I’ve had more nightmares about that painting than I can count, although mostly when I was younger and more susceptible to such things. I never told Andrew about them, fearing he’d restrict my usage of this part of the library, where only priests are allowed, and I would never forgive myself for having that access rescinded.
Still, it’s a horrible, loathsome thing. I’ve tried, over the years, to find out more about the priest who painted it, but Andrew is either uninformed or uninterested in that part of the orphanage’s history, and has little to say.
Sitting here now, the painting has a certain power over my mood, my thoughts. I have to force my eyes to turn away, force myself to focus on my lessons.
I take a moment to study Andrew, who sits across from me, quiet and pensive. We’re stationed in our usual places at one of the stout study tables, the same one we sit at every time during my daily tutoring, my training for priesthood.
Sensing his aloofness and distracted nature, I debate if now might be the right time to reveal my decision.
When he looks up at me, however, his eyes once again focused and alert, I simply lower my gaze to the book in front of me and keep my mouth shut tight, my revelations to myself. I’m not ready. Especially not with things being so tumultuous, with the death of poor Basil and the strangeness surrounding some of the boys. No, it feels trite. Unimportant. Plus, I know it will break his heart, and I’d rather wait until things are better, when whatever is infecting our orphanage, and its inhabitants, has withdrawn back into the dark from where it came.
The book open on the table is in Latin, a language I’ve learned slowly over many years of study. I can read most of it, and speak a lot of it, but for some reason have trouble writing it. When I try, the words stop holding meaning, the structure of the sentences fall apart in my mind. Luckily, there is little need for that aspect. As a priest, reading and speaking the old language is enough, and even that, in my opinion, is an archaic trait of the priesthood that is more about tradition than knowledge, more about rite than helping others grow closer to God. So much of religion is ceremony that I sometimes wonder if priests like Poole have become so entwined with the process that they’ve forgotten the spirit behind it. The idea saddens me, but also emboldens my decision not to pursue the cloth.
I certainly have no desire to become a priest—or person—such as Poole. I don’t want to be a disciple of protocol. Perhaps, as a normal man, I might continue to grow in my spiritual life, even if I’m not able to wear the garments, or be empowered to speak the proper blessings. I will pray, however, for myself, for Grace, and for the life we choose to live. That will be enough.
“Credis in Deum Patrem omnipotentum, Creatorem caeli et terrae?”
“Credo. Good,” Andrew says, concentrating on my words, waiting for the next mistake.
“Credis in Jesum Christum Filium ejus unicum, Dominum nostrum, natum, et pasum?”
“Credo . . .”
“Credis et in Spiritum Sanctum, santam Ecclesiam Catholicam . . . Sanctorum communionem, remissionem pecatorum, carnis res . . .” I read the word again, but the pronunciation won’t come. I’m tired, and after the events of the last twenty-four hours, incredibly distracted. I can’t stop thinking about Basil, about Ben being dragged away . . .
“Carnis resurrectionem, et vitam aeternam?” Andrew says.
Without warning, I find myself enraged at Andrew for correcting me, for being here reading this stupid dead language, for not saving Basil’s life. I slam the book closed. “Maybe you should read the damn thing.”
“Peter!”
I sit back, scowling. The outburst is completely unlike me. Well, unlike me as I am today, at least. As a child, I was constantly pushing back on my lessons, many times flustering Andrew in the process. Now I just feel foolish. Like a sulking child. But I don’t care. It’s silly to be learning Latin given all that’s happened, and especially ridiculous given I’ll never be using it.
I cross my arms, hold myself tight.
“It’s a stupid language,” I mumble, and a second wave of foolishness sweeps over me.
Andrew almost smiles. I’m sure part of him is amused by my outburst, but I know he’s also concerned for me, for the others. Everything that’s happened these last few days has been hard on him, as well. I drop my arms, force myself to soften.
“I’m sorry, Andrew. I’m acting out, I suppose.”
“It’s all right, Peter. Today hasn’t been easy.” He thinks a moment, studying me. “Still, you’re doing very well, you know. You’re nearly ready.”
“Except for the whole Latin part,” I say, but try to keep my tone light.
He laughs at this, nods. “There is work to be done, no doubt. But like I said, it’s been a trying day, and I know you’re hungry and tired and upset, as we all are.” He leans forward, brows furrowed. “If you want to talk about Basil, we can talk about it. I know you loved him. I did, as well. What happened . . .” he shakes his head. “Was horrible. It defies reason.”
I uncross my arms, let out a breath. “I’m fine, Father. It’s horrible, like you say. And sad. But . . . there’s more.”
Not now. Not yet.
I won’t tell him yet.
“Oh?” he says, and sits back in his chair, waiting.
I hesitate, choose my words with care.
“It’s like there’s a dark seed buried inside me, something I can’t extract with any amount of prayer. I can feel it growing, Andrew. I can feel it taking root, and it frightens me. When I recall what happened to Basil, or to the boys being taken away to that hideous pit . . . I feel that black seed swelling, pulsing like a second heart inside my chest. It feeds me dark, terrible thoughts. It makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Evil.”
For a moment, Andrew says nothing. He runs a finger across his unshaven chin, a thing he does often when thinking on a problem. I give him whatever time he needs. It’s not an easy thing to share, and I’m interested—hopeful—for his prognosis.
Finally, he takes a breath, folds his arms on the table, and finds my eyes with his own.
“First of all,” he says evenly, “be careful you don’t confuse evil with despair. One reason tragedy exists is to teach us how to help others, help others learn how to find a way through their own dark time, through a journey of growth. As a priest, you must always be in the light, Peter. You must find courage inside yourself when you feel there is none. It is in these darkest moments that you will discover your true self. When you do that, when you discover this new you through life’s most difficult trials, only then will you find salvation. Only then will you lead others to that same salvation, guide them safely along their own dark paths. Do you understand?”
I nod because I understand most of what he’s trying to tell me. I also nod because I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m hungry, I’m exhausted; my body and mind desperately crave sleep.
Andrew stands, sensing my obvious weariness. “That’s enough for tonight. Why don’t you go on to bed. Check on the others for me, will you?”
“Yes, of course.”
And I will. I am beginning to feel that it’s expected of me, now. Not by the priests, but by the other children. In many ways, I am the only one they have to truly look out for them.