by Hannah Tinti
There was weeping at the other end of the small boys’ room. Ren listened for a few moments, and then slid his book carefully underneath the blanket. The other boys began to stir; he could hear one or two mumbling, half-asleep. Brom sat up and shouted for quiet. Another boy cursed. Then someone got out from under his covers. Ren could hear the footsteps crossing the floor. There was a moment when all the children held their breath, and then a loud, hard smack. The crying stopped, and the footsteps returned to bed.
They were all awake now, staring up into the darkness of the rafters, listening. The children took turns crying at night. It was only a matter of time before another boy began. And when those small sounds started, Ren knew that it would be hours before he could read again.
He shut the book and closed his eyes. He imagined the wishing stone resting at the bottom of the well. He had held it, even if it was for only a moment. Ren pulled his hand into a fist, trying to remember the shape. He could feel the blood pulsing there, underneath the skin, and for a moment the heat of the stone was against his fingertips again, all of his possible wishes spread out before him. Ren moved his hand into the moonlight and slowly opened it, half-expecting the stone to reappear. But there was no magic in the small boys’ room that night. Only Ren’s open palm, empty and cooling in the dark. A few rows over, another boy began to cry, and Ren pressed his face into his pillow. He was glad he’d thrown the stone away. Now no one would ever be able to wish on it again.
FOUR
Brother Peter’s classes took place each day in the front room of the monastery. What these classes were meant to teach the boys varied on the occasion and, it seemed, the weather. On rainy days he pulled out maps and talked about where things were in the world. When the sun was out, he recited poetry. In the snow he removed an abacus from his desk and discussed numbers. And when the wind was strong he did nothing at all, but simply stared out the windows at the trees blowing back and forth.
It had been decided that the brothers must give the children some knowledge; at the very least enough language to read the Bible, and enough arithmetic so that the Protestants could not cheat them. Why this task of education was given to Brother Peter the boys did not know, for more often than not he would simply rest his forehead on the table before him and ignore the children completely. Much of what the boys had learned had been transferred from child to child like a disease, and mostly concerned bits of New England history: minutemen and the North Bridge, Giles Corey and Crispus Attucks.
Today the boys practiced writing and rewriting psalms on tiny bits of slate, which they passed around and shared. The psalm was 118, verse 8: It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in man. Brother Peter had just put his head on the table when the boys began to whisper and point out the window. Ren looked up from the words spelled out before him. There was a stranger crossing the yard.
The man wore glasses. He had straw-colored hair tied with a ribbon that made him look like a student. He had no hat, but he was wearing boots and a long dark coat with a turned-up collar, like a coachman’s. Brother Joseph was leading the man toward the priory, and the children watched as the stranger paused in his step for a moment and leaned to one side, as if his leg pained him. He had a slight build, and before he slipped into the building, Ren could see that his hands were pale and thin. He was no farmer.
Fifteen minutes later Brother Joseph burst into the classroom, out of breath, his robe stained down the front with wine. He scanned the room of boys and said the words they were all waiting for: “Get to the statue.”
Ren scrambled out of the room and dashed toward Saint Anthony, feeling somehow that his luck was running out ahead of him. He took his place in line along with the other boys. Brother Joseph passed in front, tucking in shirts and fixing collars, while across the yard the door to the priory opened.
Father John approached the children with the same uncomfortable posture he took before beating them. In one hand he held some papers. The other was tucked into his sleeve, which meant he was carrying his switch. The stranger followed at a short distance, his long coat trailing in the dirt.
He was a young man, his face rugged and handsome, his ears a bit too large for his head. When he came to the statue of Saint Anthony, he folded his arms and leaned against it. He looked at the boys over the top of his glasses. His eyes were blue, summer-sky blue, the bluest eyes that Ren had ever seen.
“This is Mister Nab,” said Father John. He glanced at the paper in his hand, then turned to stare at the stranger, who was now standing on one foot and twirling his ankle in the air.
