Aurora Tapestry

Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 26

Harry spent much of the morning skiving around the School of Wind. Everything that needed to be done was essentially done. The instruments were stacked and inventoried. The Library was catalogued, the hundreds of packets of music neatly stored. The Mace and Sash were securely locked in the display case at the entryway. Well, all except scrubbing the decks, which Harry had no intention of doing. He was finished for the year.

Harry sat in the Unwinding Room for most of the morning. He thought about what The Phantom had related to the Gunroom, and of Cory's historical lecture. He thought of the dark-eyed boy, Stefan, whom he loved beyond reason. He thought of Greg and hung his head. Harry knew that he had used Greg. The slim Yeoman had loved him, and Harry had used him. Greg had deserved better and Harry had failed him, and in the end rejected him and taken up with Todd.

Running his hand along the worn cushion of the settee, Harry smiled at the memories this room evoked. Todd and he had made passionate love in this long, narrow room. They had held each other, made promises to each other and now, it was over.

Rising, Harry stared around the room. He would never again make love to Todd, not here, not back home. Harry now realized that he had made a great, if not fatal, error so far as his relationship with Todd was concerned. Harry had failed to understand that Todd was prepared to love him, but that he would have to return that love. Which Harry had not. He had not lied to Todd, but he had lied to himself. He had told himself that Todd and he could have a life together, but that was not true. Todd would never share him with a woman, or Stefan. Todd would never play second fiddle.

To make matters worse, Harry also knew that he had taken Todd for granted. While Todd remained in the Gunroom, Harry had partied the night away at the End Of Year Barbecue and that small, seemingly insignificant act, had ended their relationship. There would be no more live fire exercises and the Pride would put to sea only with the Fist Flotilla.

Feeling dejected, Harry left the School of Wind and walked toward the Gunroom. The whole Spit was eerily quiet. Harry had to admit that he missed the noise, the organized confusion, and the chaos that had seemed to fill every day. He missed his Band and he missed watching the Twins as they exercised their Gun Crews, missed everything that had made being in Aurora such a wonderful experience. Going home would be nice, but damn, it would be boring!

In the Gunroom, Harry sat on his bunk, his eyes gazing fondly at the small photo he had tacked to the bulkhead. The Phantom's mother had taken it the day of the Captain's parade. In the photo Harry, smiling proudly and wearing his best uniform and the Sash, had his hand resting lightly on Stefan's shoulder. Impulsively, Harry reached out and pressed his hand against the photograph. Stefan, sweet, smooth-skinned, dark-eyed and dark-haired Stefan, the personification of all things beautiful. That Harry and Stefan could not consummate their love for at least four or more years was of no consequence.

Harry had fallen in love with Stefan Gillan almost from the moment that the boy had appeared on the jetty, munching on a sandwich. Harry remembered the bright, sunny morning as if it had been yesterday. Stefan, as Harry later learned, had fallen in love with the huge, handsome Drum Major the moment he had laid eyes on him. Stefan was barely into his teens, true, but he knew what he wanted and he wanted Harry.

Almost instinctively, Harry pushed his hand down the front of his bells and into his boxers. He felt the Pride of the Fleet, long, thick and strong, tremble at his touch and grow longer, thicker and stronger.

"The Pride of the Fleet," murmured Harry with a smile. Todd had named it, Stefan had worshiped it. Harry, with all the arrogance of youth, grinned wider. Cory had been in awe of it, and Greg had lusted after it. But none save Stefan had ever made Harry feel so totally at peace with what he did with them. Cory had been a one-night-stand, Greg had been the fuck buddy Harry thought all boys needed sooner or later, and Todd . . .

Quickly removing his hand from his trousers, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bunk and swore. "Shit!"

Todd had been Harry's first true summer romance. They had made love so passionately, so deeply, that Harry for a time almost gave himself over, totally and completely, to the blond, blue-eyed twin. Making love to Todd, having Todd make love to him, had been so consuming, so complete, that Harry felt that he could never know such bliss with another boy. And then, after they had returned to their bunks, the truth had set in. They were lovers, yes. But they were not in love. Neither could give the other that total commitment that true love demanded.

