“We count fourteen, Andrew,” I say. “That includes me and David, and of course Byron here.”
Andrew nods, doing the numbers in his head.
“How many?” I ask.
He looks at me, not understanding at first. Then he sees my eyes lingering on the white shapes lining the floor behind him. “Oh . . .” He lets out a held, shaky breath. “Nine boys. And Father White . . . those poor children.”
He covers his face with both hands for a moment, sniffs loudly.
“Andrew?”
When he removes his hands, his eyes are watery, he looks ill.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’ll be fine, Peter. This is all just a shock.”
I nod, and share a quick look with Byron, who seems more unsettled every second we stand here talking. Exposed. “What about the other priests, Andrew? Where are Poole and Johnson? It would help if the children could see a priest, an adult.”
“Poole is resting in his chamber,” he says. “His leg was badly wounded and it’s difficult for him to walk. I told him to lock the door and I pray he did. I don’t know where Brother Johnson is. I looked in his room, in the kitchen, but he’s not there. I don’t know where he is . . .”
“What about those kitchen folks?” Byron says, pointing toward the dining hall with the bloodied hammer.
I notice Andrew staring sickly at the weapon. He swallows, then replies. “Gone.”
“Huh?” Byron says, and I share his confusion.
“Do you think they went to get help?” I ask. “Maybe with Brother Johnson?”
Andrew’s face goes slack, his expression vacant. Part of me wants to take his hand and sit him down. Get him some tea, or some wine, until the shock wears off. The other part of me wants to shake him, tell him to keep it together. He’s the only adult we have right now, and we need him. I certainly don’t want to be alone with this. I can’t do it alone.
“Father?” I say, more sharply than is polite, or friendly, but I do get his attention. His eyes focus once more, and he seems to have, temporarily at least, found his wits.
“I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Okay. We need a plan, yes? Peter, I think you should go to the Hill farm. Tell John what’s happened. Get as much help as you can, as quickly as you can, and come back. Do you feel up to that? You’re the only one who knows the way.”
I have a flash of Grace’s face in my mind, then quickly push it away, feeling ashamed. I instead focus on the road I’d need to take through the increasingly heavy snow. I mentally tick off the landmarks that would still be visible despite the snowfall. I’m sure I can do it. Regardless, I’m confident the horses will know the way.
“Okay,” I say. Suddenly, I’m eager to be off, to get help. To take action. I want to tell Andrew what I know, what I believe, but I don’t see what good it would do except to frighten Byron. Right now, getting help is the best idea. What comes after that, will come.
“Good.” Andrew turns to Byron. “I want you to go into the chapel and help out the two boys resting in there. One has a badly twisted ankle and will need assistance getting to the dorm. The other, Paul, has a bad cut to the eye. I’m sorry to say he’ll lose it, despite my best efforts. Both of them are together. I wanted them in there in case. Well . . .”
“In case the others returned,” Byron says, nodding. “They could bar the doors. Smart.” Byron’s clinical, emotionless tone is a restorative tonic amidst all the fear and turmoil.
“Thank you,” Andrew replies, smiling genuinely for the first time since we arrived. “Can you get them both safely to the dormitory?”
I notice, once again, Andrew’s eyes flick to the mallet.
“Yes, Father,” Byron says. “I think the upstairs is clear. At least we didn’t see anyone whilst coming to you. My guess is they’re all together somewhere, regrouping. Maybe the barn, maybe the storage room, maybe someplace we haven’t thought of.”
He shrugs as if the idea of ten boys hiding somewhere plotting murder is the most natural thing in the world, and I want to hug him for being stalwart. His bravery is contagious, and I make a note to myself to show the same trait around the others, as best I’m able, anyway. It may bring comfort.
“Then go, please, and thank you. Peter, I’ll help you saddle one of the horses so you can ride to the farm. Then I’ll come back and meet up with the other boys in the dormitory.”
Without so much as a glance back, Byron heads for the chapel. Andrew and I begin walking for the front doors, when he turns back. “And Byron?”
Byron stops at the chapel entrance. From across the large foyer, I see him not as some great protector, but as the child he is. A brave, but frightened, little boy.
“When you get them safe, stay put.” Then, to me: “Are the doors secured?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good,” Andrew says, then raises his voice toward Byron once more. “And whatever you do, don’t open them for anyone but Peter or myself.” Byron nods a final time, then disappears into the chapel.
Andrew’s hand clutches at my sleeve. His eyes are haunted.
“I don’t know who we can trust anymore,” he says quietly, and I nod, knowing exactly how he feels.
42
A FEW MINUTES LATER, THEY FIND THE HORSES.
Andrew is staggered by the brutality of it; still reeling from the events in the chapel, all that death . . . and now this. Butchered, he thinks, for there’s no other way to describe what had been done to the animals.
Peter, badly shaken, stumbles away from the stalls. He leans a hand against a wall and vomits whatever meager sustenance may still reside in his stomach. The sound of flies fills the air with the humming tune of death.
Finally, Andrew backs away, walks over to Peter. “Are you okay?” he asks. Peter wipes his mouth and nods, his face deathly pale in the barn’s dim light. Together, they walk back toward the main doors—and it’s only now that Andrew realizes how strange it was to have found them already open.
Perhaps Brother Johnson was here? Or, I suppose, whoever did that to those poor animals. I’ll need to be more careful—more wary—if I’m to get through this alive, if I’m to help the children get through it. I can’t withstand any more death, please God, no more.
“Andrew?” Peter’s voice is steady, eager. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, as if judging its cruelty. “Perhaps I can walk to the farm.”
Peter’s bravery gives Andrew hope, but he is already shaking his head, having already thought of the option and dismissed it. Even if the boy wasn’t undernourished, it would be too much of a challenge. Too large of a risk. “No, it’s getting late, and dark,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Maybe if it was morning, but now . . . you could easily get lost if the storm gets much worse. I think the odds would be stacked against you.”
Nothing to do about it now, and we must get back to the dorm, he thinks. Figure out a way to reach help. Perhaps Johnson will return . . .
Andrew readies to close the doors when Peter speaks again, his voice firm in the shadowy recesses of the barn, as if he’d been building up the will to ask the question. “Father, what happened the other night? To the man brought by the sheriff. The one who died.”