Poole shrieks in agony until, finally, Bartholomew releases his hand, wipes it on the bed. “I need you quiet, Father. I need you supple. I need to tell you things. I need to whisper things to you.” He grins. “Think of it as a type of communion.”
Poole’s face, pale and stricken, turns to stare directly at Johnson, who feels caught in the old man’s eyes. Trapped. “Johnson . . . for God’s sake, help me.”
The swarm swells—the sound it makes is deafening. There is a mad, insane clamoring in his head, a division of his mind, his reason torn apart by a million legs, ingested by thousands of black mouths. He shuts his eyes and moans, presses his hands to his ears.
Listen!
LISTEN!
Johnson nods, and obeys.
From one heartbeat to the next, the intensifying sound of the swarm becomes muted, soft and warm. He lowers his hands. He has pissed himself but does not know it, would not care if he did. He smiles, keeps his eyes closed, falls into the dark warmth.
“I’m sorry, Father, but Brother Johnson is with us now. That must be disappointing, given how much you’ve done for him. But your God is weak, is he not? We are so much stronger.” Bartholomew’s voice is distant, dreamlike. “You have no idea how strong we are.”
Johnson hears the creak of metal, the rustle of sheets. A few boys begin murmuring in a dull rhythm. Something hits his face, falls into his lap.
He opens his eyes to see a stained, brown sack.
Bartholomew, ignoring Poole for the moment, turns his back on the priest and stares at Johnson instead. His eyes are gleeful and cunning, and he holds a brightly lit lantern. “Brother Johnson, please pay attention. That hood in your lap was left behind by a dead man, thrown into a corner and forgotten. Can you believe it? And now it’s yours, Johnson. Aren’t you lucky? Aren’t you thankful?”
Johnson looks down at the sack. His thick, trembling fingers clutch it, feel the stiffness of dried, dark stains, the coarseness of the weave. Thankful . . . he thinks, not knowing what to do with the word, so he leaves it.
“Put it over your head, Teddy.”
Johnson’s eyes lift to Bartholomew in surprise. The boy is now kneeling beside him, black eyes intent, wide irises flickering in the lamplight. “Put it on now.”
Johnson doesn’t hesitate. He finds the sack’s opening with his fingers, then lifts it and slides it down over his head. The stench is intense and instant. His tongue flicks out, tastes the sour fabric. He grimaces and studies the room from within his mask. The weave is loose, and it’s as if he’s peering through a veil. He can see shapes. Bodies. There is sight, but no clarity.
He glories in it.
“Let me show you something, Father Poole,” Bartholomew is saying. “Let me show you an example of our strength, so that you do not doubt.”
“May God rebuke thee! May he cast you back to Hell!” Poole shrieks.
“Keep praying, Father. Keep praying. But please, watch while you do so.”
Something cold and syrupy-thick spills onto Johnson’s head, onto the mask, from above. It seeps through the cloth, instantly soaks his hair, slides across his scalp, leaks down his temples, into his eyes. It reaches his lips. He opens his mouth and licks his top lip, wanting to taste it. It’s bitter.
The boys are all murmuring louder. Their chant mixes with the sound of the swarm and Johnson is blinking away the oil and he badly wants to stay inside this dark place forever because it feels safe, like a mother’s womb, like a lover’s embrace.
“Watch now,” Bartholomew says.
Johnson sees the dark, distorted shape of Bartholomew stand. The light in his hand diminishes, then grows bright. It fills his eyes!
Pain explodes as the lantern smashes into his head. The oil catches rapidly and blazes against his skin. In a matter of seconds, the fire eats away his hair, his eyes, his lips.
Johnson screams! He leaps to his feet, slaps his head. The flesh of his fingers and palms become singed, the skin blisters and burns. He pulls them away, still screaming, panic and fear and pain bursting through every nerve, boiling his blood.
He runs, directionless, wanting to be anywhere but with this pain—desperate to get away from the flames.
He slams face-first into a wall and is knocked backward. Sharp edges and hard blows begin punching his back, his hips, his arms. He is spinning, knocking into unseen objects and shrieking in desperation, crying out madly from the pain.
Everyone around him is also screaming, but these are screams of laughter, of hysterical joy. God, there are so many voices!
And the swarm swells like a mighty host behind his scalded eyes and it begins to sing—a jubilant, buzzing chorus made of a thousand shrieking voices, rising to a maddening crescendo as he burns.
44
I KNOCK LIGHTLY AT THE DORMITORY DOORS, HOLDING my breath. I can’t quit looking behind me toward the long, empty hallway. I wonder what happened to the bodies of those that fell on our mad run only hours ago. George. Jonathan.
Andrew stands beside me, looking apprehensive.
After our return from the barn, he insisted on going to the chapel once more. I waited at the bottom of the stairs, too terrified to go with him and wanting an escape route—either up the stairs or out the front doors—if attacked.
When Andrew re-entered the foyer, he carried a heavy-looking crozier, the top hooked into a flat spiral, the design supported by heavy knobs welded into the staff. It’s taller than Andrew and appears to be made of iron, or some dark metal, although the top—that strange spiral—is painted dull gold. A good weapon for a priest, I suppose, if that’s his intention.
Standing at the barred doors, waiting for the blasted kids to answer, I’m glad he has it.
Finally, a voice comes from the other side.
“Who is it?”
David.
“It’s me and Andrew. Open the damn . . .” I sense Andrew turn his head toward me, and steady my voice. “Open the doors, please.” I finish.
Several muffled voices talk at once. The sound of metal sliding away. One of the doors is pulled open, and David stands there. Behind him are several boys, including Byron.
All of them are armed.
I push through and Andrew follows.
“Anyone ch-ch-chasing you?” Timothy asks. He’s got a folding ruler in his hands.
“Where did you get that?” I ask, slightly amused.
He looks abashed, turns to David, who answers for him.
“We raided the classroom for, uh . . .” He looks to Andrew, who raises his eyebrows but says nothing. “Well, weapons. To defend ourselves.”
“A smart idea, David,” Andrew says. “As you can see, I raided the priest’s cabinet.” He holds forth the crozier, and a few of the boys nod, some wide-eyed, as if seeing something holy in our crummy dormitory is somehow awe-inspiring. Andrew reaches into a pouch of his cassock and pulls out a glass vial, covered in spun silver, a cork stopper at the top. Part of the silver is woven into a cross.
Holy water.
“No offense, Father,” David says. “But what’s water good for against knives and hammers?’
Andrew inspects the bottle a moment, as if considering. “Well,” he says, smiling at all the boys in turn. “Can’t hurt, right?” I’m not surprised to see a few of us nodding.