Sighing, Harry also realized that he had allowed his arrogance, his sureness of his position in Todd's life, to misjudge Todd, and to mislead himself.

Leaving the Gunroom, Harry walked disconsolately across the parade square. As he passed the cooks' barracks Randy, Joey and Calvin came bustling out, chattering a mile a minute. They greeted Harry as they always did, with smiles and waves, but seemed preoccupied and hurried on toward the Mess Hall. Wondering what the little brats were up to, Harry walked on to the Drill Hall where he found Todd, stripped to the waist, industriously polishing one of the field gun limbers.

"Where's an O.D. when you need one," said Harry with a snicker.

Todd made a face and continued to polish the brass banding on the limber. "It helps me think," he said, indicating the shining brass work.

Harry hunkered down against the bulkhead and asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"Phantom," replied Todd as he returned to his polishing.

Harry scratched his chin. "Doubts?" he asked.

Todd stopped his polishing and carefully folded the rag he had been using. "Not really. I know what Phantom wants to do." He grinned at Harry. "Cory sure helped spread the gospel, and now he's down in the Dockyard. I suspect that he's got Sean all riled up by now."

"Cory is good at riling up guys," replied Harry, not at all innocently.

A frown briefly crossed Todd's face. Then he reasoned that there was no point in rising to Harry's bait. However ... "Cory's on a different mission, Harry," he said simply.

"I know." Harry looked beseechingly at Todd. "I'm sorry."

Todd's face registered his surprise at this unexpected turn in the conversation. "What for?" he asked, although he had a feeling he knew what Harry was sorry for.

"Us. The way things turned out. I was a jerk, Todd." Harry hung his head. "I've thought about what happened, a lot, and all I can say is that I'm sorry."

Leaving the rag on the polished top of the limber, Todd joined Harry. "Look, Harry, let's just remember the good times. There's no need to apologise for anything." He gently placed his hand on Harry's broad shoulder. "I still care for you, you know."

"I know," replied Harry with a curt nod. "That's what bothers me. You still care for me after I basically ignored you. I should have stayed in with you, like Phantom did, like Matt did." He turned his head slightly to gaze into Todd's sky-blue eyes. "I hurt you. You deserved better."

A long, low breath of air escaped Todd's lips. "Harry, we both knew that what we had would come to an end. We were honest with each other when we were together in the Unwinding Room, and I'll be honest now." He gently kissed Harry and then said kindly, "I care for you, and I will always remember what we did together."

Harry grinned sheepishly. "And I care for you. It's just that ... well ..."

"Harry, you are what you are," responded Todd. "You will never truly love anyone but Stefan. In a way, and I'm being as honest as I can here, I thought, foolishly, that I could take Stefan's place. But that was not to be."

Harry nodded slowly. "I can't explain it, Todd, but I love him. No matter what happens in my life, I will love him. But that does not excuse the way I treated you. I hurt you and I'm sorry."

"Yes, you did, Harry," agreed Todd mildly. "If you had spent even an hour with me the night of the barbecue, we could have had something."

"But not now?" asked Harry, a faint note of desperation in his voice.

"Harry, I will love you as a friend, as a brother, and probably I'll take the Pride to sea for fleet exercises." He grinned. "You're quite the stud and the Pride is something I admit I enjoy exercising."

Laughing heartily, Harry shook his head. "Hope springs eternal, then," he said through his laughter.

"There is always hope," returned Todd soberly. Almost reluctantly, Todd stood up and returned to his polishing. "Have you given any thought to Phantom's dream, of what he wants to do?"

Harry cocked his head and looked quizzically at Todd. "Is there any question? We're going so what's to think about?"

Todd, ever the realist, looked at his former lover. "It could be dangerous, for one thing. And there's no guarantee that what Phantom is looking for is actually in Ste Anne de Beaupré."

"We'll never know, will we, unless we go?" returned Harry calmly. He uncoiled his muscular body, stretched, and yawned cavernously. "Phantom believes. He's my brother. So I'm going." He then shrugged and pointed out a piece of brass that Todd had missed. "You're slipping," he said.

"Never mind the brass," returned Todd. "We're talking about Phantom."

"Yeah, so we are," replied Harry. Then he reached out to take Todd's hand. "When Phantom did the dirty with Little Big Man, I wasn't there."

