For a moment, no one speaks. The room is stifled by shock and hostility.
Then a voice comes from behind me.
“I have a question, Father Poole.”
David curses under his breath. “Bloody hell.”
I turn to see Bartholomew approaching from the far end of the room, walking down the wide row between the cots like a duelist approaching a saber-wielding combatant. Poole draws himself up, sniffing loudly. He likely didn’t think anyone would have the nerve to ask anything, but now he is stuck with it.
Good. Let him answer.
“What is it, Bartholomew?”
Bartholomew stops a few paces from Poole. He speaks loudly, clearly.
Because he wants everyone to hear.
“I would like to know if Basil will be buried in the St. Vincent’s cemetery. In consecrated ground, I mean.”
From beside Poole, Andrew’s eyes find mine, his face a question: What is this?
I shrug.
“Yes, after the memorial, we will bury him in the cemetery,” Poole replies. “No one needs attend. Now, if that’s . . .”
“But he killed himself,” Bartholomew says sharply, interrupting Poole’s dismissal. “Thou shalt not kill. It’s a mortal sin, Father Poole. He can’t be buried in consecrated ground. He simply can’t.”
Poole looks at Bartholomew with wary, narrowing eyes. “That decision is not for you children . . .”
“But if it’s a sin, he can’t . . .”
“It is up to the priests to commune with God on how . . .”
“。 . . against God’s divine will, is it not?”
“。 . . to proceed with the burial. Now, if that is all. Goodnight.”
As Poole turns, I feel a draft of air on my face. I don’t know where it could have come from. All the windows are sealed tight.
Suddenly, the dormitory doors—open as bird wings—slam shut with such violence that the metal cross leaning against the wall drops on its face with an audible clunk.
Startled, Andrew jumps backward, bumping hard into Father White, who falls to the floor with an anguished cry. Johnson crosses himself, and Poole spins back around, face red, eyes bulging. His mouth is a snarl.
“Who did that?”
There’s laughter from somewhere in the room. All heads are turning to see who it is, including my own. I notice Bartholomew hasn’t moved. His posture hasn’t changed. His eyes are still on Poole, calm and wide and innocent. As if nothing at all strange had occurred.
“You didn’t answer my question, Father.”
Poole steps toward Bartholomew. I’ve never seen him this angry. I wonder if his vitriol is driven by fear. He points an accusing finger at the skinny, unwavering child.
“Insolence! Insolence!”
As Poole takes a step forward, another voice enters the fray. “It wasn’t suicide!”
All heads turn to a cot near the doors, right next to where Poole and the other priests are standing. My mouth drops open, and David cusses under his breath a second time. I don’t know if it’s from surprise or worry.
I put a hand on David’s arm and squeeze. I share his sentiment.
This is going to end badly.
Ben stands atop his cot, one finger pointed directly at the head priest. His face is red as Poole’s, but tear streaked. His hair is matted with sweat. He looks like an avenging spirit, singling out Poole for damnation.
Andrew, having helped White up from the floor, approaches Ben, hands raised. I know he’s trying to save him, to intercede, but I also know it’s too late.
“It was murder!” Ben shrieks, his voice grating and broken. “I seen him! He was hung, all right, but not by his own hand. And he was cut open! Cut up like a pig!”
Ben turns his accusing finger away from Poole, points it at the boys in the room.
“It was some of you who did it! It was some of you murdering bastards!”
Now many things happen at once.
Johnson, appearing like a phantom at Ben’s side, plucks the boy neatly from his cot and pushes him to the floor. The giant drops on top of him, swings a fist downward. Ben screams in pain. Andrew leaps forward, grips Johnson’s arm, tries desperately to pull him off Ben. Poole is screaming at Andrew, at Bartholomew, at everyone.
“Enough! Insolence! Lies!” He bellows each word like a command, like a condemnation from God Himself.
Astonishingly, Bartholomew is laughing. “You fool!”
Poole lunges forward. He grabs Bartholomew by the collar, pulls his body toward him with a jerk. Bartholomew’s head snaps back, but he does not resist.
Poole turns to Johnson, now facing off with Andrew, who stands, iron-spined, fists clenched, between the large man and a cowering, hunched-over Ben.
Johnson looks ready for murder.
Father Poole shoves Bartholomew toward Johnson, who grips him by the arm. “Take this one to the hole, see he goes without a blanket.”
I study Bartholomew’s face, looking for signs of fear, of protest, of pain.
But he only smiles. It’s as if . . . as if he knew this would happen. As if he wanted chaos. As if it was all planned.
Poole stabs a finger at Ben, still huddled on the floor, sniveling against the wall, all his temerity and anger emptied like an overturned cup. “Take that one, as well.”
Ben leaps to his feet, eyes wide as saucers, and runs to the corner of the room. I’ve never seen such pure terror in a human face. “NO!”
Johnson, still gripping Bartholomew in one hand, stares at Andrew. “You heard him,” he says. Reluctantly, painfully, Andrew steps aside.
Johnson doesn’t wait. He reaches for Ben, tugs him from the corner so hard it’s a wonder his arm doesn’t come off. The boy’s legs collapse and he drops to the floor. Johnson drags him like a mop as he screams.
“No! No, Father, please! Oh God, oh God no, not with him, Father! Not with him!”
Andrew’s face is in his hands. White is shaking badly but manages to open one of the dormitory doors.
Ben fights with such fervor that Johnson is forced to let go of Bartholomew who, in a last bit of strangeness, begins walking ahead, through the open door, into the hallway. His chin is held high, his strides are easy, relaxed. He turns toward Johnson and speaks evenly, as if describing the weather.
“I’ll walk, Brother Johnson. You won’t get trouble from me.”
Johnson grunts as he yanks Ben again. The boy is screaming as if he’s being murdered before our very eyes, burned by flames we cannot see.
I’m standing, as is David. As are all the boys, I think. I have no recollection of getting up, but I am. I badly want to do something, anything. I feel helpless. I can only watch in horror.
“Father Poole! I swear on my soul I’ll be good! Oh Father, please! Don’t put me in the hole with him. He ain’t right, Father. He ain’t . . .” He’s wailing now, inconsolable. Broken. He points at Bartholomew, leading the way, already disappearing into the gloom of the hall. “Oh, please. Not with HIM!”
And then he’s gone. Through the doorway, dragged into the dark. His screaming and begging grow echoey and distant, as if he’s not being pulled down a hallway but through a portal to hell itself. It’s the only sound I can equate it to. The whole thing is a nightmare.
Poole turns back toward the room almost wearily. His face, though deeply lined with exhaustion and slick with sweat, is composed once more. The room is deathly quiet.