Olivia listened with rapt attention. Josiah had told her how the preachers took him in, how he learned to preach, how they discovered his talent and exploited it. He had just finished describing the first sermon that he'd done as the Amazing Boy Preacher when Josiah halted.
"Well?" Olivia asked, and immediately thought she sounded too eager. He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling as if the next part of the story were written there.
"They made a lot of money off of me, the preachers. But--" Josiah sighed in frustration and dragged a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Olivia offered the glass of water again, but he pushed it away. "--they thought I was getting too -- too old to be the Amazing Boy Preacher." She raised her eyebrows, setting the glass on the nightstand again.
"You don't look too old," Olivia said slowly. Josiah glanced at her briefly, then back at the ceiling.
"They tried to stunt my growth." He paused; Olivia frowned slightly.
"Stunt your growth? How?" Josiah took another deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose.
"Wouldn't let me sleep," he said softly. She tilted her head a little.
"They wouldn't let you--"
"No," Josiah interrupted, and plowed on. "Wouldn't let me sleep at night. They fed me something -- something silver, I don't know what it was--" His hands gestured helplessly over the white sheets. "--but it made me feel bad." Josiah paused, then added hurriedly, "Sick. It made me feel sick."
"Why on earth did you stay, then?" Olivia asked, shocked. Things were serious, oh yes. Much more serious than she'd thought. Josiah's red brows met and twisted in distress.
"Where else was there to go?" He sounded miserable. "And besides, they wouldn't let me leave. Not with the money rolling in." Olivia recovered and patted his hand in what she hoped was a comforting manner. Josiah jerked away convulsively, however, and she blinked in surprise.
"Go on," she said softly. Looking embarrassed, the boy went on, hands twisting worriedly in his lap.
"But I kept looking older. It worried the preachers. So they -- they did what they thought they had to." There was a terrible darkness to his words. Olivia squinted at him, not understanding.
"What did they do?" He looked up at her, eyes clouded over and hazy. It hit her that suddenly, sudden absolute realization. Olivia swallowed, her throat feeling tight and narrow. "Josiah," she whispered. "How old are you?"
"They took the step," he said quietly, ignoring her question. "They did what they thought they had to do."
"How old are you?" Olivia repeated. Josiah still didn't answer; his forehead, which had grown even paler, wrinkled in distress.
"They assured it that the money would continue to roll in." He glanced at the ceiling again. Olivia dropped the question -- it was obvious it wasn't going to be answered -- and offered the glass of water to Josiah.
"Take a drink," she said softly. "You look sick." He shook his head, flinging droplets of sweat into the air.
"No," Josiah said, voice rising. "No, I need to finish." Olivia set the glass aside and groped for the rag.
"Calm down, Josiah," she murmured, taking the bowl in her hands. "You're making yourself--"
"I'm not crazy!" he cried. Olivia jumped, startled, and Josiah shook his head even harder. "I'm not crazy, don't say I am!" She wrung out the rag, watching him carefully.
"I didn't say that. Now hold still--" Her hand went up to dab at his forehead as she cradled the bowl in one arm. The moment she pressed the rag to his brow, Josiah jerked convulsively away.
"I'm not crazy! I'm not!" Olivia bit her lip and dabbed again at his forehead, more carefully this time.
"I never said--" Josiah drew back again, harder than before.
"I'm not!" he cried, and struck out blindly with a fist. Olivia reacted just in time; she leaned back quickly, but the bowl of water remained in the line of fire. It hit Josiah's fist hard and went flying. The porcelain shattered against the floor, exploding in a flurry of water and white shards. There was a very long, very thick silence as they both stared at the mess. "I'm sorry," Josiah whispered, and buried his face in his hands. Olivia recovered quickly, trying to seem calm.
"It's all right," she murmured, then set the rag aside. "I'll clean it up. You finish your story."
---
Josiah stared at the shattered porcelain shards, feeling the color rise in his cheeks. It was there again. The anger, pure and black and frighteningly intense, had swelled behind his chest and exploded. Just like in the cornfield. With the preachers.
"Sorry," he murmured again, and inhaled deeply to force the anger back. Olivia had already stood and was bent over the broken bowl, picking up the shattered pieces carefully.
"No problem," she said calmly. "Just go on." Josiah looked back down to his hands and began twisting them worriedly.
