Page 53
53
Thomas
F ather Molnár’s words lingered long after he left.
“You may not wear the cloth, but you carry the weight,” he’d said.
I sat motionless under the tree as the cold crept up my spine, the sky above bleeding into night. Pilgrims sang by firelight, some swaying, some holding hands. Their voices were weary but beautiful—like cracked porcelain mended with gold.
Will crouched beside me, opening the cloth bundle Molnár had given him like it was something sacred. And maybe it was. The way I’d felt—the way I was beginning to feel the further away from medicated I got—any relief was Divine Providence.
“I’m going to change the bandage,” he said, setting out the supplies on a piece of folded canvas. “Then you’ll take one of these and a shot of this.”
He held up the bottle. Codeine. It was only half full and would need to be rationed to last, but it was more than we’d had when the day began.
“I can do it without—” I started, but he gave me a look.
“No, you can’t.”
He was right. My hands shook, and I felt clumsy and brittle.
So I let him work.
He removed the old wrappings, gently peeling them back. The linen stuck in places, and I hissed as it tore free. Will didn’t flinch. He just wiped the edges of the wound with antiseptic and steadied my arm with one hand while wrapping the fresh gauze with the other.
When the last layer came away, the night air hit skin that felt raw and too exposed.
I tilted my head to look, though part of me didn’t want to see.
The wound was smaller than I remembered, but angrier. A dark red oval, puckered around the edges where the bullet had passed. The entry point on the front of my shoulder was no bigger than a coin now, but both it and the exit in my back were rimmed with bruising—shadows of the trauma beneath. The flesh around the hole looked swollen, taut with tension, the color more purple than pink. Angry veins spread like cracks in glass.
There was no pus or odor.
That was something, but the skin looked shiny, stretched too tight, the kind of tight that warned of infection trying to bloom just beneath the surface.
Will leaned closer, inspecting it by lantern light, his brows pulling low.
“Still clean,” he murmured, “but it’s fighting to stay that way.”
The pain dimmed, then flared, then dimmed again.
“You’re getting better,” he murmured.
I gave him a look.
“You are,” he said. “And you’re still standing, still fighting.”
“Barely,” I muttered.
He handed me the codeine and a flask of water. “Barely counts.”
I tossed back the bottle, then let the water chase it down.
He leaned close. “We’ll be gone soon.”
“What are we going to do about the machine? I hate the idea of you going back into Budapest. The Soviets will be crawling all over the place. It’s a suicide mission.”
He thought a moment, his gaze drifting past me into the distant countryside.
“I don’t know,” was all he managed.
“Let’s get away from this group first. We can discuss next steps where no one can overhear us.” I glanced around. “Where are the others?”
Before he could answer, Sparrow and Egret appeared from the shadows. They moved like ghosts, all packed and wrapped in plain wool. Sparrow had cut her veil shorter, tucking it under a scarf. Egret had abandoned the friar’s robe in favor of a long civilian coat and cap.
They didn’t speak, just nodded.
Will stood, adjusting the strap on his pack, then reached down and pulled me to my feet. I bit back the grunt as my shoulder howled, then steadied myself against him. The warmth of the codeine spread like a candle flickering in the dark, but I felt it beginning its work.
Across the field, near the chapel, Father Molnár stepped forward and lifted his hands. A song began. It was low at first, a single verse hummed into the night. More voices joined.
Then more.
Until the entire clearing was filled with the harmonies of a better life, both now and hereafter.
It was an old hymn, in Latin, the kind sung by tired hearts and faithful lips, passed down through centuries of fire and grief. I doubted some among the number knew the meaning behind the ancient words; though, watching them, the melodies clearly inspired far beyond their minds.
Will turned to me. “That’s our cue.”
Around the back of the chapel, across the edge of the field, where the frost turned the grass silver and the stars blinked between the branches, we moved slowly, yet with purpose. We didn’t run, because running drew eyes. Besides, I could barely manage to stagger forward. So, we walked like pilgrims, with bowed heads, packs steady, and breaths tight.
Sparrow led. Farkas and Eszter followed with Egret behind them, one hand near his coat where he always kept a knife hidden. Will and I came last, his arm around my back, steadying, guiding. It was such a simple touch, but it was more than we’d allowed ourselves in many days. The feel of him close, the connection, was worth more than any bottle of medicine or painkiller could ever offer.
No one looked back.
No one called out.
The hymn rose and fell, then swelled, masking the sound of boots on gravel, the creak of bags, the whisper of breath. We passed between the last trees and into the darkness beyond the firelight.
