The Book of Q (3 page)

The appearance of stars above and a rush of fresh air told him he had found it. Only then did he feel the weight in his arms; he glanced down at the four tiny bodies still holding tightly to his waist. They were screaming, but they were alive. One of the boys tried to break away, rush back to his mother inside the now-burning building, but Pearse’s grip was too strong. The boy screamed louder, began to claw at his arm—
“
Molim, molim!
”—but there was nothing he could do. A second bomb exploded off to the right, the reverberation enough to dislodge the roof, a wave of wood and stone cascading into the night. Pearse dropped to his knees, trying to cover the children, the little boy still flailing away, the others trembling in abject terror. Dirt showered his head and back, a battering of pebblelike projectiles, four quivering bodies tucked under his torso as the onslaught subsided. One final explosion beyond the town’s fringe, and then nothing.

The attack had been like any other—from somewhere in the hills, arbitrary, and with no real military significance. The tactic to terrorize. A drinking game for late-twentieth-century Bosnia. As quickly as it had come, it was over.

People began to appear, shouts everywhere, panic as they poured from the surrounding buildings, lucky enough to have escaped the night’s target practice. Pearse tried to stand, a shooting pain in his shoulder as two of the children broke free, running haphazardly toward the house. A figure stepped out from the haze, two great arms swallowing them up. Pearse was now on his feet, his hand raised as he tried to shield his eyes from the flames and heat. It was Mendravic, thick hands pulling the two
small boys from the ground, cradling them into his huge chest. He was limping, his right thigh soaked in blood, whispering to each child,
soothing
the small heads buried in his neck. Two women approached and took the boys; another emerged to take care of the children at Pearse’s side.

“You need to stop that bleeding,” Pearse said, nodding as Mendravic neared.

“You, too.” The larger man pointed at Pearse, who was only now aware of the red patch growing on his shoulder. He moved the arm. Superficial. He started toward the burning house. As with the children, Mendravic pulled him back.

“There’s nothing you can do in there now.” His hand was like a vise. “Nothing.”

A second wall collapsed, its bulk smothering a large patch of fire. Muted cries rose from within. Then silence. Instinctively, Pearse tried to break free, but Mendravic was too strong. “Petra managed to get the boy out; I took another three. I doubt more than one or two of the women made it.” Simple facts not open to debate. “A crippled orphan can’t survive,” he said, as much to convince himself as Pearse. “Better for them to die now than alone and starving in a month, a week.” Pearse had heard the rationalizations before, had almost learned to accept them. Not tonight.

“You really believe that?”

The older man said nothing, his gaze on the flames. Slowly, he let go of Pearse’s arm and started to walk off. “It’ll burn itself out. No need to waste the water.”

Pearse stood, weightless, limbs frozen to the ground, his body suddenly trapped by the enormity of the last three months.

Better for them to die.

Each depraved moment—every detail, every image—rushed back to him in perfect clarity. And with each burst of memory, a voice cried out inside of him: What price faith? He stood apart, stunned that the question had even come to the surface. The one constant. The one certainty. Now dancing in flames in front of him.

“Walk with me.” He turned, Petra by his side, only now aware of her. He had no idea how long she had been there, how long he had stood motionless. She waited, perfectly still. A black residue streaked her cheeks, tiny rivulets of blood on her neck, but Pearse saw only the eyes.
Clear, alive, and, for an instant, unable to mask the despair behind them. He nodded slowly. They began to walk.

With each step, a sense of hopelessness began to seep into the vacant space, as foreign to him as it was unnerving. Disgust, anger, even hatred had forced their way into his conscious mind in the past, but he had always found a way to diffuse them. Now he could actually feel that mechanism slipping away, in its place something far more destructive.

They moved past a second burning house, out beyond the buildings to an open field, the sound of boots on grass, two sets in perfect synchrony, the pace even, deliberate. The glow of flame receded behind them, moonlit darkness swallowing them as they continued on. Neither said a word, each finding what they needed in the plodding motion of the other. Several times, they came across large roads, sometimes taking them, sometimes not. It was always her choice, her decision. He would simply follow, happiest when back into the mindless rhythm.

