Angel City (37 page)

Goose tapped the pouch of his sweatshirt.

I'm keeping it on me, in case we need to dump our backpacks and run across Heaven's Gate.

Astruc smiled. “And so the student has become the teacher.”

Goose looked at Astruc.

I could gather wood and build a fire, Father. It would chase away the cold.

“We'd best not. Wood smoke travels far in these mountains. We'll endure the hardship for the night. But tomorrow, when we reach Lladorre, we'll have a good fire, and hot food, hot tea.”

Goose nodded happily.

That was the plan, and so far it was going well. All they had to do was cross Heaven's Gate and reach the shelter on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees. If the weather conditions were accurate, a massive front would move in from the Atlantic and drop three meters of snow over three days in the higher elevations. The storm would cut them off from France, and the shelter in Spain was in an isolated spot; no one would find them there. They'd already provisioned the place with new clothes and boots, supplies and communications equipment. They'd stocked it themselves as part of the preparations for their mission. Now, as they rested for the first time in weeks, they knew their work was almost done. There was only reaching Lladorre, setting up the communications gear, announcing the prophecy to the world, and declaring the men and women of paradise free from the rule of the Dark Ones. Stage three of their holy mission would be complete.

And I will make spaghetti, Father. That will be our first meal in Spain.

“And I'll have a whiskey to go with it.”

Goose smiled mischievously. Astruc thought again how good it was to see the boy smile.

“What is it, Goose? Why do you smile?”

I have a surprise for you, Father.

Goose opened the side pouch of his backpack, took out a small box, handed it to Astruc.

“What's this?”

A gift.

“But why?”

Because we've come this far.

Astruc opened the box. There was a silver flask inside. He removed it, saw the engraving:
in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.
It was a palindrome, a puzzle, a sequence of letters that read the same from back to front as front to back. It meant “we go wandering in the night and are consumed by fire.” It was thought to have been composed in ancient Rome. The sort of thing Romans found scrawled on the walls of the tunnels of amphitheaters to amuse the passing masses. The fact that it referred to the scientifically observed behavior of moths meant it was composed in the Middle Ages. But as Astruc looked at the inscription, rubbing his thumb over it, he was overwhelmed with its deeper meaning. Long ago, the man that was Father Christophe Astruc saw a pitiful, misshapen boy sitting in a classroom of twelve students. A Dominican nun was writing conjugations of the verb
vouloir
on a blackboard and signing the words:

Je veux, tu veux, il veut. Nous voulons, vous voulez, ils veulent.

The children in the class dutifully copied the words into notebooks, except for the misshapen boy, sitting at the back of the room as if in a daze. Perhaps it was the boy's deformity, perhaps it was the blank expression in his eyes, but Father Astruc watched him for long minutes. The bell for
récré
sounded, and though the children were deaf, they saw the flashing blue light next to the bell and dropped their pencils and raced to the school yard for fifteen minutes of play. The misshapen boy stayed in his seat, and it was then Father Astruc remembered seeing him before. During midday Friday Mass, that was it. The same boy sat in the shadows at the side of the chapel. Never praying, never coming to the altar to receive Holy Communion, never taking his eyes off the burning candles of the altar. Astruc entered the classroom. The nun saw the young priest, knew he was attached to the Archbishop's office. Doing research for the Vatican, she'd been told. All the nuns at the school were very excited to have someone so highly regarded to serve as school chaplain. She spoke with reverence:

“Bonjour, mon père.”

“
Bonjour, ma soeur.
Sister, why isn't this boy going to play with the others?”

“To be honest, Father, it's safer for him here.”

“Safer?”

“Some of the children torment him because of his appearance. I'm afraid he really doesn't belong in this school. He belongs in an institution, where he can live with proper supervision. They can care for him there, and . . .”

“And what, Sister?”

“Well, I'm afraid it's even worse at home. His father is quite cruel to him. At an institution, he'd be removed from any danger of sin.”

“Sin? What sin could a child like this be guilty of?”

“Well, I . . . You should talk to Sister Superior, Father.”