"Once it was certain that... that I'd keep the money coming, the preachers made me do even more sermons." He let out a shaky breath. "But someone... someone found out."
"Found out about what?" Olivia asked softly, wrapping the sharp pieces in the wet rag and setting them aside. Josiah shot her a sidelong glance. Surely she'd figured it out by now.
"The step the preachers took." He waved his hands around helplessly. "The step to... to make me stay young." Olivia's tawny brown eyebrows met in a frown, then slowly smoothed.
"Oh... oh," she murmured, and nodded. "I... I think I see." Josiah nodded tiredly.
"I thought you would." He sighed, then rubbed at his eyes and continued. "Well, after the townspeople knew, no one wanted to see the Amazing Boy Preacher. After all, who would want to listen to a child preach when that child was no longer in the service of God?" Olivia sat down beside the bed again, running a hand through her hair.
"Mm hm. And?" Josiah stared at the ceiling. Here was the painful part.
"Well," he said slowly, "no more sermons meant no more money. And with no more money, well -- all I was doing was costing them money. No longer pulling my weight, I guess." Olivia chewed her lower lip uncertainly.
"And?" she said again.
"They did what they thought they had to do." It wasn't the first time he'd said that, but it certainly seemed appropriate. The preachers thought they had to, and so they did. "They... they left me in the cornfield and told me that my usefulness had run out." Olivia was silent for a moment.
"They -- they just left you?" Josiah nodded, swallowing the painful lump in his throat.
"Yes. Told me they'd be packing up the tents and not to show up again." Something in his chest twisted sharply; he hurried on, trying to keep the anger at bay a little while longer. "That was about two days ago."
"So -- what happened after that?" Olivia asked quietly. Josiah let out a shaky breath.
"I waited in the cornfield for a few days. I didn't have much food, so after a while I started to feel... bad."
"Sick," she said gently.
"Sick," he agreed, and went on. "And then, tonight, the preachers went by the cornfield." Here he halted. Josiah twisted his hands together, staring at them silently. Olivia touched his shoulder lightly.
"Go on."
"I saw them," he murmured. "I saw them, and I -- I was so angry, angry because they'd only told me lies and used me, and they didn't even have the decency to say they were sorry--" Olivia touched his shoulder again, gripping it gently.
"Calm down." She smiled a little. "It can't be that--" Josiah glanced up, frowning.
"Yes -- yes, it is." Olivia's smile slowly faded.
"Oh. You mean, then -- that blood on your hands--" He winced, twisting his hands until they hurt.
"Yes," Josiah whispered. He paused, then smiled mirthlessly at the ceiling. "After all, the Lord says: 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'." Olivia was silent for one long moment.
"I don't think that's quite what He meant," she murmured. Josiah let his eyes drift closed and gave his hands another painful twist.
"Yes," he said softly, and the preacher's screams echoed in his ears again. "I know."
---
She had expected the story to end that way. Nevertheless, Olivia felt a dim sort of shock and horror as she stared at the unmoving Josiah. He killed them, her mind said in a startled whisper. He killed them, and he could do it to you too.
"It was their own fault." She was surprised to hear herself speaking, and was especially surprised at what she was saying. It startled Josiah, too; he opened his eyes. "If what you say is true," Olivia went on quietly, "then the preachers had it coming to them. They were false in their belief of the Lord, and they used you -- and His word -- to benefit themselves." Josiah watched her silently, brows knitting in confusion.
"Are you saying that what I did was right?" he murmured. Olivia paused, then shook her head.
"No. What I'm saying is that -- well --" She chewed her lower lip, searching for words. "-- what goes around comes around, I guess." Josiah squinted a little.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," he mumbled, and gave his hands another worried twist. "But I do not think that this is His doing." Then his face clouded over; Josiah grabbed for her hand. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" Olivia paused, then shook her head slowly.
"No. I won't tell anyone." Slowly, carefully, Josiah smiled.
---
He released her hand.
"Thank you." Olivia smiled back, getting to her feet.
"It's not my job to judge anyone, Josiah. Only the Lord can do that, and I think He will forgive you." She picked up the rag with the broken bowl in it and headed for the door. "I'll be back later. I'm going to go throw this away."
"All right," he said, and was surprised to hear that his voice was hoarse.
"Try and get some sleep," Olivia advised gently. "You look like hell." How ironic, he thought drily, but managed a soft chuckle.