"Phantom wanted it that way, Harry," said Todd softly. "He didn't want you involved in case the whole thing blew up in his - our - faces. It was not that he didn't want you involved. He knew how you felt about Stefan, and the dangers to you. What you didn't know about, and were not involved with, kept you, and Stefan, your relationship with Stefan, safe."

"I know," replied Harry with a soft, warm smile. "I know why Phantom went into the Petty Officers Mess, why he seduced that little jerk." He squeezed Todd's hand gently. "It's payback time, Todd."

Todd looked into Harry's eyes and nodded. "Yeah, I guess it is." Then he shook his head. "But Phantom does not want pay back."

"No, he doesn't," replied Harry. "He does what he does because of who he is. He's a hopeless romantic, you know."

"He's also a hard-headed realist who happens to believe in what he says. He tells you, and me, and the others, what he will do, and then he does it!"

"And he believes in his dream, and what he feels he must do," replied Harry, almost in awe of his friend. "When Phantom fucked Little Big Man he wanted to make sure that never again would that little bastard be a danger to you, Cory, Stefan, or any of the other guys around here. Phantom identified an enemy, and took care of him."

"And now he has identified an abomination, and will do what he must to eliminate it," added Todd.

Harry sighed, and then said, "I did think about what Phantom told us this morning. I also thought about what Cory told us. I've done nothing but think about it all!"

"And you've decided that you're going?"

"Yes."

"I have to ask, are you going to tell Stefan what you're doing?"

Harry shook his head firmly. "No. I want Stefan to be as far out of this as possible." He smiled wryly. "One of the reasons I'm going to help Phantom is all I could think about was what if it were Stefan? He's old enough, or young enough, to be one of the boys Phantom wants to rescue. I tried to think what it would be like for him, for any of the boys, sitting in a room somewhere waiting for some lout to come in and stick his dick in him. It's not right, and Phantom doesn't have a monopoly on righting a wrong."

"No, he doesn't," said Todd. He looked deeply at Harry. "You know what happened to Cory, when we were younger?"

"I know the story," replied Harry, not thinking it necessary to remind Todd that he had been the teller of the tale.

"Harry, every time I think of those kids, I think of the screams. I hear Cory's screams of terror. I wonder too, what would have happened if I hadn't run back? I wonder how many of those kids that Phantom talks about scream in abject terror every night? I hear Cory's shrieks and I know what I must do."

"Yeah, I guess you do," replied Harry with emotion. "I can't even begin to start to understand how you managed to keep sane, how you can control your anger. I know if it were my brother I'd have cut the guy's balls off!"

A strange look came into Todd's eyes. "I was much too young, Harry, to even think along those lines. Hell, I was still calling my dick my peepee!"

Harry had seen the look in Todd's eyes and cocked his head. "Somewhere along the line, though, something happened, didn't it?"

Nodding, Todd's eyes grew cold and hard. "I can't prove it, but I think I know what happened. I heard some conversations between my uncle Louis and Papa." He smiled thinly at Harry. "You know the kind, where everybody stops talking abruptly when you walk into the room and give you 'Fuck Off!' looks until you take a hike!"

"I used to get them all the time when my older brothers were busy whispering about the girls." Harry beamed at Todd. "I guess they figured I was too young and innocent to hear them plotting how to get into some cheerleader's drawers!"

"Well, from what I could hear, and from what I read later on, they didn't do the plotting. But someone did and someone made sure that the man who tried to molest my little brother could never try again."

Although he knew that Cory was Todd's "little brother" by about seven minutes, he saw no point in mentioning it. Todd was older than Cory by those seven minutes and Cory would always be his little brother. Instead he asked, "The Order?"

"Maybe," replied Todd. "The man was sent to jail - he got three years, I think. His lawyer argued that he hadn't really done anything except expose himself to Cory."

"He would have done a lot more if you hadn't come along," flared Harry. "The fucker would have . . ."

"Well, he didn't," interjected Todd. "The judge said he had to go with the facts. He found the man we called our uncle guilty of indecent exposure and gave him the maximum. Which was a laugh. The man spent seven months in jail before going to trial and he got time credit for that! Because he hadn't actually touched Cory, that was taken into consideration. He was sent to a minimum-security prison! Hell, he was out on a day pass within a year!"