“I will,” Father Astruc said, looking at the boy. “Does he read lips and speak?”

“Oh, yes. Sometimes I think he knows more than he lets on, but I'm sure I'm only imagining it.”

“Really? How is he in his lessons?”

“As I said, he needs to be in an institution where they can help him. He might learn something there. Here, he only scribbles and draws nonsense. If we try to take his notebook, he goes into a fit. We do our best, but there's no getting through to him. We've all but given up on the poor thing.”

“Sister, this boy isn't a thing, he is a child of God.”

The nun blushed.

“
Mon père
, I assure you, that's not what I meant.”

“It's all right, I know you meant no harm. Why don't you go to the school yard, get some fresh air. I'd like to talk to the boy alone.”

“Talk to him? About what?”

“I'm the chaplain of this school,
non
?”

“Bien sûr, mon père.”

The boy didn't hear the nun's steps as she left, and he didn't notice he was alone with the priest. Father Astruc walked toward the boy. The boy felt the steps through the floor, turned, saw the priest approaching. Astruc watched the boy cower and grin like some fearful animal that had been cruelly beaten, never knowing where the next kick was coming from.

“Bonjour,”
Astruc said. “Don't be afraid. I've seen you before. At chapel, sitting in the shadows. I'm not going to hurt you.”

The boy stared at him with the strangest eyes. There was a film floating over the irises, masking any trace of color. Father Astruc looked at the notebook on the boy's desk. The pages were full of circles and lines and wild scratches. Perhaps the sister was right; perhaps the boy belonged in an institution. Then, staring at the open pages, Father Astruc saw the boy had been writing the conjugations backward, mixing French and German letters. And along the margins were drawings of creatures and mountains and clouds. All of it hidden under wild, frantic scratches.

“May I see your work?”

Goose stared at him, resisting, continuing to read the priest's lips.

“It's all right. I can keep a secret.”

Goose let the notebook slip from his fingers. Father Astruc turned it around and flipped slowly through the pages. All the same: wild scratches hiding grammar lessons, arithmetic. The numbers caught Astruc's eyes. The boy had gone beyond addition and subtraction. He was solving complicated division and fractions. Then, on another page, he saw a line of perfectly formed Latin script:
in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.

Father Astruc felt his hands tremble. He looked at the boy.

“Did you write this?”

The boy didn't answer, but Father Astruc could see a flicker of light in the boy's pale eyes.

“What is your name, my son?”

And now, all these years later, looking at Goose in the soft light of the candles set about the shelter, Astruc could almost see
her
face. Astruc lowered his eyes, looked at the flask, ran his thumb over the inscription again.

“How wonderful this is.”

He unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents. Single malt, twelve years old. He took a healthy swallow and closed the cap.

Do you like it, Father?

“Yes, very much. But the contents will go down much better with your excellent spaghetti, so I'll save the rest. We should organize ourselves for the night, have something to eat before we sleep. We'll be up with the dawn.”

Yes, Father.

They unpacked fresh pairs of socks and thermal leggings. Then came the UZI machine pistols, the two Glocks, and clips of ammunition. They'd carry their weapons across Heaven's Gate. This time of year they should be the only ones there; anyone else would be hunting for them. They ate a few high-protein biscuits in silence. Astruc reached for his goatskin, but it was empty.

“Do you have any water, Goose?”

Goose found his own goatskin and shook it; it was nearly empty.

I'll fill them from the waterfall.

“No, let, me.”

No, Father, you rest. I'll do it.

Goose grabbed the goatskin . . .

“No, no.”

They both held on to it, pulling it back and forth in a teasing tug-of-war. Astruc surrendered and let it go. He glanced at the small window.

“It's gone dark, Goose. You'd best use night vision. I don't want to lose you down the mountain. It would be a very lonely trek through Heaven's Gate without you.”

I can hardly wait. I've been dreaming of spaghetti, with lots and lots of tomato sauce. Ever since Paris.