When she finally spoke some two hours later—her voice barely a whisper—it seemed to echo throughout his entire body.

“It’s not far from here.” The sound caught him off guard, the rote motion of his legs jarred by the intrusion. He nodded and regained his pace.

Ten minutes later, she stopped. They stood at the lip of a wide patch of open land, perhaps two hundred yards in each direction, untouched as far as the eye could see. A line of shadow defined the far edge—trees, he guessed, thick wood beyond. She started out into the field, he at her side, the center of the far shadow growing taller with each step. It took him a minute to realize that there was something in the middle of the field, its outline ever clearer as they drew closer. Twenty yards from it, they stopped.

Gazing down at them was the perfect facade of a church. No dangling roof, no blown-out walls. Perfect. It was no more than three stories high, a vaulted roof with bell tower rising into the sky, its stone glistening in the moon glow. Exactly when it had been built was impossible to say. Fifty, a hundred years ago. Perhaps more. Too little had changed in the way the men of Bosnia built their churches to make an accurate guess. Weathered was the best one might do. Tucked in at the center stood two large rectangular doors, rusted iron rings on each. Petra made for the one on the right, Pearse a few steps behind her.

The inside had not fared as well. Shafts of moonlight poured in from several rows of glassless windows, enough to see that the pews had long
ago been ravaged for firewood, the stone floor strewn with bits and pieces unworthy of plunder. As with anything roofed in the region, piles of straw lined the walls, vestiges of onetime tenants, though the most popular routes of escape had drifted farther and farther from the church, thus releasing it from any obligation of sanctuary. A large iron chandelier hung at center, empty sockets, glints of glass below the only remnants of long-ago-shattered bulbs. A second, smaller lamp swung above the altar at the far end, its long link chain twisting in the air from some unseen draft. Above it, segments of the phrase
“
Benedictus qui venit
”
were chiseled in thick block letters.

The overall structure of the church, however, remained unscathed, a few chipped pieces of brick and stone here and there, but little else in the way of damage.

“No one comes here anymore,” she said, “not even the refugees.” She had found something on the ground and was trying to make it out in the ivoried light.

“Incredible that it’s survived.” He’d begun to slide his fingers along the wall, cold, smooth stone with a hint of moisture.

“Not so incredible. Destroying it would be sacrilege.”

“‘Sacrilege’?” The word seemed strangely out of place. “That didn’t stop them in Prjac.”

She tossed the piece back to the floor. “That was a Catholic church. Those, they take pleasure in destroying.”

“And this is an Orthodox one?” he asked, pointing to the inscription above the altar. “With the Benedictus etched in stone? I don’t think so.”

“No, this part is Catholic.” She saw the confusion on his face. “It’s the foundations that are a little unusual. Underneath us is an old Orthodox church, most of it destroyed in the time of the last Turks. Enough of it survives, though, to keep it holy ground. Under that, the remains of a mosque from the time of the Bogomils, also holy. All in layers, one on top of the other. The perfect model for how we used to live. Now, destroy one, destroy them all. Sacrilege for whoever fires the rocket.”

Before he could reply, she was making her way toward a small archway at the far left of the altar. He fell in behind her as she disappeared down a narrow set of stairs, the white stone spiraling into darkness.

The light quickly vanished. Hands against the wall, he moved cautiously down the steps, the sound of her in front of him just enough to give his groping some direction. Once or twice, the steps narrowed,
breaking his rhythm. He would stop, toe his way forward for a few steps, then continue on.

“Watch your head.” She was farther along than he expected, her voice a good fifteen feet beyond but only slightly below him. He guessed there were only a few steps left, and placed his hand directly in front of him. It was then that he remembered his shoulder, a momentary twinge from the tightened muscle. He had no time for it as his fingers met stone and began to trace the curve of an archway, his feet finding ground at the same instant. He ducked under his hand and continued to move slowly, his eyes growing more and more accustomed to the darkness, bits of wall and floor taking shape.

His victory was short-lived, as a bright light suddenly flooded the area in front of him, its source a flashlight in her hand.

