“Lastly,” Bartholomew continues, “if both of you refuse, and because I personally believe in free will, then the ones you hear above will come down here . . . and they’ll kill you both. Chop you up like kindling and feed your guts to the earth.”
Scurrying like a spider, Bartholomew skitters to Johnson on all fours, grabs a fistful of hair and raises his head. His black, swirling eyes bore into Johnson’s own, dissolving all thought, all purity. “Did you see the horses, Brother Johnson?” His voice is almost a hiss. A barely audible suggestion. “We’ll do the same to you, Teddy. We’ll carve you up and bury your bones in this fucking pit.” Bartholomew turns and spits. “Which is no more than what you deserve.”
Johnson, weary and confused, his body cold and numb, shakes his head. “No . . .” he says, disgusted at the simpering sound of his own voice.
Bartholomew lets go of Johnson’s hair, stands straight, and takes a step back. His mouth is no longer smirking, but serious, composed. When he speaks again, his tone is clipped and direct, the voice of someone used to giving orders.
“Then do what needs doing.”
There’s a howling wind rushing through Johnson’s mind. It fills him, consumes him. A screeching black storm made up of a thousand insects festers in his head, their clattering jaws and tapping legs so loud as to deafen out all thought, all rational decisions. All hope.
He’s surprised to feel himself standing.
His dull eyes shift toward the small boy in the corner, and the boy looks back.
The pounding above crescendos. Incredibly loud, impossibly fast. Bartholomew is still speaking—talking rapidly, spitting out indecipherable, guttural sounds, the words foreign. Meaningless. The old part of Johnson’s brain doesn’t understand them but, in a new way, he does understand.
He understands many things now.
His past returning. Reprisal for the things he’s done.
What waits for him behind the curtain of life. What waits for them all.
“I’ve never been baptized,” he mumbles, but Bartholomew ignores him, still spitting strange words, his eyes turned to whites.
Johnson finds himself kneeling in front of Ben. He doesn’t recall walking, but he’s here. He’s here now.
The insects crawl through his mind, his ears, his nose, his mouth. They scream their song, buzzing louder, louder. A deafening, pulsing chaos.
Ben is also screaming. Kicking and thrashing. Punching wildly.
“NO! Johnson are you MAD! Get away from me, you bastard! Get away from me!”
With a quick movement, Johnson grabs the boy’s head between his strong hands. He pulls his body toward him with a hard, decisive jerk. Ben screams, but Johnson can’t hear it. Can’t hear the begging and the tears. Can’t feel shame or remorse or guilt or indecision.
“Don’t hurt me!” Ben cries, begs, muffled against his arm. “Oh Jesus, please don’t hurt me.”
But, for Johnson, there is nothing but the storm inside his head. Nothing but the pounding terror of death crawling toward him on hands and knees, a serpent’s head on an insect body, long and deformed.
He won’t let it take him.
He won’t go beyond the veil. Not yet.
“Don’t worry, boy,” he mumbles, an unfelt tear sliding down his filthy cheek. “I’ll make it quick.”
Ben is able to shriek out one final thing before Johnson’s mind snaps and he lets himself fall into that wonderful, warm abyss, that thought-dulling void: “You can’t, Johnson, you can’t! You’ll be damned!”
He leans in, presses a muscled forearm against the boy’s throat. He wraps the other arm around the head. Holds him tight.
Then, he squeezes.
Johnson does not feel horror.
He feels relief.
He feels reborn.
The child’s cries become strangled, gagging chokes.
Johnson puts his mouth close to the small head entwined within his arms, whispers his dark secret into the dying child’s ear.
“I’m already damned.”
Part Four
Sacrifice
41
I FIND ANDREW ON HIS KNEES IN PRAYER.
He’s lined up the bodies （my God so many bodies） along the wall of the chapel. Somehow, he’s managed to procure enough linens to cover all of them, although I notice a few rough blankets, most likely taken from the priests’ beds.
At the end lies Father White, the obvious grown man among the row of children, who will never have need of a blanket again.
I look around furtively, waiting for murderous brothers to spring from hallways or spill from a doorway, screaming, knives raised, eyes filled with madness and murder.
So far, however, there’s been no sign. Byron and I made it out of the dorm without problem. Byron stayed close to me the entire time, never letting go of the bloodied hammer. I carry no weapon, which is my choice. I could never hurt another boy, a brother orphan. Not with a weapon, at least. I’d fight to survive, and I would use fists and feet if needed to defend myself, but not to kill. Not to permanently harm another.
Once we left the dorm, and David sealed the door behind us, we walked brusquely, soundlessly, down the long hallway. Our eyes never left the open and closed doors on both sides of the corridor: the washroom, the cloakroom, the classrooms. We passed each without incident, without a second attack. My heart was beating so hard I believed I felt it bumping against my ribs, pushing me to go faster, faster.
When we reached the balcony overlooking the foyer, we saw Andrew and the bodies. We stayed there a few moments, inspecting corners and shadows from above, making sure no one waited to spring out at us once we descended the stairs.
The whole thing is terrifying, and I’m grateful that Byron is with me. He’s violent and vicious, but he’s loyal, and even though I am no warrior, I’m glad to have one with me. I don’t wish anyone harm but, given what I’ve seen already this day, I am not so naïve to think the murderers care a whit for my pacifism.
They’d stab me through the heart while I prayed for their forgiveness.
But such is the nature of faith.
As we approached Andrew, I was fearful of startling him, and made a point to call his name as we came down the stairs. He stayed where he was, crouched over a corpse, offering a few last words to God, a whispered “amen” before standing and turning to greet us.
My first impression was that he looked ten years older than the man I knew, the man I’d ridden to the Hill farm and back with only a day ago.
My second impression was that he looked scared.
“Peter.” His eyes flick to Byron, noting, I’m sure, the bloody mallet, but he says nothing other than: “Hello, Byron. Are you hurt?”
“No, Father.”
Andrew nods. His eyes glance around the room. “I don’t think it’s safe here. I don’t know where the . . . where the others are. They might be outside, I suppose. They’re hiding . . .”
There’s something in Andrew’s voice that gives me pause. A shakiness I’ve never heard before. His eyes shift wildly, and I wonder if I appear as trapped and fearful as he does.
I hope not.
“Peter, tell me. What’s happening in the dormitory? How are the others?” he asks, his determination, his lucidity and command, obvious. I shake away my previous concerns. This is Andrew, after all. The very best of us.