Goose tossed the goatskins over his shoulder, dug his goggles from his backpack. He walked to the door and opened it. A cold wind blew in the shelter. He stood in the doorway at the edge of the dark, fitted the goggles over his eyes, and switched them on. He glanced at Astruc.
I'll be
back.
Astruc nodded, picked up his UZI, and loaded in a forty-round clip. He laid it on his bed, looked up. Goose was still there, waiting. It was his way to wait for a last word, Astruc thought, as if seeking a blessing.

“I'll be waiting, my son.”

Goose pulled his hoodie over his head, stepped outside, and closed the door. There was the sliver of crescent moon, hanging low in the western sky. Invisible to the naked eye, but Goose could see it with his goggles. He looked at the ground and walked across the clearing, following the rock face to the waterfall. He leaned against a protruding stone and held each of the goatskins into the cascade. It was cold and his fingers became numb quickly. When the goatskins were full, he tossed them over his shoulder, leaned close to the water. He drank deeply, never before having tasted something so pure and cold. He stood up, wiped his mouth, and stared at the waterfall. Watched it tumble over the rock face and splash into the pool. There, the water swirled and bubbled and formed into a stream running down the mountain. And as he stared at it, he wondered what such a thing must sound like. He walked back toward the shelter.

Something in the trees. He stopped, stared at the branches, looking for movement. A roe deer, he thought, or perhaps a fox. Seeing the light in the shelter maybe, waiting for wood smoke, hoping scraps of food would be left behind. Foxes were clever things, Goose thought. He imagined a fox coming to the shelter after they'd gone, jumping up and catching the latch of the door and letting himself in. He thought it would be a very good idea to leave behind a few high-protein biscuits.

Something raced into the open and behind him.

Goose spun around, saw a huge dog with a long, thick white coat. On its four legs, it was almost as tall as him.
Canis lupus familiaris,
he remembered, and he knew the common name of the breed. It was
le Patou
. The dogs grew to be fifty-five kilos. He'd seen pictures of them in books. He liked that they were called “gentle giants of the Pyrenees.” They were working dogs. They traveled with shepherds, guided and protected the flocks during migration seasons. He remembered another word,
transhumance
. It was on page 1286, column two of the
American College Dictionary
he liked to read sometimes:
the seasonal movement of people with their animals.
He remembered it was a funny-looking word. Then he remembered something else: In the region of Heaven's Gate, the season of moving flocks to lower altitudes, the transhumance, had finished weeks ago. It was the reason Father Astruc had chosen to come this way.

Then from the far trees a second
Patou
, even larger than the first.

It walked across the clearing and stood itself between Goose and the shelter. Both dogs snarled and flared their teeth, black drool dripping from their mouths. Goose backed up slowly. The animals matched him step for step, and when he stopped, they stopped. One of the dogs tipped its head to see beyond Goose. Goose looked back over his shoulder. Two more
Patou
emerged from the trees. Goose felt his heart pound in his chest. He lowered his head to avoid direct eye contact with the beasts and made a slow circle, peeking out from under his hoodie. In the shimmering green light of night vision, the dogs appeared as monstrous things. As they crept closer, Goose saw their black, lifeless eyes.

Goose pulled his dagger from his leather jacket.

There was a blur as the dogs lunged, dragging him to the ground. He twisted, kicked, got to his knees, and swung his dagger, but the dogs' manes were too thick to draw blood. The bigger dog caught Goose's wrist in its jaws. Goose felt his bones crack in the beast's mouth. Goose flipped the dagger to his left hand, rammed his weight into the dog and lifted it up. He buried the dagger into the beast's soft belly. It didn't yelp, it didn't run. Claws tore at Goose's back, jaws clamped around his ankles. He fell to the ground again. He rolled onto his back, saw a flash of teeth coming for his throat.

IV

I
T WAS A ONE-NIGHT STAND IN
T
OULOUSE AT THE BACK END OF A
solo drinking binge. He was still in seminary, had yet to make his final vows. He met the woman in a bar; never saw her again, never knew he left her pregnant. Didn't know the boy he met years later at the school for the deaf was his only begotten son.”