David’s head jerks around and our eyes meet. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. I can read his look easily.
He’s telling me that he’s sorry.
59
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. DON’T KNOW WHAT TO TELL the others, how to comfort them. I only know we can’t stay here, in this attic crawlspace filling with smoke and fire.
There must be another way.
“We need to go back down!” I yell above the increasingly loud crackle of burning wood; the sounds of hungry fire and the occasional BANG or POP of furniture being consumed from down below. I don’t bother looking to David for confirmation, the smoke is too severe and I’m beginning to feel the first plucks of panic on my nerves. I turn around, take two steps.
And stop.
Oh no.
Bartholomew stands in the crawlspace, a hunched shadow blocking our way to the trapdoor, as if he’s Cerberus guarding the gates to Hades. The hatch, still open, glows from below in pulsing reds and oranges; rising cat tails of smoke curling, twisting up from behind him. He smiles, showing black teeth. His eyes are red as embers.
“Hello Peter,” he says, and raises an ornate, silver knife in his hand. He points it at my heart. “Appears you boys are in quite the pickle.”
I take a step forward, trying to peel my eyes away from the blade, from his horrid eyes. “Move out of the way, Bartholomew.” I try to sound commanding again, but the gift of divine authority is as fleeting as it is unreliable.
Something to hone, I imagine. Over time. That voice of one who is certain of things, who knows what’s right. Who knows what’s best. In the end, I revert to the boy I am. A pugnacious child. A cheap imitation of a savior. “I said move, goddamn it!” I take another step toward him, and it does me good to see him flinch. “Move or I’ll move you, you murdering bastard!”
Bartholomew’s eyes go wide in mock surprise, and he laughs. Composing himself, now it’s he who takes a half-step forward.
I feel a hand pressing me gently from behind.
Byron speaks calmly, but the words only increase my panic. “It’s getting too hot, Peter. Let me do it,” he says, trying to move around me.
I shift, blocking his path.
We’re running out of room, and we’re running out of time.
“Come, Peter,” Bartholomew says, and he’s not laughing anymore. He’s snarling. His feet are balanced, and he’s lowered the knife to his side, taunting me.
Daring me.
“Come and find your God!”
I spring forward, hoping to catch him off guard. I run right at him—two steps, three—and start to grab for the knife with one hand and his throat with the other. For a moment, I think I have him. He wavers. His eyes widen.
Then he bows neatly, so quick I can barely trace his movement.
I reach for his knife hand, and find air.
I reach for a throat, but he is gone, tucked down low.
Thrusting upward.
The pain is a hundred-fold what I could have ever imagined. The sharp blade slides easily into my stomach. I can feel it puncturing through tissue, through my insides, as he drives it deeper.
His hot breath slithers into my ear like poison.
“You were right, you know. About me, about us,” he says, and I feel the blade slide out of my body. My hand instinctively goes to the wound, and blood escapes like warm water between my fingers. He talks quickly, joyfully. “You think you’re holy, that you’re strengthened by the divine, but you’re nothing. You’re a pathetic little boy playing dress up.” He kisses my cheek, and I can almost feel the burning hate of his smile next to my ear. “And now, Peter, it’s time to die. But first, you’re going to watch me kill every last one them.”
He pulls away from me and, with a gasping breath, I drop to my knees.
“Peter!”
I don’t know who screams my name. My ears are rushing with sound, as if a hole has been blown open in my mind and a black ocean is now pouring through, filling me with death.
“God help me,” I say, and manage to turn my head as Bartholomew steps past me, unconcerned, knife at his side, dripping with my blood.
The remains of my brothers are huddled together. Byron and David have put themselves in front of the younger ones, shoulder-to-shoulder. I know they’ll fight, but they won’t survive.
None of them will survive.
I look at Bartholomew’s back as he steps away and I see black smoke rising from his body that has nothing to do with this earthly blaze. It is the evil inside of him smoldering. The demon’s stench leaking through his flesh.
My thinking goes fuzzy, and the roaring in my ears goes silent. Instead, all I hear is the pounding of my heart. The throbbing beat fills my head. I visualize it pushing more blood through me, out of me. Saving me. Killing me.
I find myself travelling.
I am no longer in this attic.
I’m home. In our family cabin. I’m at the table with my mother and father, who are laughing. Laughing at something silly I’ve done with my food. I don’t know what it is, I’m only an infant, but I love that they’re happy. I love that they’re laughing.
Then I’m gone, and I’m walking through a field with Andrew. A memory that’s only a few days old. He’s telling me about priesthood. About what it means to live for something other than yourself.
He tells me I have a choice.
This life of the flesh, which is over in the blink of an eye, or your eternal life with God.
We stop walking. I smell the rough wheat, the sweetness of the tall grass. A golden sun sits on the horizon and Andrew is alive and happy. Radiant.
When he speaks to me, his voice is strong, resonant.
If you can sacrifice this life for the other, then you will know more joy than you can possibly imagine. A joy that will last for eternity.
I want to hug him, to tell him that I’ll always love him as a son loves his father.
Tell him I miss him. Tell him that I tried.
I’m not a fool. I know no amount of words or blessings can save me, no more than they can transform me into something more than I am. But priest or not, blessed or not, I must do what I feel is right. I must believe in something. Even if it’s only myself.
“Come on!” David yells, and I’m thrust back into the narrow, smoke-filled attic.
“Help me, Father,” I whisper. “Give me strength.”
I put a hand on the attic floor and slowly push myself upward. My insides cry out, but there is strength in my legs, and there is strength in my arms, up my back and across my shoulders. The hand not holding my wound is curled into a tight fist.
David sees me rise but keeps it to himself. His eyes flick from Bartholomew to me.
I am light. I say it again and again. A mantra. I am light. I am light.
There is light all around me.
There is light inside me.
I raise a hand so David can see it clearly. I turn it, fingers straight up and flattened, then motion it to one side. I pray David understands. Still, he says nothing, but I see a flicker of comprehension in his eyes. I notice him grip the shirt of Timothy behind him.
“Demon!” I cry out, and am gratified when Bartholomew spins. I relish the shock in his face, take courage from the fear in his eyes.
“Your time here is done,” I say, and charge.
This time, he truly is caught off guard.