"Fuckin' legal system is the shits!" opined Harry angrily.

"Yes. My father was beside himself with rage. I haven't seen him so angry since Cory ... well, he was very angry."

"And then?"

"There was a small article in the newspaper about a murder in the prison. The article did not go into details, but it did say that he had been 'sexually molested' and murdered. Knifed, I believe."

"The Order?"

"I don't know." Todd looked at Harry and said very carefully. "The Grand Master of the Order is Michael Chan. He is also the Emperor of Chinatown."

"Gosh, a mobster!" exclaimed Harry. "I read something about him."

"He is not a thug!" declared Todd. "He is a gentleman who cultivates roses. My mother is very fond of him and I've met him many times. He has always been kind and generous to both Cory and me."

The tone in Todd's voice gave Harry pause. For whatever reason Todd apparently felt a special loyalty to Mr. Chan. Harry kept his big mouth shut.

"Michael Chan owed my father and my uncle. When the time came for him to go to high school he wanted to attend St. George's ..."

"The school you go to," supplied Harry needlessly.

"The very same. Michael's uncle, Henry Chan, put Michael's name down."

"And was politely told that there were no places for his nephew," returned Harry. "That school you go to ..."

"Is filled with bigots!" snapped Todd. "If you're not white, Anglo-Saxon and a communicant of the Anglican Church of Canada you're nothing; money, position, friends, mean nothing. Uncle Henry Chan could have built a school for his nephew! Hell, he offered to rebuild the gym and donate to the library fund."

"But, being Non-white, Oriental and no doubt a Buddhist, he was beyond the pale."

Todd nodded. "Uncle Henry wanted to please his nephew, Michael. He couldn't. Until he met my father and uncle."

"What happened?"

"Well, it seems that my Uncle Louis was coming home from a reunion dinner at HMCS Discovery. He was driving through Stanley Park and almost ran over a kid, who had run away from an orphanage. It turns out that one of the keepers, an Irish Christian Brother, had been molesting the kid. Uncle Louis took the boy, whose name is Gabriel Izard, to the hospital and called the cops. Long story short, the authorities buried the whole thing, because the last thing they wanted to do was offend the Catholic Church. The brother was transferred somewhere." Todd shrugged expressively. "Out of sight, out of mind and no longer the responsibility of the Diocese."

Harry muttered under his breath something about birds of a feather. Todd snickered. "Well, I think it was more politics than anything else. Anyway, Uncle Louis then tried to have himself appointed Gabe's guardian. The Archdiocese wouldn't allow it because we're not Catholic, which Gabe was."

"But it's okay to force Indian kids - who are technically heathens - off the reservation and into residential schools run by the Church," snarled Harry contemptuously. "Hypocritical clerical bastards!"

"Yes, they are," agreed Todd. He looked thoughtful. "Here again, I'm not at all sure how it happened, but I do know that somehow my father and my uncle met Uncle Henry and Uncle Louis was given a dispensation and Gabe Izard became his ward."

"The guy was that powerful?" asked Harry. Even in rural Manitoba the church was a powerful influence in everyday life. Harry was not a Catholic but knew many schoolmates who were and the impression he had was that nobody went against the local parish priest, ever.

"So it would seem," responded Todd quietly. "Uncle Henry Chan was the Emperor of Chinatown at the time. As I said, I don't know what happened, but Uncle Louis got Gabe and he and Papa, who are members of the Board of Visitors of St. George's, spoke to the Headmaster of the school. Michael Chan, and his cousin, Joel Chiang, were made welcome."

"They paid a debt," said Harry with an approving nod.

"Yes, I suppose they would have thought that way," agreed Todd. "Later, after the incident in Stanley Park, Henry Chan repaid his debt."

"By making sure that the bastard who had at Cory never molested a little boy again," said Harry. He grinned. "I like that in a man!"

"Harry, a man was killed!" Todd said with a horrified gasp. "He was stabbed to death!"

"So?" demanded Harry. He shrugged expressively. "Look, Todd, the guy deserved what he got. The court system failed to dispense justice. The system went out of its way to give the prick every break it could. As far as I'm concerned Henry Chan righted a wrong, gave justice where it was due!"

