Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
CALLAHAN
“Don’t be nervous,” Lanz murmurs in my ear. “Just a bunch of weird old Frenchmen.”
Easy for you to say, I think. You’ve met them before.
I straighten my shoulders outside the basement door. “I’m not nervous.” Just my stomach is a block of ice, is all.
“You’re a terrible liar.” He brushes a finger against the outside of my ear. I flinch.
“Stop,” I bark.
He leans into my ear. “Make me,” he whispers.
Before I can retort, the door swings open, and Lanz jumps back just in time.
It’s Kingston.
“Come in.”
He sweeps us into the basement, and the cold feeling in my stomach spreads to my chest.
I don’t like it in here. Not much. The first time the three of them brought me in, I thought it was some kind of hazing ritual.
I had no idea that the Caliburn fencing team was…
more than just fencing. I remember Kai had asked me at the end of practice that day if I was baptized.
Weird question, I thought. Figured he was joking or something.
Then they brought me to the black table, and I found out it wasn’t a joke.
I try not to stare as Lanz and I walk to our seats. Brothers in habits—that’s nothing new. Saw that daily all through high school. But these aren’t the friendly monks of Catholic Memorial here to teach me Chemistry or Theology or whatever.
This is the Consistory.
They’re standing around the black table, ten or twelve of them, all in thick white habits, all with the hoods up, all with this…mesh across the front.
We can’t see their faces.
I grip the back of my chair to steady my hands.
“Where is your fourth?” comes a voice. From which one, I don’t know. I dart a glance around, worried.
Kai. He must be with Gwenna, I think. I look to Kingston, panicked. Did he explain?
Do they know about her?
Kingston’s face doesn’t move. “He’s…”
“I’m sure,” comes a voice from the door, “he’ll be here soon.”
Luther Pendragon enters from the stairs, striding with ease to stand behind the chair next to Kingston.
Maybe I’m imagining it. But it looks like Kingston stiffens a little.
My eyes catch Lanz’s as I look back to stare at the table. They’re wide. Concerned. Stop it, I want to tell him. Just…play it cool, for once.
“I see.” A hooded head nods in acknowledgment. “We should commence, then?”
I look to Luther. But Luther looks to Kingston.
Kingston nods. He bows his head.
So I do, quickly.
“Spes mea in Domino,” someone says—the same brother or a different one, I can’t tell—and when the prayer is finished, I look up.
“Please,” Kingston says. “Sit.”
They do. Almost in unison. All but one, who glides over to the side of the room to retrieve something. I feel like I can barely find my chair beneath me as he hands a package to Kingston, with a small bow of the head.
“A gift,” comes the muffled voice. “We bring from Avignon.”
Kingston looks briefly bewildered, but swiftly nods and places the package on the table to unwrap it.
It’s candles. Four long, white tapers. And a small jar of honey.
“From our bees,” says one of them.
“Ah,” Kingston says. “Of course.” He smiles. “Thank you.”
In perfect unison, the brothers all press a fist to their chests and nod.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I swallow.
None of it seemed too weird at first. I could fence—fence well, it turned out. I was a good Catholic boy from a good Catholic family. There was scholarship money. And I wanted to…do good, I guess. To belong.
My mom used to say I’d end up in the priesthood, and maybe that’s just what you say to an intense little kid who hates when other people get hurt—I don’t know.
I did like the order, the ritual, but the parish life aspect not so much.
Hearing confession, attending to the sick and the dying…
that sort of stuff all felt so personal, so private.
Being there, even on God’s behalf, seemed awkward to me.
Then I discovered swimming, what it was like to use my body, and I couldn’t imagine that kind of life at all.
Then swimming brought me to Caliburn.
And then everything changed.
I resist the urge to glance right. To look at Lanz.
I’m sure that had nothing to do with it.
I took the vows in here. By the black table, in front of the throne, kneeling on the stone.
Kingston said that was enough—they could write to inform the Consistory, and the brothers would consecrate it on my behalf.
But what if it wasn’t?
“If I may interrupt?”
One of the brothers raises a hand. White, gloved.
Kingston nods. “Yes. Please. Of course.”
The brother nods in my direction. “Him. He is new.”
My heart thuds in my chest. I swallow once, twice, the dryness sticking in my mouth.
"Yes," Kingston says after a moment. "Callahan O'Brian. We wrote to you. His vows should have been consecrated."
"No doubt you were made aware,” Luther says, an edge to his voice.
"They were," Kingston puts in. "I did. We…”
“We were.”
This from another of the hooded figures. He stands, and I realize he's dressed differently, a red rosary hanging from his white belt. Kingston ducks his head. So does Luther. So, to my right, does Lanz. Now I have to glance at him.
"The prior at arms," Lanz says in the barest, smallest whisper.
I swallow again, and then remember, duck my head down, stare at the black wood of the table.
“We granted and permitted such a thing. At the time.” The prior’s voice is resonant, cool, firm, even through the mesh of the mask. “But things have changed, have they not? Things have…happened here.”
