yes. And Basil.”
Ben and Basil? Running away together? Not completely unlikely. They are both part of the little clique who follows Peter around like orphan disciples.
It’s now Poole who scans the room, his face turning a dark shade of red. “Does anyone have information about Ben or Basil? I demand to know or there will be punishment!”
None of the boys answer. Most look into their laps. Some keep their eyes raised, faces masked with feigned innocence.
“Father?” Johnson says, fingers tightening into eager fists.
Poole turns to him from the raised table.
He nods.
Unleashes his dog.
Good, Johnson thinks, jaws clenched, already striding past the scared faces of the children. Wait until I catch up with them.
I’ll bite those little brats.
*
Knowing it’s useless, but wanting to be thorough, Johnson begins by checking the dormitory. If the kids aren’t there, he’ll check the other rooms, the chapel, then the barn. He doesn’t expect to find them in the dorm, but he’s rushing through options in his mind so he can quickly cross them each off the list. Then he’ll return to Poole for permission to pursue on horseback.
They won’t make it a mile, he thinks, but hurries nonetheless. No sense in giving them too much of a head start. Not in this weather.
The dorm, as he expected, is empty. He gets on his knees and looks beneath the beds, walks all the way to the far end, just to be sure no one is lying on the ground or hiding behind a blanket.
Nothing.
He grunts and begins to head out, ticking the next places from the list in his head: cloakroom, classroom, washroom, chap . . .