"Still, Harry ..."

Harry reached out to take Todd's arm. "Look, Cory was saved because you were there to save him. Have you ever thought what might have happened if you hadn't been there? Maybe the guy would have raped Cory, and then killed him! It's happened before!"

"It's happening now," sighed Todd. "Michael Chan has the power of the Order, and the resources of his organization. He knows that the law will never truly punish the men involved in this ring of perverts. They'll get jail time, maybe, but they'll be 'good boys' and be out on mandatory parole in no time!"

"Which is another reason to join the Order," said Harry firmly.

"Harry, this is not a game," said Todd firmly. "Michael Chan does not fuck around. If he's decided to use all of his resources to destroy this organization or whatever it is, he will." "Fine by me," replied Harry nonchalantly. "As we say back home, 'ya play with the bull, ya get the horn'!" He gazed into Todd's clear blue eyes and smiled. "Todd, all joking aside, I want to be in on whatever it is Michael Chan has planned. Isn't there an old saying that evil exists when good men do nothing?"

"Something like that."

"Well, you're a good man, Phantom's a good man and I think I'm a good man. And because I am what I am I want to be a part of this thing." He held up his hand to emphasise his point. "Todd, I am nobody's fool. I'm not rushing into this Order on a whim. I want to know more about it. I'm not into mysticism and saints appearing in the night, so while I do think that Phantom believes everything he dreamed, it really hasn't influenced me. The Order does sound interesting. It might also be interesting to be in on the re-birth of something that could be a great thing."

"You think?"

"I think," replied Harry with heavy emphasis. "I'm gay, or at least I'm bi-sexual." He made a wry face. "Mind I do swing more to guys than gals."

"And?" asked Todd, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, if it ever came out that I was, you know, into guys, I'd like to think that somewhere there was an organization that would help me. Let's face it, Todd, being queer ain't exactly the best thing to be in my neck of the woods."

"Or mine," returned Todd. "But you do have your family, and your friends. We'd all stand beside you."

"I know that," said Harry. "I know I can count on my brothers. But you all have lives, and you all live in different parts of the country. Where I come from it's not unknown to have a bunch of guys in pickups come calling and burn your barn." Harry shook his head. "I can take care of myself but there are some people in this world who just don't get the message unless it's conveyed on the toe end of a boot."

"Worn by Harold Franz-Josef von Hohenberg, no doubt?" responded Todd with a grin.

"Kick ass and take names time," responded Harry.

"So we go."

"We go," confirmed Harry. He looked inquiringly at Todd. "You think the other guys will go?"

Todd nodded. "Cory is talking to Sean," he said. "Cory will follow Phantom and no danger. Sean will follow Cory."

"And the others?"

Shrugging, Todd continued. "Phantom doesn't want anyone with him who doesn't want to go. It's got to be voluntary. The guys are talking to each other. That's all Phantom ever asked them to do. They have to make up their own minds."

"They'll all go," declared Harry with firm conviction. He thumped his chest. "Then it's kick ass and take names time!"

In the Drill Shed, in the PTI office, Mike Sunderland and Phillip Adean, called the Assistant, sat side by side on the only piece of furniture in the cramped cabin that could hold both of them: the desk. Chris and Jon had been by, had told them of what had happened in the Gunroom, had told them of Phantom's dream, and what their friend was going to do. Tyler had also made a point of stopping by, repeating, for the most part, what Chris and Jon had said, and told the two Physical Training Instructors that there would be a meeting at 1300. They were invited to attend, but if they chose not to, everybody would understand.

Mike had been his usual quiet self, thinking about what had transpired in the Gunroom earlier and trying to sort out, in his own mind, the chaff of rumour from the kernel of truth.

Phillip slipped his arm around the broad shoulder of his lover. He was not at all sure just what to make of dreams and prophecies. They were ephemeral. Mike was real. Mike had declared his love, and his determination to follow Phillip wherever they might go. For the first time in his life, Phillip Adean felt ashamed. He thought of all the boys he had serviced, or who had serviced him, thought of the lack of any feeling other than lust that had existed between those boys and him, and laid his head gently against Mike's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Mike, startled, rubbed his cheek against Phillip's. "What for? You haven't done anything to be sorry for," Mike replied, his voice low and soft. He reached down to take Phillip's hand in his. "I love you. Nothing you've done can ever change that."

