They look like animals. Eager and vicious. Hungry.
Like wolves, Johnson thinks, ignoring the stabs of pain the swarm delivers. They look like fucking wolves.
Bartholomew turns around and glares at Johnson once more. When he speaks, he looks directly into Johnson’s ruined face, even though the words are meant for all of them.
“But first, we have a lot to do here,” he says quietly, showing teeth as he grins.
The boys stand, almost as one.
Their laughter is gone, the good humor has vanished. They’re all about the business of death now, and God help those who stand in their path.
“Before the sun rises, we will finish our work.”
49
THE ARGUMENT STARTED SOON AFTER JONATHAN’S arrival.
It was sparked by the news that Brother Johnson is, quite possibly, helping the others.
Andrew did not take the news well. He wants to immediately leave the relative safety of the dorm, sneak down and see if Poole is okay, then try to discover if there is any truth to the rumor about Johnson.
David and I, for once, are on the same side. We both know it is a terrible idea. And, from David’s perspective, a selfish one.
“You can’t leave!” David says, too loudly for my taste. I don’t want him waking the ones who have managed to sleep.
We’ve taken our discussion to the farthest end of the room, as far from the beds as we can. At the opposite end, Jonathan and Finnegan have taken over watch at the barred doors.
“You’re the only adult we have left. The only priest,” David pleads, desperate to keep Andrew from abandoning us. “If Peter wants to be responsible for a dozen kids, that’s up to him, but it’s not fair to force it on us.”
“David, please try to understand, I need to check on Father Poole. I can’t just leave him down there if he’s in danger.”
“We’re in danger, damn you!” David snaps.
Andrew turns a shade of red and I see he’s getting heated. I don’t see him angry often, but I know when it’s building, and know to leave well enough alone when it is.
He’s not a good priest when he’s angry.
“And what should we do, David?” he says, his voice almost as loud as David’s, both failing in their efforts to keep their voices down. “Sit up here cowering until spring?”
David’s anger slips away like a hat blown off in the wind. He looks at Andrew with surprised, blinking eyes. “You said until morning,” he says softly.
I nod along. Both because it’s true and, in my opinion, the correct move.
Leaving is madness.
They could be anywhere.
“I’m sorry, David,” Andrew replies, gripping his crozier like a talisman, as if it will do any good against knives and other weapons, against Brother Johnson. “I don’t mean to snap at you. It’s just . . . boys, I can’t let them hurt Poole. I can’t stand by and do nothing if Johnson is . . . God help us . . . helping them. That would alter our chances . . . well, it would change things dramatically for the worse.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Byron says, then bows his head. “Sorry, Father.”
Andrew ignores the curse. I’m not even sure he heard it.
I take a moment to study the small leadership group remaining to St. Vincent’s Orphanage. Me, a sixteen-year-old priest-in-training, who would rather read strange fictions and kiss a lovely farmgirl than wear a cassock and serve God.
David, a rascal if there ever was one. A street rat turned orphan turned leader of children. I know for a fact he is out of his moral depth, fighting against his instincts for survival at every turn. If it weren’t for the storm, I doubt he’d still be standing beside me through this . . . Or would he? I wonder now if I’ve made the right assessment about him. He’s full of surprises, my friend.
Then there’s Byron, the stocky brawler whose fierce devotion to me would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so touching. Not to mention comforting, given the level of violence we’ve been put up against. Not only does he seem calm, he also seems perfectly fit into his element. War suits him.
And, last in our circle, Father Andrew Francis. My friend and mentor. My surrogate father. It’s fascinating to watch the conflict broiling within him, the struggle between defending and attacking. Between praying for deliverance and taking to the halls with his crozier to battle the demons at our doors with holy fury.
We are conflicted, we four. Our flipped assumptions and twisting devotions swirl within us with the same veracity and ferociousness as the storm beating and howling outside the windows.
I like to hope that, ultimately, these tests of character will strengthen us, versus weaken; that these storms of conflict, of struggle, will brighten our inner light and make us beacons to those in need, and not darken our minds, hurl us into madness and despair, lead us to defeat and certain death.
I’d like to hope a lot of things.
“Andrew,” I say. “If you go, and something happens to you . . .”
“Then you do what you’re already doing,” he answers, and I can see the argument is lost. “You keep those doors barred, you stay here until daylight. Then you find a way to the Hill farm, one of you anyway, and you bring help. I’m sorry, men.”
He leans the crozier against a wall carefully, puts a hand on each of our shoulders, looks into our eyes. “I am sorry. About all of this. I know you are scared. And I know how unfair all of this is, but I need you two to lead while I am gone. I need you to stop being boys, and become the men I know you already are, inside and out. Not everyone gets a choice as to when they are forced to grow up, but this moment, this day, is yours. You must meet the challenge.”
He releases us, grips his crozier once more, and smiles. It breaks my heart.
“You are God’s instruments now. Be strong. Be compassionate. Be brave. The Lord will give you strength.”
I don’t look at David, but at the ground. I nod, wipe away a lone tear.
I know how this will end.
For his part, David says nothing, but I can feel the answer in his posture; I sense his defeat, his acquiescence to Andrew’s wish.
“Besides,” Andrew says lightly. “Peter’s basically a priest. It was only a matter of his final assessment, and then a brief ceremony. A ceremony that was already being planned, I might add.”
I look up, startled. For the briefest of moments, the danger is forgotten. “What?”
“Peter? A priest?” Byron says, and taps my arm with a fist. “Attaboy, Peter.”
“I’d already spoken to Poole about it,” Andrew says. He speaks to all of us, but I know he’s also speaking directly to me. Likely wondering how I will react. “It was all worked out.”
I stare at him, see the obvious joy in his eyes.
I wonder if he can see the betrayal in mine.
“I was going to tell you in a week or so, Peter, once we’d gotten you better versed on some of the Latin. Now you know why I was pushing you so hard lately.” He laughs.
Even David looks pleasantly astonished. “How about that,” he says, and puts an arm around my shoulders. He’s never done that before. “Saint Peter for real.”
“Only a matter of some pomp and the Ordination. A few simple words,” Andrew says, pride shining on me, a light that exposes my every shadow, my every deceit. “Anyway,” he says. “There will be time for all that. I promise. But right now . . .”