Prologue #2
A chill raced down James' spine as the officer shook her gnarled hand. It was as if he’d just sealed a deal with the devil. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sister Nagina.” The name slithered through her slanted teeth.
Peter looked up at him with worry in his emerald eyes. “James, must we live here?”
James frantically tried to think of a way out of their situation. His gut twisted when no alternative solution came.
This was not a happy place. Saint Mercy’s Home for Orphaned Boys carried an air of cruelty that bit into the bones like a freezing wind, invisible but life-threatening. Their souls would see no nourishment here.
Sister Nagina looked the type to devour small creatures slowly over time. She’d silently stalk their every move like a crocodile wading at the water’s edge, creating a false sense of safety that brought their guard down. Then, at the first sign of weakness, she’d snap.
James had seen her type before, calculating and patient, hungry and vicious. Torment was a game to them.
Sergeant Barrie approached the wall where they were seated and crouched low. “You boys are going to be okay.”
James wondered if the lie sounded as unconvincing to the officer as it did to him.
“What about Mommy?” Peter asked, wiping away another tear.
“I’m sure she’ll call when she can,” Sergeant Barrie promised. Another lie. “I’ll make sure she knows how to contact you.”
Peter sniffled and leaned into James’ shoulder, hugging his arm.
“You’re doing God’s work, Sergeant Barrie,” Sister Nagina said as she glided in like an ominous fog. “Now, you must let us do the same.”
The sergeant reluctantly stood and nodded goodbye. “You have my number if anything changes.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
They watched silently as the sound of his booted footsteps faded down the dim corridor.
Hinges creaked as a cold draft swept through the hall when the officer pulled open the heavy door.
The wood moaned, and James flinched when it slammed shut as if the snapping jaws of this place were already dragging them under, far into the depths of the unknown.
“Stand up.” Sister Nagina shattered the silence with a hissed command. “Stop that crying,” she snapped at Peter.
James scowled and rose to his full height beside his brother, placing a protective hand on his shoulder. Peter wiped his eyes and clung to James, using his body as a shield from the scary nun.
“I want my mommy,” Peter whimpered.
Like a shadow stretching over the dark waters of a swamp, still and quiet, she crossed the distance and— SNAP —her hand lashed out with the brutal swiftness slapping Peter’s face.
“Are you crazy?—”
Her hand whipped across James’ cheek with equally brutal force, leaving his gaze on the floor and his question clipped. He tasted blood.
“You will not question me. Ever. Is that clear?”
He glared at her through a slow, boiling rage. It was a wonder how anything so ancient could move so quickly. Everything in him wanted to sever that hand from the bone so she could never strike another person again.
“Things will be different here. Eyes on the floor. Now .”
They stared at the gloomy linoleum tile, the ripples of her gown fanning his periphery like the black banks of a swamp.
“Follow me.” She glided down the hall, flowing black fabric waving in her wake as she educated them about the rules of their new home, which felt more like a prison with every passing minute.
“You will not speak unless spoken to. Silence is enforced at all times, except for the whispering hour each day at two when you walk the yard—rain or shine. Dawdling will be punished, as will disrespect or possession of contraband. You are expected to be washed up with your beds made each morning before dawn. Breakfast is served at seven, lunch at noon, and supper at six. Food is never to leave the servery.”
The scent of stew tinged the air, and James’ hollow stomach growled, but the old crocodile kept slithering along, snarling orders.
“You will bathe in the evenings, promptly after supper. Once in your nightshirts, you will wash your day clothes and hang them to dry. Wring them out well. During the winter months, the fabric takes longer to dry, and lazy little boys with wet clothes often catch colds. Illness is not pampered here, as we believe brisk, laborious exercise is the best opponent to sickness. One boy’s poor judgment mustn’t infect the whole. ”
She led them up a silent stairwell where the air chilled several degrees cooler. Peter climbed the stairs two steps at a time, earning a cold stare from Sister Nagina as she waited. Peter whimpered at her glare and doubled his speed, accidentally tripping on the last step and falling at her feet.
Her shadow stretched like a looming storm. Violence lurked in the stillness, so James rushed forward to help his brother. Stretching out his hand, he met her beady stare with challenge. She grinned, feeding on their fear the way the predator feeds on prey.
She waved a hand toward a dark room. “Inside.”
James hesitated until she poked him forward. The room was frigid with exposed stone walls. Several copper tubs lined up like soldiers.