Struggling, failing, Phillip began to sweep softly. "I wish . . . oh, damn it, I wish I hadn't..."

Squeezing Phillip's hand, Mike said, "Phillip, you could not have known ... you only did what thousands of guys do every day. It doesn't matter. We're together now. That is all that matters."

"I love you, Mike," whispered Phillip.

"And I love you," replied Mike. He pulled away and then reached out to take Phillip in his arms. He slowly stroked the back of Phillip's head. "I want you near me, with me, always. I love you! I dream of you, think of you, need you. No matter what happens, I will always need you."

"And I will always need you," murmured Phillip. "I will go where you go. I will be at your side."

"I know," replied Mike simply. He held Phillip close. "It was Phantom."

"Huh?" Phillip drew back, surprised at Mike's unexpected statement. "It was Phantom what?"

"Phantom was the one who came into the mess and sucked my dick."

Phillip's eyes grew wide. "You . . . you can't know that, Mike!" he exclaimed. Phillip thought that he knew at least a little of the character of every cadet in Aurora. No way would Phantom do anything like sucking a dick, any dick, Mike's included! "First of all, Phantom Lascelles is not gay!" Phillip exclaimed emphatically. "Second of all, Phantom Lascelles would never . . ."

Mike slowly raised his hand and gently stroked his lover's cheek. "As it happens, Phillip, I know. Phantom came to me, in the night, and showed me what I was."

Rolling his eyes, Phillip scoffed loudly, "Come on! How can you know that the guy who came into your mess and blew you was Phantom? You told me yourself that the guy was wearing a ski mask, his head and face were covered!"

"Yes, his face was covered," agreed Mike. "Still, I know."

Grimacing, Phillip asked, "Okay, how?"

Smiling, Mike replied, "You remember the morning when I flashed the parade?"

"Fuckin' aye!" growled Phillip in reply. "How could I forget that little exhibition?" He gave Mike as dirty a look as he was capable of. "I will never forget my lover standing there waving his dick at every cadet in sight, not to mention officers!"

"None of whom have anything that I don't have," returned Mike stiffly. "Not that what they have or don't have matters. What is important is that it was Phantom, Phantom, who was standing there, looking at me, and you know what?" Mike pushed Phillip back and looked into his eyes. "Phantom was staring at me and I could feel his hurt! I could feel his pain! He wanted me to stand up and show the troops that I had balls!"

"You got all that from a look?" asked Phillip sceptically.

"And more!" snapped Mike. "Phantom had shown me what I was. He also wanted me to show the rest of the world that I was a man! He wanted me to show the clowns that I knew that they were making fun of me, laughing at me, not with me. He wanted me to show them that I was more than a figure of ridicule!"

"Well he sure as hell succeeded!" rumbled Phillip with a small grin. "Man, did you show the world."

"Yes, I did." Mike gave Phillip a small kiss and then said, "What is important is that I had to do it. He couldn't, you see. I had to stand up and be a man." He shrugged. "So I did!"

Phillip did not immediately reply. Then he reached out to draw his lover to him. "We're going to Quebec, aren't we?" he asked.

Mike nodded. "I am. I must, Phillip. And before you say anything, I want you to know that I am doing it for me. I owe Phantom, yes, but I am not going because of that. I am going because I am a man, and there is an evil out there, a horrible evil, that has to be stopped."

"Evil exists when men hesitate," replied Phillip.

"Yes."

"I'm going with you, you know," said Phillip.

"No, you're going with Phantom. There's a difference," returned Mike. "I am not important. What Phantom wants to do, is. Don't go unless you truly believe in what you are doing."

"Mike, the last time I checked I had a brain, and I am quite capable of making my own decisions," Phillip said firmly. "I have a dick, I have balls, and while that makes me anatomically a male, it doesn't make me a man. I happen to think as you think. We have to go, we have to help eradicate this evil." He shrugged expressively. "So I go."

