Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

Tyler made a firm face, coming to some conclusion.

“What?” Jagger said.

“If people love what’s holy, and people are holy, then they should be nicer to each other.”

Jagger’s heart ached for Tyler’s idealism: the beauty and simplicity of it. “I wish that was the way it worked, Ty.”

“Well, I say there’s something wrong when people treat a bush better than they treat each other.”

Jagger stretched out to grab Tyler’s hand. “And I say you’re right. You’re a smart kid, you know it?”

He was smart, but more important, he had a big heart for people. At his school in Virginia, he had stuck up for kids being bullied, but also had a way of sympathizing even with the bullies (“Maybe something’s wrong at home”) that Jagger himself had difficulty comprehending.

Jagger felt pride for his son well up in his chest. And he thought about how Tyler’s praying that morning had led to his own prayer and to this conversation. He wondered if he’d find his way back into the fold of the faithful not through his physical presence in a holy place but through his family, the two people who’d stuck by him when even he couldn’t stand himself.

Jagger stood, sweeping Tyler up with him. He carried his son to the bush and held him up so he could brush his fingers along the tips of the dangling stems. Then he set the boy down and playfully stepped on one of his bare feet with one of his own.

Tyler pulled his foot out and laid it on Jagger’s. “Do you ever wish you’d lost a leg instead of an arm?”

“You know,” Jagger said, “I do. I think it would be easier to adjust to.”

“But then you couldn’t run so good, and wouldn’t it be hard walking around the dig and chasing bad guys?”

Jagger nodded. “I guess-”

An explosion boomed through the compound-a loud concussion, repeated in diminishing echoes as it bounced off the stone walls, followed by the sharp clatter of debris striking hard surfaces, raining down on roofs and walkways.

Tyler jumped, and Jagger instinctively wrapped himself over his son. Gripping Tyler’s head with his arm, he looked around. The explosion had come from the other side of the monastery, near the front gate. The basilica blocked his view of the sky in that direction, but he imagined a cloud worthy of the sound: smoke and dust billowing up, drifting away. And then a light fog did reach him, coming from the alley between the basilica and the north wall. Smoky, with the bitter odor of burning plastic.

“Dad?”

“It’s okay, Ty. Shhh.”

Someone was coming for the stranger. He could be wrong, but he doubted it, and he didn’t have time to consider any other possibilities. He had assumed the man was holed up in the monks’ quarters in the Southwest Range Building. If so, the attackers would cross through the entire complex, passing between Jagger and Tyler’s position and their apartment; he couldn’t send Tyler there. He glanced up at the top of the wall holding the burning bush. It was too high to push the boy up there.

“Come here,” he said and led Tyler to the corner formed by the rounded wall and the chapel. “Sit.” He eased him down, then went back to the overhanging bush. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, opened it, and clapped RoboHand’s hooks onto the handle.

The sound of running footsteps bounced off the walls. Lights came on in windows overhead. Deep in the compound, someone yelled in a foreign language.

Jagger jumped up, grabbed a handful of stems, and pulled them down. He reached high to get into the leafy branches and hacked them off the bush. He did it a second time and brought the cluster of foliage to Tyler. “Hold these in front of you,” he whispered. “Don’t let them shake. Stay here till I get back, you hear? Don’t move.”

“Dad, what’s happening?” Tyler said in a small voice. “I’m scared.”

“Everything’s going to be fine. Just stay here and don’t move.”

Someone screamed, and Tyler gasped.

Jagger reached around and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Shhh. Be brave, son.” He moved to the stairs where they’d left their shoes and looked back. Tyler was in shadow, but the reflected glow of the bulb that illuminated the bush caught his trembling hands and the vibrating tips of the branches. Jagger would have broken the bulb, but it was twenty feet overhead. The best camouflage was anything that broke up the shape of a human body, and the branches at least did that.

He rushed up the stairs.

Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

The words flashed in Tyler’s head like a flickering neon sign. But the explosion had been so loud it had even scared his dad, he could tell. People were yelling. Footsteps grew louder, then faded away. It was like everyone was running around, all confused and scared and bumping into the things they were trying to get away from. He hadn’t seen many monster movies, but he’d watched enough to know they were like this.

He squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears streak down his cheeks. He hadn’t even known he was crying; he wasn’t really, only frightened enough to make his eyes water. That’s all.

The branches in front of him shook, and he snapped his eyes open, stopping a scream by cutting off his breath. He looked up, knowing some gruesome creature had found him. But there was nothing, only his shaking hands, and he stiffened his muscles to make them stop.

Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

He remembered something his mother had read to him from a story about Joshua: Be strong and courageou s. Do not be afraid, because God is always with you. Something like that.

“God, are you there?” he whispered. “Make me strong and courageous.” He closed his eyes again, releasing another tear. “Make me be okay. Make Dad be okay. And Mom. And Gheronda and Father Leo and Father Jerome and…”

Footsteps were coming down the stairs. Tyler held his breath and stared out through the leaves. No one appeared, and the footsteps echoed away.

“Dad?” he said quietly, then louder: “Dad?”

He squeezed farther back into the corner and adjusted the branches in front of him. His stomach hurt, and his heart was pounding so hard he was sure it would burst out of his chest. He rested the branches against his legs and pressed his palm over his breastbone. Pa-dump, pa-dump, pa-dump.

All he wanted was to be back in the apartment with Mom and Dad, all of them cuddled up on the couch, reading something cool like Diary of a Wimpy Kid… actually, he’d settle for anything, even one of those boring books Mom liked.

God, please, I’ ll even do the dishes. Just get me out here. Make everything okay, make it He heard his name… thought he did. Had Mom just called him? His breathing was too loud in his ears. He forced his lungs to stop, and listened. Footsteps, all over the place, running, echoing. Then: “Tyler!” It was Mom! But not close by… he’d heard it many times before: she was calling from the walkway in front of their apartment.

Someone yelled back. Dad, had to be, but the voice was quieter and Tyler couldn’t make out the words. Did he want him too?

He tossed the branches aside and sprang up. He took two running steps toward the stairs, kicking up the stuff in his utility case-loud as a siren-and stopped. Stupid, stupid! Last birthday, Grandma Marilyn and Grandpa Tony had bought him sneakers with lights in the soles that flashed when they hit the ground. He’d never worn them, because how could you sneak around in the dark with lights marking your every step? But he’d never considered how unsneaky his utility case was. Around the monastery-uncovering its secrets and spying on monks-he’d always crept. He’d never thought about running quietly.