“Remove your clothes and place them in the rubbish bin. They’ll be incinerated in the morning.” She handed them a folded nightshirt, the material stiff and itchy. A bar of homemade soap rested on top. “Fill the tubs and wash your bodies, head to toe. Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
A pump protruded from the wall, and wooden buckets were available to transfer water. Peter followed him to the wall. They used the pails to fill the tubs, but there was no hot water, and when they removed their clothes, their teeth chattered.
Peter shivered. His bony shoulders shook as his spine protruded, making the bruises on his back all the more prominent. James hushed him before the old nun overheard his whimpering.
“Wash quickly. Then wait on the bench.”
James feared what the sleeping quarters might look like if this was the washroom.
She placed an ornate wooden box with gold corners on the table and lifted the lid, blocking the contents from view. From the guts of the box, she pulled a straightedge blade and the sharpest pair of scissors James had ever seen.
“Long hair attracts mites and other unwelcome guests,” she said, rounding the bench to stand behind them.
Shivering from their cold baths, they sat on the bench as Sister Nagina cut their hair.
Dark hanks of James’ brown hair fell to the floor, mixing with the soft, flaxen ringlets of Peter’s.
His neck and shoulders itched after the haircut, but they were not given anything to brush the pokey hairs away.
Once they were dressed and the tubs were emptied, Sister Nagina led them to the top floor, where the air was coldest. A steady draft seeped through what was likely a broken window, but James could not find the source of the steady current of cold.
She led them to an open dormitory filled with simple beds.
The boys all wore the same vacant stare when they looked at James.
They kneeled at the side of each bed. Heads shaved just like theirs bent over folded hands.
There must have been forty of them, each boy’s thin body dressed in the same grey rags James and Peter now wore.
Below the howling moan of the London winds, words murmured like incantations from their lips, fading to silence as danger encroached. Their whispered prayers trembled from their lips in a soft babble too low to translate.
Sister Nagina dutifully inspected each boy’s cot with an observant glance as James and Peter followed her to the end of the long room. The other boys observed them, some with curiosity, others with motive.
She pointed to two stripped cots at the end of the long row and faced them. “Make your beds and say your prayers.”
James knew no prayers. But he didn’t dare admit such a shortcoming. He would learn from watching the others, and he would not stay here long.
She slithered back down the aisle like a cold-blooded reptile into the murk.
Peter’s chin trembled as he stared up at James. His mouth opened, and James hooked a finger across his lips, warning him to stay silent.
He showed Peter how to make his bed with the stiff sheet and coarse blanket. He was so exhausted he struggled to think of anything encouraging to say, failing even to remember happier times.
For tonight, James only wanted to dream of places where boys could fly away like mythical creatures on wings, away from the shouting, fighting, and life’s painful things.
He didn’t know any prayers, so he made wishes in his head.
He wished to be far from rigid rules and free of this prison for boys.
He did not want to stay in a place where children were forbidden to laugh, sing, or play.
By the time the lights went out, James had Peter tucked into his bed. “Just try to think happy thoughts,” he told him as he placed a kiss on his head.
“This place is scary, James. I wanna go home.”
James didn’t know how to explain that this was their home now. “It’s only for a little while. I swear, you won’t have to stay here long.”
“Promise?” Peter held out his little hand, and James grinned. From the moment he taught his brother that a man’s handshake was equal to a vow, he clung to that security and used it whenever he wanted guarantees.
James placed his hand in his and squeezed. “I promise.”
That night, James dreamed of a place where they could escape. A place where they were never hit, and lost boys were free. He dreamed of wild adventures and long journeys at sea. He dreamed himself powerful, tall, strong, and honorable. He saw a man who could never be bested by monsters again.
It was a magical place he wasn’t sure existed. It called to him, stirring a sort of wanderlust in his soul, and when he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the salty sea air on his lips and the freedom promised by such a mammoth ship underfoot.
The clouds would never gather, and the wind would never blow cold. There would be no evil that could beat him because he would be the most powerful man of all.
He did not know if such a Never Land could exist, but he wanted to believe.
He wanted to dream himself an untethered force, as free as the wild sea.
But as his imagination drifted into a deep slumber, he sensed a siren’s kiss pulling him further under.
And as his dreams took shame in his mind, a sharp ache formed within his wrist. Instinct tickled up his spine and warned there would be a price for such bliss.