We were gone.
No longer pilgrims. Shadows again.
An hour, maybe a little more, after we left the group, we stopped to rest under the cover of a forested grove. The full moon struggled to penetrate the leafy canopy, though the cold managed to seep into every part of my being.
Eszter had surrendered her strength and sagged against her father.
Sparrow and Egret dropped their packs and sat atop them. They leaned back against a pair of trees that allowed them to sit shoulder to shoulder. Before I’d had time to get somewhat comfortable, their fingers were entwined, and Sparrow’s head rested on Egret’s shoulder.
“Jesus,” I said around a tongue that felt thicker than molasses. “You two need a room. Do we have a room? Will . . . shit . . . I said your name.” I covered my mouth and began giggling.
Fuck me. I was giggling.
Sparrow grinned but didn’t lift her head. Egret glared.
Will coughed, wrapped his arm around me, and guided me to a nearby tree where we could mirror their tree-leaning posture.
“I think someone’s meds have kicked in,” he said to everyone else.
My giggles grew. “You said someone licked me. That’s crazy. I have all my clothes on. Where would they—”
Will’s hand smothered whatever I was about to say. He spoke in a voice a parent might use to a toddler. “We’re going to play a game, okay?”
My eyes popped wide, and I nodded, mumbling, “Yay. I love games.” It came out so garbled and muffled that no one could understand me. So I said it again.
The blank stares remained.
Except for Sparrow. Her grin grew.
“Look at me,” Will said, snapping my gaze to his. He had such pretty eyes. I reached up to touch his cheek, but he grabbed my wrist. “We’re going to play the quiet game. Whoever can make the least sound wins. Got it?”
I nodded rapidly. This was exciting. A real game.
His hand left my mouth.
“What do I get if I win?” I asked, glee bubbling out of me.
Will groaned. Sparrow squealed with laughter. Even Egret chuckled.
Who knew? They loved games, too.
“You win a good night’s sleep, like in a camping trip.” He waved his arms around. “See, we’re in the forest. You get to sleep under trees and stars and—”
“Oh, gosh, I always wanted to camp, but my parents wouldn’t let me because we were too rich to do something so . . . so . . . shit . . . what word did they use? It was really big with lots of letters . . . which is kind of funny because all words have letters . . . did you know that? You can’t make words without them. It’s kind of a thing.”
Sparrow was snorting by the time I finished. Will just stared, shaking his head. Then he turned to the others and asked, “Should I give him more? Just knock him out?”
“Like hell you do,” Egret said. “This is the best entertainment I’ve had in years. I say we write this shit down and publish a book when we get home.”
“Oh! A book!” I perked up. “Books have lots of words, which means even more letters!”
“Oh, God,” Will groaned.
Sparrow completely lost control. Tears streaked her face, and puffs of visible breath exploded out with every laugh.
Eszter, normally quiet, stoic Eszter, began to chuckle. Then her mirth grew into giggles, then full-throated laughter. I glanced over to see Farkas beaming with something . . . pride? Amusement? I wasn’t sure . . . and those words had a lot of letters.
Will stepped to the other side of our makeshift campsite and crouched before Egret and Sparrow. “We can’t go anywhere tonight, not with him shitfaced like this.”
“We shouldn’t travel in daylight either,” Egret said.
“Either of you feel like a little scouting trip? See if we can find a place to hole up for the night and through tomorrow? I don’t love the idea of sleeping out here in the cold. I can’t feel my nose,” Will said.
“I can feel my nose,” I said, turning all three heads toward me. I reached up and tried to press my forefinger to my nose—and missed—poking my cheek. “Oops. That’s not a nose. The silly thing moved. Come here, you little bugger. Will wants me to touch you.”
Eszter’s laughter bounded off the trees.
“As much as I hate to miss the show,” Egret said. “A scouting mission makes sense.”
“Good. You and me. Sparrow, you watch . . . whatever this hot mess is.”
“Why me?” she protested, pulling her hand away from Egret’s and crossing her arms.
“Because you’re probably the only one he’ll listen to in this state,” Will said.
She looked around me to where I was still trying—and failing—with my forefinger. “Fine, but you owe me for this.”
Egret stood and dusted off his pants. “Take notes. We’ll need them for the book . . . or, at least, for blackmail material when we’re free of this place.”
She held up a hand and raised a very specific finger.
“Oh!” I said, drawing their gazes again. “I’m supposed to use that finger. Why didn’t you say that before?”
Table of Contents
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- Page 53 (Reading here)
- Page 54
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- Page 64