“Old war wound,” the man said. “When the weather turns cold, it aches a bit.” He put his foot back on the ground, stomped it once, then once again, and opened his mouth into a broad, bright, beaming smile. It was winning, and he turned it with force, first on the priest, then on the line of boys.
Father John collected himself and turned back to the paper. “Mister Nab is looking for his brother, who was sent this way as an infant. He says that he is approximately eleven years of age—is that correct?”
“I believe so. Although it’s been so long now it’s hard to remember.”
“Well,” said Father John, pausing for a moment. Ren could see that he was losing his patience. “Do any of these boys look familiar?”
Benjamin Nab stepped forward and gave each of the children a thorough going-over. He seemed to be looking for something, but it was hard to say what it was, for with each boy he searched in a different place. He took hold of their chins and tilted their faces into the light. He felt their necks, measured the length of their brows with his finger, and twice lifted a patch of brown hair to his nose.
“Too short,” he said to one boy.
“Too tall,” he said to another.
“Show me your tongue.” Marcus stretched it out into the sunlight, and the man considered it, then shook his head again.
Ren could sense the twins fidgeting next to him. Brom’s hands were clenched into fists. Ichy lined up his feet perfectly. But Benjamin Nab did not even take the time to examine them. He moved farther around, as if he knew their bad luck and was afraid of catching it. Then he came to Ren.
Benjamin Nab poked the boy once in the shoulder. It was a hard poke, as if he’d caught Ren sleeping.
“You look like a little man.”
It was said like a compliment, but Ren was worried it might mean something else. He knew that he was smaller than the other boys. Benjamin Nab stepped forward, his blue eyes passing over every inch of Ren’s face, neck, and shoulders. Ren waited, his heart hammering in his chest. He stood as straight as a board. He tried to flex as the man reached down and squeezed his arm. Then there was a sudden stillness, and Ren knew that Benjamin Nab had noticed the missing hand.
The man closed his eyes, as if he were trying hard to remember something. And then he was on his knees, his arms thrown around the boy, and Ren’s face was pressed into the coachman’s collar, which smelled of sweat and dirt from the road, and he could hear Benjamin Nab’s voice crying out: “This is him. This is the one.”
Ren barely knew what had happened. One moment he had been a part of the line and the next he was caught up in the stranger’s embrace, shouts and exclamations ringing in his ears and kisses being planted on his forehead. The rest of the boys exchanged glances. Ren could feel ripples going out from his place in the line, spreading across the courtyard. When it became clear that he’d been chosen, that he had a family now and would be leaving the orphanage forever, he felt a surge of joy through his body, flushing his cheeks, until, just as suddenly, it turned into an overwhelming dizziness, and he vomited onto the ground.
Benjamin Nab shoved the boy away from him, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe at his coat for a few moments, a look of revulsion on his face, before glancing at the priest, and smiling again, and passing the handkerchief to Ren. He gave the boy a tap on the head.
“Didn’t mean to get you so excited.”
>
Father John stood by, watching this unfold, and then did something unusual. He invited Benjamin Nab in for a cup of tea. Through his nausea, Ren felt a tug of fear that Father John was planning on talking the stranger out of taking him. He held the man’s handkerchief but was too ashamed to use it, and so wiped his mouth as he usually did, with the back of his sleeve. He prayed that his sickness had not changed things, and when he looked up, God seemed to have answered, for Benjamin Nab had not moved down the line. He was still wearing the same strange smile as he reached over and plucked his handkerchief back.
In his study Father John settled behind the desk and gestured for Benjamin Nab to take the only other chair—the whipping stool. The man drew it to the center of the room, positioned himself, and leaned back, so much that Ren feared it would collapse. The boy took his regular spot in the corner, but Father John gave him a stern look, and he realized he had a new place now, next to Benjamin Nab.