Smiling warmly, Mike enfolded Phillip in his arms. "I love you, and I need you. And right now I just want to sit here and hold you, and hold you, and hold you!"

Logan Hartsfield watched with interest and listened eagerly as the seemingly confused and disoriented group of men, all dressed in a variety of sports gear and wearing tool belts, swore, cursed, argued and complained as they set about building an obstacle course. "Are they always like this?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth, his voice a bare whisper.

"Usually," replied Laurence with a dry chuckle. "No soldier is ever happy unless he is complaining about something."

They were invisible in the deep timber, watching the bulk of the Outside Security Force.

The OSF had looked quite impressive as the seventy-odd men, all fit, all muscular, and trailed by a half-ton filled with tools and saws, jogged as a platoon down the road and onto the small clearing where their Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Sheppard, had ordered an obstacle course to be constructed. Logan had expressed his admiration to Laurence in glowing terms.

Nodding, Laurence had agreed with his protégé. "The Major chose each and every one of them," he advised. "He was very careful to ensure that they were all healthy, and experienced."

"Are they all American?" asked Logan.

"No, not at all. Some are ex-SAS, or ex-Royal Marines, Englishmen and Scotsmen. No Irish."

Logan's eyebrow shot up. "Do I detect a subtle form of discrimination?" he asked.

"You detect a blatant form of discrimination," returned Laurence, his icy tone chilling the late summer air. "Experience has shown that the IRA, and the UDF, have made inroads in the ranks of the British Army. Both organizations are composed of terrorists and thugs." He looked evenly at Logan. "While at first glance it might be thought unfair, it is better to be safe than sorry. We learned that lesson only this morning, did we not?"

"The Chinese," said Logan without emotion. He had heard Pete Sheppard tell Laurence about K'ang's treachery.

"Precisely. Michael Chan, and the Major, had no say in the appointments of the Chinese guards. Michael's business associates in Hong Kong vouched for them all. K'ang was highly recommended. You know what happened."

Logan nodded. "What will happen to them?"

"The Chinese?" Laurence shrugged. "It's best you don't know," he thought. He regarded Logan and said carefully, "The Chinese were foisted on us, and have proven to be frail reeds. I know it is unfair to paint all of them with the same brush, but it must be done."

"So they'll be sent home, then?" asked Logan while a chill seemed to enter his bones. He knew of the Tsangs. The clan was intensely loyal to Michael Chan, and Logan wondered how many of them had been pressed into service keeping careful, and wary eyes, on the discredited Chinese guards.

"Some ... most ... will," replied Laurence enigmatically.

Logan nodded at the group of men, now organized and working away. "And them?"

"As I said, the Major had a say in their employment. There is no reason to think that they harbour any thoughts of disloyalty. You heard the young Lieutenant. I think he spoke for all of them." Once again Laurence looked levelly at Logan. "Michael prizes loyalty above all."

Logan understood the implication and silently vowed to show, in every way possible, his gratitude and loyalty to the man who had, at the end of the day, saved him from a life of crime, or worse. Logan looked at the tall, lanky West Virginian standing in the clearing, shirtless in a pair of abbreviated cammy shorts, and remembered his conversation with Laurence regarding entry into the Order, and wondered aloud, "Are any of them knights?"

Shading his eyes from the hot afternoon sun, Laurence shook his head. "None have been so honoured," he said, a note of disappointment in his voice. "Both Michael and the Major feel that after all they have been through, particularly the Americans, that they should be left alone, that their sexuality not be questioned." He grinned ruefully. "They were not hired to be put to stud, you know."

"I did not mean that," replied Logan. He returned to staring at the men as they struggled to erect an upright barrier of some kind. Others were busily digging a series of ditches. "Do you think they'll be finished by midnight?" he asked.

"Their pride is at stake, not to mention the usual rivalry that exists between the Americans and the Brits. They'll be finished." Laurence looked at Logan. "What did you mean?"

"I think that Mr. Chan and the Major are wrong." Logan slithered deeper into the scrub and propped himself on one elbow. "After that little show in the big house this morning we know that at least one of those men enjoys sex with another man."

"Private Campbell aside, what is your point?" asked Laurence somewhat acidly.

