Molly Fyde and the Fight for Peace

“I don’t think so,” Cole said. Of all the questions he had feared to hear in court, he never expected this one to come up—the one that had been haunting him for weeks and weeks.

“You don’t think so.”

“I had nothing to do with the bombs,” Cole said.

“So you were more of the cell’s planner, then?”

“Objection,” his lawyer shouted, her voice shaky.

“Overruled. Answer the question.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Tell us what it was like.”

Cole wrung his hands together. “It was just a conversation,” he said. “It was an astronomy book. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

The lawyer spread his arms wide. “And yet here we are, Cole. Now, you’ve already admitted to killing a boy in cold blood, a member of your little cult, and now we know that this miracle of yours was nothing more than a terrorist act that you yourself dreamt up.”

“No,” Cole said. He looked to his lawyer, waiting for an objection, but her face was blank, her mouth hanging open. “That’s not what happened.”

“Then tell us.” The lawyer turned and waved at the congregation. “Tell these good people about your involvement in this cell. Tell them the truth, and tell them that my client had nothing to do with your actions, that these cells were operating without his knowledge, that all this was done by unruly and sociopathic boys hiding behind his cloak for safety.”

“But that’s not right,” Cole said. “He did do this, I swear.”

Cole finally relented to the pull of his curious gaze and turned to meet the glare of Father Picoult, sitting at the table with the party of suits. Cole pointed. “I’m telling you, he was the one who started it all.”

•• SIX MONTHS EARLIER ••

“So, are you feeling at home yet?”

Cole looked up from the book winged out across his lap. He was sitting in the church hallway, his legs crossed, his back against the ornately tiled walls of the refectory. Before him loomed the shadow of Father Picoult, the heavy folds of his plain black smock still stirring from his silent stroll down the hallway.

“It’s Cole, right?”

Cole nodded. “Yes, Father. And yes, I feel very much at home here. Even more than I had at the orphanage.” He smiled up at the priest. “Not that I don’t appreciate everything the Sisters did for me, of course.”

Father Picoult smiled down at him. “That’s good to hear. I’ll pass along your gratitude, and I’m glad you’re making yourself comfortable.” The Father nodded toward Cole’s lap. “What are you studying?”

Cole looked down at the book in his lap. “Astronomy, Father. With Sister Maria.”

“Is that a subject that interests you?”

Cole’s head bobbed. “Very much so.”

“That’s God’s great mechanism, you know.” One of Father Picoult’s hands materialized out of the folds of pitch black and hovered over the book, palm down. “Everything we do is determined by what you study there.”

Cole didn’t know what to say to that. Nothing he could utter would match the profoundness of what the Father was saying. He nodded mutely. Several older boys strolled past, whispering amongst themselves. One of them peeled away from the others and took a spot beside the Father, and the way the boy stood there, completely at ease in the man’s presence, standing almost as if an equal, filled Cole with an almighty envy.

“Father, if you have a moment—”

“Ah, Marco, I’m glad you’re here. Have you two met?”

Cole gazed up at the older boy, probably at least fifteen.

The boy looked down at Cole and shrugged. “This the new kid?”

Father Picoult clicked his tongue. His hand disappeared back into the heavy folds of his cloak. “This is young Cole, and he will be a Brother to you soon. Sister Dara says he is one of the brightest young lads to pass through the orphanage. Isn’t that right, Cole?”

Cole lifted his shoulders. His cheeks and neck were burning under their gazes and from the air of the Father’s compliments.

Marco sniffed and stirred beneath his cloak, clearly not impressed.

“In fact,” the Father said, “I think I’d like to assign him to your care. I believe you two will have much to offer one another.”

“You want him to become a Miracle Maker?” Marco turned to face his elder, his cloaks doing the same with a swishing delay. “How old is he, like eight?”

“I’m eleven,” Cole whispered, his words absorbed by their thick cloaks.

Father Picoult laughed. His voice was soft and powerful at once, and full of warm mirth. “My eyes blinked and you went from his age to a group leader,” he said. “The same fate awaits our young Initiate, here.” Father Picoult rested a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Tell you what, why don’t you spend the rest of the day with him. Show him around. Ask him about his studies. I assure you, there is much to teach and learn between the two of you. I think you’ll be surprised.”

“But I was going to ask you about—”

“In time,” Father Picoult said. He patted Marco on the shoulder, withdrew his hand, and his great cloak swallowed it once more. With a last smile and nod to Cole, the head of the Church turned and resumed his quiet stroll down the gilded halls, the heavy folds and deep shadows hurrying along after him.

“Alright,” Marco said. He let out an impatient sigh. “Come with me, I guess.”

Cole hurried along after Marco, jealous of the older boy’s flowing cloak and long, confident strides. The blue shorts and clean white shirt he’d so recently felt pride over now seemed insufficient. He wanted more.

“I take it you’ve already been shown around.” Marco held open one of the double doors at the end of the hall. It led out to the walled garden on the side of the church, with the crowded and crumbling cemetery beyond.

Cole hurried through the door, clutching the large astronomy book to his chest. “Sister Anna gave me a brief tour the other day,” he answered.

“Well then, instead of showing you around, let me just tell you how things operate around here, especially since it sounds like I’m gonna be stuck with you.” Marco let the door slide shut and rested a hand on Cole’s shoulder. With the other hand, he pulled the book out of Cole’s arms.

“First off, you can drop the studious act. That got you out of the orphanage, but it won’t go far here.”

Cole fought the urge to twist away from the hand on his shoulder. He watched Marco tuck the astronomy book under his arm, losing Cole’s place in the process.

“I take it you were a slum rat before the Sisters adopted you?”

Cole didn’t say anything. He continued to stare at the book.

“Hey kid, how old when the nuns took you in?”

“Nine.” Cole looked up at Marco. The boy’s countenance had changed. Gone was the pious and reverent choir boy, and Cole realized this kid was no different than any of those he’d known on the streets, just better fed and better clothed.

“So how long did you live on your own?” Marco slapped Cole’s back and pointed out into the gardens. He walked down the steps in that direction, forcing Cole to follow.

“I was never on my own,” Cole said, catching up. “I had friends.”

“So you were part of a crew, huh? Petty theft, pickpocket, or did you guys run any complicated scams?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Cole lied. “We begged and scrounged for scraps.”

“I’ll bet.” Marco stopped in front of a bush drooping with roses. He peeled a single petal off one of the red ones and held it up to his nose. “Listen, kid—”

“It’s Cole.”

Marco turned and smiled. He flicked the petal away, leaving it to flutter in the air. “Okay, Cole, I think you need to understand something. You’re not that special here, okay?” Marco nodded toward the far side of the garden where a small group of kids, all different ages, were sitting in the grass with one of the Sisters. “Do you think any of us here came from good homes? Or from any kind of home? ‘Cause we didn’t.”