Once the tea was brought, the priest sipped quietly, as though he did not expect any conversation. Father John used this kind of silence to draw confessions from the boys, but it did not intimidate Benjamin Nab. The man seemed perfectly at ease as he slurped the tea that had spilled into his saucer. He smacked his lips, put down the teacup, and then told them how Ren had lost his hand.
“It all started when our father took us out west on the wagons. We cleared a field near one of the outposts—Fort Wagaponick—do you know it?” Father John said he did not. Benjamin Nab looked to Ren, and the boy realized he was waiting for his answer before continuing the story. Ren shook his head.
“Well,” said Benjamin Nab. “You used to know it. But you were too little to remember, I guess. There were trees there that were as big as houses, so wide it took twenty men to circle them with their arms. The birds that lived in those branches were as large as donkeys and would take away dogs and children to feed their young a mile high in the sky. The mountains touched the clouds and created their own kind of weather—snow in the summer and desert heat in the middle of January. That’s where you were born, in the valley just below, between the woods and a river full of danger.
“Our father was all dreams. Always trying to get to the edge of nowhere. Well, that was it. Nothing but wildness and things you don’t know the names for—strange little scuttlings that moved through the leaves in the woods and big gallumps that went past in the night. I was a lot bigger than you,” he said, nodding at Ren, “but I was scared to go looking for water.
“We bargained with trappers and local soldiers for labor and raised our first cabin. It was dark. There was no glass for windows, and the logs were smeared with pitch to keep the wind out. We made a fireplace from piled stones, with a pipe to take the smoke that never worked. All the same, we’d sleep around it at night, on mattresses stuffed with corn husks, our eyes burning. You got sick from it. Terrible sick and coughing. Mother was so worried she moved with you to the fort for a week to try and clear your lungs.”
Ren took a deep breath, in and out. He could feel the smoke lingering in the corners. Spots of soot in the back of his throat. He imagined his mother’s long walk through the forest, his body tightly bundled in her arms, the sensation of her hurried gait beneath the blanket.
“When spring came, we were able to keep the fire outside. The few seeds we’d planted before the frost began to show themselves, and the river that had frozen over began to break loose and run again, pieces of ice collecting along the waterbank. The days got longer, and with all that light we turned over five acres, axing trees, clearing rocks and roots, chasing out woodchucks and rabbits, foxes and field mice, deer, bears, elks, and weasels.
“Our father was happy. He dreamed of building us a castle, of digging a moat and filling it with alligators. He said there’d be giant beds and rugs on the walls and chandeliers full of candles and thousands of rooms; we could live in one for a day and just leave it behind. There’d be servants, of course, and dozens of cooks ready to make us whatever we wanted. There’d be peasants to tend the fields. There’d be new clothes for the winter. There’d be cows and chickens and pigs and horses and wizards to weave spells so we’d never get old.
“You learned how to walk that summer,” said Benjamin Nab. “Mother kept you tied so you wouldn’t wander off. She was afraid a wolf would get you when her back was turned. But it wasn’t a wolf that came. It was an Indian.”
The air in the room went still. Ren had never seen an Indian before, but he could almost feel one now, hidden in the shadows of the bookcase, the native’s body strong and marked with paint, his stale breath close enough to smell.
“I’d been off to fetch some water,” said Benjamin Nab. “Two buckets on my shoulder, and when I got to the cabin I heard this strange sound, sort of like bed moans. So I rested my buckets and stayed in the trees and when I got closer I saw a group of Indians. They were small brown men, and they were wearing women’s nightgowns—white with ruffles, like our mother’s. Only one had it on properly. The others wore theirs around their shoulders, and one had tied the arms around his waist like an apron. They were standing over something in the vegetable garden and hacking at it with their clubs. It was Father. I could tell when one of them picked up his leg to remove the shoes.
“The moans were coming from Mother. There was blood on her face and she was stretched out on the ground, holding on to your ankles. An Indian had you by the hands, pulling you away, dragging Mother behind in the dirt. They went right past the woodpile, and I saw Mother grope for the ax, and before I knew it she had swung it down over her head and cut your arm in two.” Benjamin Nab looked Ren in the eye. “I believe she was aiming for the Indian.