No one speaks.
“Laxity,” he goes on, “laxity is the loop through which the devil infiltrates.”
The air in the room is totally different now. Cold and intense. No more friendly gift-giving.
“We were remiss in granting our permission so freely. Now we have seen the consequences of too easy a path. The destruction it can wreak—”
Oh, God.
The realization smacks me in the chest.
The library.
They think it’s my fault.
They think I did it.
“But we are blessed,” the prior at arms continues, “blessed that all may be absolved in the sacrament of confession. Please.”
He pauses. I look upward just a moment, and see that he's gesturing for me, one white-gloved hand.
“If you would,” he finishes.
I nod a few times, push back my chair and stand.
I don't know what to do, flexing and clenching my fists, wishing I could grip the table or even had a sword to fling around.
All the white-covered heads turn my way, but all I can do is stare into the blank space where the prior at arm's face should be.
"What is your name, my son?"
"Callahan," I choke out. "Callahan O'Brian."
"You are baptized," he asks. "Confirmed?"
“I…yes," I stammer. "Callahan Thomas O'Brian," I amend, throwing in my confirmation name. He doesn't move, doesn't nod, doesn't come closer, maybe doesn't even blink. There's no way to know.
"Your home?"
Somehow I know he means church and not city. “St. Ann. Boston archdiocese.”
"Your parents—"
I swallow hard. "Sean and Margaret O'Brian."
There a long pause. One second, two seconds.
"Dead," I add.
There is nothing. No sound, no acknowledgment that I've answered the question. I should’ve said passed away, I think. Or gone to be with God, or something.
The prior at arms is staring at me. They're all staring at me. I think—I can't tell. And that's the eerie part. Whether they are or they aren't, I'll never know.
One of them murmurs to another. Something in French I don't understand.
And suddenly, a cold bolt of fear strikes me in the gut.
Can they tell? I don't know if it's an issue to be gay.
If we're supposed to be celibate, isn’t it basically a moot point?
I think so, but I'm also just not sure. And asking for clarification…
that's not going to happen. That's not going to help.
But if they somehow find out, if they somehow know…
Oh God, if this is where it all comes out about me and Lanz…
My stomach heaves. I want to throw up.
"Who did you train with?" The prior at arms is speaking to me again. "Who was your master at arms?"
"I... Camp Manawasset," I say, my face flaming. I dig my fingernails into my palms.
"Camp." The prior repeats the single word like he's never heard it before, and maybe he hasn't. Still, he doesn't move.
Neither do I.
"A summer program,” someone answers from behind me.
I don't need to look to see who's spoken up. It's Lanz. My eyes flutter shut.
"He's good," Lanz goes on. "He's very good. I trained with him. We all trained with him."
I die on the spot. Don't, Lanz, please. For once in your life, shut up.
"We all would," Kingston cuts in quickly. "We all do by virtue of his being here."
There's a long, taut pause. The prior at arms nods.
"Very well."
He untucks his hands from his sleeves and gestures for me to step forward with both hands.
"Come, Callahan O'Brian."
I do, almost tripping over the legs of the chair as I make my way around. All the white-hooded heads swivel in unison, watching me pass. I stand before the prior at arms, a good head taller than he is, but I've never felt so small.
He sweeps his hands down toward the floor. "Kneel."
I kneel and bow my head in unspoken agreement. Just doing that is reassuring. I'm behaving the way he wants to. I can't be in trouble. I feel my shoulders relax an inch or two.
"In nomine patri," I feel him grip my head with both hands, his cold, gloved fingers digging into my scalp as his thumbs press against my forehead. "Et fili et spiritui sancti."
"Amen," says a chorus of voices.
"Callahan Thomas O'Brian," he says, “will you now confess
I nod even as my head is held in place. “I will.” I feel his thumbs press downward in one firm stroke, then to the side, across my forehead.
The sign of the cross.
And it burns.
I want to jump, jerk back, but it’s like I’m frozen in place, held by the crazy strong strength of his grip and the sizzling pain where he made the strokes across my skin. I can’t even think straight, my thoughts reeling and spinning like a kaleidoscope of images and memories
“It is finished." He lets me go. "Rise."
I do, even though my legs feel like they might not hold. The prior simply nods in recognition.
“We have seen what we need of you, Callahan Thomas.” He gestures. "Sit."
I do, trying not to rush back to my seat. I can feel Lanz's eyes on me, every step, even as I settle in. I don't look at him. Don't let myself. Just slide my chair back in and pay firm attention.
They’ve moved on to the next order of business. More gifts, it looks like. One of them presents Kingston with a small case of scapulars, another gives something to Luther. I don’t know. My vision is buzzing and my ears are ringing.
Was that even…real?
Under the table, I feel Lanz reach for me, to rest his fingertips on my knee.
I can't pull away fast enough.
He's so…much. So reckless. And we can't be reckless. Not anymore.
There's only so many secrets you can keep at once.