"I'll try." Olivia smiled again, then closed the door behind her, plunging the room into the hazy darkness of night.
---
Olivia unwrapped the porcelain pieces carefully and put them on the table.
"Mama's going to be upset," she murmured, staring at the white shards. It had been an antique, she thought -- but then again, with Mama, everything they owned was antique and anything broken was an unthinkable disaster. Tossing the rag in the pile of dirty laundry, Olivia headed for the window. Paranoia, she imagined. But it was a reasonable fear; there was a very good chance someone would have seen Josiah. She pushed the curtain aside and glanced out.
"Is there anyone there?" Olivia whirled, surprised at the soft, careful voice at the door. Josiah was standing there, looking pale and miserable as he leaned against the doorframe.
"No," she murmured, shaking her head. "I don't think so. Go back to bed, Josiah." Olivia turned back to the window and looked around briefly. There wasn't anyone there, she confirmed, but there was always that one chance.
"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.
"Positive," Olivia said firmly. "Go back to bed." There was a long moment of silence before soft footfalls trailed back into the bedroom. A door shut, and it was unsettlingly quiet again.
Olivia flicked her gaze around the front yard again. There was no one out there -- so why did she feel so nervous?
"I must be crazy," she mumbled to herself, and laughed softly. Josiah had been denying that same fact earlier. Olivia began to turn away from the window -- then stopped. She squinted at the dirt of their yard. There was an odd, straggly path leading to the front porch. Heavy, scraping footprints, and a dark spattering of mud -- no, blood -- stood out quite clearly on the dirt of the yard. "Oh, no," Olivia murmured, running for the door. It had to be cleaned up -- quickly. She stumbled outside and bent low to the ground to see it better. Yes, it was blood. Olivia kicked at the blood-spattered dirt to get rid of the ugly path. If someone saw--
"...this way. I think I heard something."
Olivia looked up in panic, ears straining to better hear the voices.
"...sure?" The sounds were faint and drifted lazily towards the house. "...thought...this way."
"No. Over here... on the ground." Olivia began stamping the ground frantically, trying to rid the dirt of the accusing blood and footprints.
"...standing... is that... Stratford's girl?" Oh no, her mind whispered as she kicked the dirt again. Oh no, oh no, oh NO--
"Olivia?" murmured someone, and she looked up. There was a group of men standing there; she recognized most of them from town. They held homemade torches and farm tools. Weapons, Olivia thought drily, and nearly laughed.
"Go away," she said softly.
"Olivia," repeated the man, and he stepped closer. She realized it was Peter, one of Papa's friends.
"Go. Away." Olivia hurried to her feet, backing towards the door.
"We're looking for a boy," Peter said gently. "He's very dangerous. Have you seen him?" But the others had already started to close in.
"Stay out of my house!" Olivia cried, and rushed inside, locking the door behind her.
---
Dim yelling from outside awoke Josiah from a fitful sleep. He stumbled to his feet and looked briefly out the window.
"Oh no," he whispered, and hurriedly released the curtain. It was what he could only describe as a mob -- a group of men carrying torches and weapons. Looking for him. The door to the bedroom opened noisily, startling Josiah. He whirled to see Olivia, looking pale and out of breath.
"Hide," she gasped.
"What's going--"
"Hide," Olivia repeated, and glanced around the room frantically. Josiah noted that there weren't any good hiding places: the bed and the small closet.
"Just let them take me," he said softly. Olivia paused, then shook her head hard.
"No." She seized him by the arm and ushered him towards the closet. "Stay in there and don't come out. I'm going to make them leave." Josiah stumbled into the closet.
"Don't--"
"Stay here," Olivia whispered, and closed the door.
---
She hurried back out into the living room, peering out the window. They were still out there, and working on the door.
"Olivia!" cried Peter, and pounded on the wooden door hard enough to shake it. "Olivia, let us in! That boy is dangerous!"
"Go away!" Olivia pressed her back to the door. "You have no right to--"
"He killed the preachers, Olivia!" Peter bellowed, and thumped again. "Let us in!" She opened her mouth to yell again, but a window shattered and Olivia whirled.
"What are you doing?!" she screamed, watching in horror as the men climbed in through the window. "Get out! Out of my house!" Peter was the third to slip through.
"Where's the boy, Olivia?" She stared at him in disbelief, then launched herself at Peter.
