Joseph flinched, his feet grinding to a halt as the whip cracked again and the boy dropped to all fours. The boy’s fingers dug into the mud as Father Brady administered three more harsh stripes to his back. The fabric of his shirt split under the force of the lashes and fell in two halves on either side of his body, curling around him as though protecting his heart. Joseph idly thought that they reminded him of angel wings.
But just as quickly as that vision came, it disappeared with another thunderous crack of the whip. Night birds and bats fled from the trees; fallen leaves danced in the wind.
Joseph’s pulse raced so fast he wondered if it could take the incessant rhythm in which it was operating. The boy stayed on all fours, arms shaking with the effort of keeping his body upright under Father Brady’s onslaught. Joseph despaired at the pain the boy would be in, at the cruel punishment Father Brady was making him endure. Then the boy raised his head, and the blood drained from Joseph’s face when he caught his expression. Joseph had expected tears. He had expected a visage racked with agony and despair. Instead, the boy was smiling. No, the boy was laughing. His green eyes were lit with amusement. But Joseph found no entertainment in the punishing stripes Father Brady administered. The boy’s eyes rolled back as though he found pleasure in the pain. Joseph closed his eyes, trying to understand what he was witnessing, why the boy wasn’t calling out for Father Brady to stop. Why didn’t he repent? Seek redemption?
“Brother. Stop. Now.” Joseph’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a sternly spoken order . . . an order given by a voice he would know anywhere. “Father Quinn . . .” Joseph said, so quietly he was sure even God would have had trouble hearing his whisper.
“Inside. Now. And control yourself,” Father Quinn ordered. Father Brady yanked the boy from the floor and, with a hold on his neck, descended out of view. Father Quinn scanned the surrounding area. Joseph pulled his hood higher, sinking back into the large hollowed-out trunk of the hemlock tree behind him. Joseph never took his eyes off the priest he saw as a father figure. Father Quinn, seemingly satisfied with their privacy, descended what Joseph knew was the sunken staircase Matthew had told him about.
Joseph didn’t move for what had to be over an hour. His heart barely calmed; his brow was sweaty. His breathing was shallow, and his legs were rooted to the ground. Joseph was unsure if he could walk. The boy . . . the whip . . . the priests . . . Father Quinn.
Purgatory.
This was Purgatory.
It was all true.
It existed.
Joseph’s heart, which had been so quick in its beat, fell and shattered on the ground. James . . . James was in there. Joseph knew it with every fiber of his being. What are they doing to you? he thought. Were they hurting him that way? That cruelly? Joseph knew that, just like the red-haired boy, James would never let them see that they had hurt him, affected him. He would take his punishment in the same way. But Joseph knew there would be no laughter from his brother. His face would remain unmoved. Expressionless. Blank, in the same way it always was . . . unless he had drawn blood. It was the only time James ever showed any kind of emotion.
Fear, like nothing he’d ever felt, sparked into a raging fire in Joseph’s chest, spreading through his veins as though his blood were made of pure gasoline. He had to get James out of there. He never came back. Matthew’s words from earlier ran through his head. If the boys in this place rarely returned to the home, where did they go? A question so heinous he didn’t even want to entertain it stabbed his brain with the force of a Roman spear—did they never return to Holy Innocents because they didn’t leave Purgatory alive? Were their so-called sins never expiated, and thus their souls never redeemed?
Joseph grabbed the rough bark of the tree trunk just to find some kind of anchor against the thoughts that were threatening to overwhelm him. The sounds of hooting owls sailed on the bitterly cold wind. Joseph kept his eyes on the entrance to Purgatory. When he saw the first signs of sunrise, he forced himself to return to the main building, to his dorm room. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the crucifix on the wall. The bronze hue of Jesus’s face began to shine brighter in the light of the rising sun from the drape-less window behind him. Joseph saw his future life in his mind, the one he had dreamed of for so long. Graduating Holy Innocents, entering a seminary, and marrying himself to the church. Serving the community and living a full and pious life.