“She took down three men before the others reached her. It gave me time to snatch you up and get away. You were screaming when we reached the woods. I had to stuff my shirt in your mouth. I took us into the river and I swam for it. Kept your head up and let the current take me when it could. Cold water’s the only reason you didn’t die.”
Ren put his arms behind his back and cupped his right hand around the stump. It was tingling, as if it were touching ice. Father John was leaning forward. The heavy wooden beads he kept on his belt swung with a light clack against the side of the desk, in and out with his breath.
“I gave you to a wagon full of people returning east, cutting their losses. I asked them to put you in a good home. Somewhere civilized, where you could get an education.” Benjamin Nab’s face turned serious. “Then I went after those Indians.
“I learned how to shoot. Learned how to drink and how to gamble. I joined up with Indians—good ones—and spent a few years hunting buffalo and living in tents, all the while searching for the ones who’d done it. I learned how to find water where there wasn’t water, learned how to find a trail where there wasn’t a trail, learned how to find hiding places when there was no place to hide.”
At this point Benjamin Nab paused and squinted. “It took me ten years. But I tracked those Indians down, and I found our mother and father.” He pulled a leather pouch from the pocket of his long coat and loosened the strings. He placed two strips of hair on the desk. One square cut of brownish fuzz and the other a jagged scrap of faded yellow curls.
“That’s all that was left.”
Benjamin Nab, Father John, and Ren looked down at the scalps. The priest cleared his throat. Ren felt the urge to reach forward and touch the hair. He could see where two blond curls were knotted together.
“Please,” Father John finally said, “put those away.”
Benjamin Nab tucked the scalps back inside his coat. “He’s my brother. He’s mine and no one else’s.”
“Well,” said Father John. “Of course.” And suddenly Ren knew that the priest was going to give him up. He’d spent his life here; he’d learned to speak and read within these walls, but Father John was not asking any more questions. He laid his hand on the boy’s head and gave him a blessing. Then he told him to gather his things.
Brother Joseph was waiting o
utside in the hallway. When he saw Ren’s face he let out a puff of air and said, “Well, that’s it, then.” He led Ren to the small boys’ room, straining heavily up the stairs. He said, “I thought we had a few more years.” Then he opened the door, walked down the aisle, and stood by while the boy collected what was underneath his pillow. There was not much. The scrap of cloth with blue letters, a pair of socks, and The Lives of the Saints.
Brother Joseph picked up the volume and flipped through the pages. “Where’d you get this?”
Ren looked at the monk’s stained and dirty robe, the belly hanging over the cord that served as a belt. He would never see this man again. And yet he could not bring himself to lie. “I stole it.”
“That’s a commandment broken.”
Ren shrugged his shoulders.
The monk closed the book. “Why did you take it?”
Ren didn’t know how to answer. He had reached for the volume because he wanted to hear the rest of Saint Anthony’s story. But then he’d read about Saint Veronica curing Tiberius with her veil; Saint Benedict flowing water from a rock; Saint Elizabeth, with her apron full of roses. Possessing the book had made what happened inside the pages somehow belong to him. During the day he looked forward to the sun setting, to the time when everyone else would go to bed and he could read the stories again. He cared for this more than eating. More than sleeping. He finally said, “I wanted the miracles.”
Brother Joseph glanced from the book to the boy and back again. He ran his finger down the cover. “We better make your penance quick.”
The boy got on his knees by the side of the bed. Brother Joseph sat on the cot, his weight making the small wooden frame groan, as Ren whispered the prayers. When he finished, the monk handed him The Lives of the Saints.
“Shouldn’t I return it?”
Brother Joseph made the sign of the cross on the boy’s forehead. “Take it with you,” he said. “It’s not stolen anymore.”