"Get out--" she began, but one of the other men seized her from behind. Peter looked surprised for a moment, then recovered.
"Keep her out here," he ordered, and looked to the rest of the men. "The bedroom." They opened the door to the bedroom, brandishing their farm tools. They look ridiculous, Olivia thought, and bit back near-hysterical laughter.
"Let me go!" she shrieked, struggling violently. But the man who held her was 150 pounds heavier and at least 15 years older than she was, so he certainly had the advantage. There was a loud scuffling of feet, the banging of a door, and a soft cry.
"Murderer!" shouted Peter, and reappeared. He and the three other men were dragging Josiah through the living room. Josiah's face was paper white.
"No!" Olivia cried, and bucked violently.
"Take 'im out to the fields," Peter said grimly, and began hauling Josiah outside.
"No!" she shrieked again. The man holding Olivia gave her a hard shove towards the door. Over the sounds of her own struggling and the cries of the townspeople, she could hear Josiah faintly.
He was crying.
---
The men dragged him into the fields and began binding him messily to a pole they'd brought. Josiah was dimly aware of his own sobbing; his chest was heaving and his face was wet with tears, but terror had made him numb. The townspeople's mob had grown. Now there were housewives out there along with the men, and all of them were screaming for him to be punished. Josiah looked around frantically for help. There was Olivia -- one of the men had her restrained, and she was crying nearly as hard as he was.
"Please," he gasped through a sob. "Please, I didn't mean to--" His gaze swept over the yelling crowd. "You have to believe me, please--" That was when he saw the twigs and brush they were piling at his feet.
And the torches.
Josiah felt a scream rise in his throat.
---
Olivia shook her head frantically, pulling as hard as she could at the arms that restrained her.
"Stop it!" she shrieked. She could see the sticks they were putting at the base of Josiah's pole, and she knew very well what they were going to do. "Stop it, leave him alone! You don't know what those preachers did! Let him GO!" Peter lowered the torch relentlessly towards the brush pile.
"This boy," he shouted over the din of the crowd, "is a child of Satan and a cold-blooded murderer. He spilled the blood of the preachers in the cornfield, and so his blood will be spilled as well."
"NO!" Olivia cried. Josiah, staring at the torch in horror, screamed once. One high, frightened scream, that's all -- but it made Olivia's ears ring. Peter paused, and for a moment, she thought that he had changed his mind. And then -- with a disdainful sneer -- he dropped the torch onto the brush pile.
It caught flame immediately.
The twigs and brush began to blaze at an alarming rate, leaping upwards and licking at the air. Josiah's pants caught fire after only a moment. The boy threw his head back and screamed again, long and wavering and full of pain. Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, praying to God that He'd stop the fire.
He didn't.
She opened her eyes, dimly aware of the sobs that were making her chest ache. The flames had spread up and were nearly engulfing Josiah. The boy was sobbing too; his shirt had caught fire by now and he was a living torch. Olivia shook her head in slow disbelief.
"Lord, help him," she whispered, but it seemed that God was taking no part in this mess. God was elsewhere.
Josiah was screaming steadily now, screaming as if it were the end of the world. And in many ways, Olivia thought hazily, it was -- didn't the Bible say that the world would end in fire? Besides -- it was certainly the end of Josiah's world. Olivia stopped struggling and surrendered to the hysterical sobs, unable to block the screams from her ears. He was screaming, screaming, screaming in pain and terror... screaming...
Josiah was still screaming when Olivia passed out.
---
The next morning, Olivia woke up in her bed. For one, blessed moment, she thought it had all been a dream -- and then she saw the sheets.
They were stained a dull rust red where Josiah had wiped his hands.
She hurried to the window and ripped back the curtain. In the fields, the townspeople were bent over, gathering something -- what? Olivia squinted, biting back the rising tears, and saw that they were collecting Josiah's bones. Now a dry heave rose in her throat as well as the sobs and she clapped her hands over her mouth.
"Oh God," she murmured to her palms. "Oh my dear God." Slowly, numbly, Olivia got back into bed. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. But it was no good -- in the darkness, the flames still burned, and in the silence, he still screamed. It was the end of the world, she thought dimly. The end of his world.
Out in the fields, the last of Josiah's bones were gathered. They were uncerimonously bound and dropped into a well, where it was hoped his soul would be sealed forever.
The end of the world, Olivia thought, and began to cry.