Shielding his eyes from the glare, he noticed the walls were of a different color here, whiter, with more texture. And whereas the cut of each stone had been precise and rectangular in the church above, here they were large irregular slabs that undulated from side to side and top to bottom. The ceiling was no more than seven feet high, its smooth surface and neat brickwork a clear indication of its Catholic lineage above, an intrusion over the small Orthodox chapel in which they now stood. Nothing in the space, however, hinted at its onetime religious calling, save for a few fragments of inscription along the top of each wall, the letters Cyrillic, the words too far gone to make out. More straw, a torn blanket.

“I keep this here,” she said, balancing the flashlight on a clump of stones. He said nothing. For almost a minute, neither said a word. Finally, she nodded. “Maybe I’ve been lucky no one takes it.” It was only then that he realized they were alone. No midnight jaunts, no explosions, no fevered walks to distract. Alone. He could see she had sensed it, too.

He remained by the wall; when he didn’t answer, she turned and pulled the hair from her face. “You’ve decided to go.”

“What?” The question caught him off guard.

“To go. Back to the States.”

He looked at her for several moments before answering. “I haven’t decided anything.”

“Time to become a priest.”

Again he said nothing.

“You don’t have to explain,” she added, now more tender. “I’d go, too, if I could.”

“Really?” His tone was dismissive. “No, you wouldn’t. None of you would.”

“And because of that, you think you should stay? Because we have no choice.” She shook her head. “It’s not a good answer.”

“I’ve stayed because I came here for a reason.”

“The
reason
you’ve stayed has nothing to do with why you came here.” No anger, no reprimand. She watched as his gaze drifted from hers. “We both know that. Otherwise, you would have left a long time ago with all the other well-meaning boys who’d seen enough after two weeks. No, you stayed because you thought you were stronger than they were, that your … faith could somehow withstand more. The final test before ‘taking the plunge.’ Isn’t that what your father called it?”

He looked over at her.

“Well, my faith lost the battle with this place a long time ago.” She held his gaze. “And now, I think, you’re wondering if yours has, too. Better go before it’s too late.”

Again, the room fell silent. He wanted to answer but couldn’t. No way to defend against the truth.

After nearly a minute, he spoke: “So what do I do? Accept it?”

“No.” She paused. “I don’t know.”

Pearse leaned his head against the wall. “That’s not very helpful.”

She kept her eyes on him. “You could find something else.” She waited, then turned and crouched by the pile, readjusting the light on top, her back to him. “Maybe you already have.” Her head tilted to one side, her hair cascading to her shoulder, neck bare, half shadow, half light.

“You know I have,” he said.

She brought a few stray rocks to the top of the pile, never catching his gaze. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

He remained by the wall. “What do you want me to say?”

She waited, then turned to him. “Does that matter?”

“Yes. Of course that matters.”

“Why? We both know it won’t make any difference in what you do.” She waited. “Or in what I do. I
can’t
leave here, Ian. You know that.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Yes, you are. It’s either ‘Come to the States and save me from being a priest’ or ‘I’m on the next plane without you.’”

“That’s not fair. It’s not about saving me from anything.”

“Then what is it? If that’s what you so desperately want, then what is this all about?” Again she waited. “Something’s happened here—we
both know that—and I’m sorry that everything else isn’t fitting neatly into place. I’m sorry it’s put a kink in your plans. I’m sorry we don’t have the luxury to slip out of here and figure it out. I’m sorry about all of those things. But there’s nothing I can do about them. I’m here, where I
have
to be, and you can either stay here with me or you can go. And that’s your choice. I don’t have one.”

Pearse stared at her, more and more aware of the growing tightness in his chest as she turned back to the pile. Slowly, he pushed himself from the wall and moved toward her, all the while his eyes on her shoulders as they gently rose and fell with each breath. He sensed a slight lift in her back as he neared, a hesitation; kneeling down behind her, he eased his arms around her waist. He had never touched her like this before, never been so close as to savor the faint hint of summer rain on her cheek. They stayed motionless, neither seeming to breathe, until, slowly, his lips brushed against her neck. He tasted the residue from the explosion, his chest pressed to her, bodies arching into each other. He began to caress her shoulders, arms, her hands as eager as his own as she twisted to him, their mouths lost in a kiss.