"You and Mr. Chan are sending home the Chinese, because a few are tainted. I suppose that comes under the heading of one bad apple spoiling the barrel."

"Go on."

"The men of the Outside Security Force live apart, in the villages. They have little contact with the outside world. Most of them seem to be clean cut, well set-up young men, exceptional young men - or they would not be here - who have the normal urges of any man."

"They take leave, and they go into the city," Laurence pointed out, his tone becoming chillier. He was beginning to wonder just what sort of a young man this alleged guttersnipe was!

"True," agreed Logan. "But they go in a group and my guess is that you, or the Major, and that means Mr. Chan, know exactly what they do in the city."

Laurence squirmed uneasily. As it happened, he did know what the men did in their free time.

"I thought so," said Logan as he watched Laurence squirming. "Sir, you have a perfect opportunity out there." He pointed to the group of men. "Okay, maybe not all of them are gay, but I'm willing to bet that some of them are. And they are loyal. Lieutenant Sheppard proved that."

"Yes, he did," replied Laurence reluctantly. He thought a moment and then motioned for Logan to get up. "We're leaving."

"We are?" asked Logan as he brushed grass and twigs from his combats.

Laurence pointed with his chin. "They are much too casual, and not taking this whole business seriously."

"We're not going to try to strangle poor Lieutenant Sheppard again!"

"Of course not," replied Laurence with a grin. "He's learned his lesson!"

"We're going!" Randy said stubbornly, his determination etched on his face. "Don't try to stop us!"

Chef sat back in his chair and clasped his hands over his ample stomach. "Now then, why would I want to do that? Sure and the next thing I'd know the whole of you would be standing on the verge, waving your fundamentals at every passing lorry." Chef had not forgotten what the two young boys had done on the drive down to Victoria.

"What?" The Phantom's eyes widened as they looked at Chef's calm, placid face. Behind him, Ray, Kevin and Phil Thornton looked at each other, and then at Chef.

Chef gave The Phantom a fox-like smile. "Sure and when one is faced with two obstreperous, obdurate, objects, one must make allowances."

The Phantom shot Chef a "You're up to something!" look. His emerald eyes blazed as Chef smiled benignly in return.

"We can go?" asked Joey, amazed that Chef had given in so easily. It had taken them all morning to convince Ray and Kevin, and Phil Thornton, and all Chef had done was sit back, smile, nod, and agree! Joey's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You really mean it?"

"Faith, and would you question me?" asked Chef as he affected an air of great disappointment. "Sure and were you not a part of this wonderful dream of Phantom's, standing foursquare with your Papa Chef?"

The smile that Chef gave the two young cooks reminded The Phantom of a very large, hungry cat ogling two very plump mice. "What's the catch?" he asked cynically.

"Catch? Now is that a thing to ask of me?" replied Chef, his face assuming an air of great hurt, or an oncoming attack of dyspepsia, The Phantom could not decide which.

"Yes," growled The Phantom. "You gave in too easily."

"I gave in after great thought," Chef lied. "All the lads who wish it may go. There are some minor details to consider, but yes, they may go."

The Phantom settled himself onto the sofa opposite Chef's desk, his eyes making contact with Chef's. He smiled grimly. "You're a canny old fox and knowing you, you're plotting. Somewhere a long the line there is going to be a big fat 'but'."

Chef clutched his heart and assumed a pained expression. "Ah, Phantom darlin', sure and it cuts me to the quick, so it does, when you question my motives," he pretended to whine. "A blow to me old heart, so it is."

"You have the heart of an elephant," returned The Phantom blandly.

Raising his eyes heavenward, Chef muttered sadly, "Such talk from the Prince of the Order!" Lowering his eyes again Chef continued, "It is not becoming of a Prince, Phantom."

The Phantom snorted. "I'm not there yet, and I might not get there!"

"But you will be," said Chef with a grin. "It is your destiny."

"So you keep telling me," returned The Phantom. He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. "So?"

Chef had been working the telephone all morning. He had made demands, wheeled and dealt and, using all his persuasive powers, had managed to get many, most of his ducks in a row. He nodded and began. "Joey and Randy will go. What they do not know is that a hospital has, or is being, established. Call it a safe house. A safe house needs guards. They will never see danger."

"So, you were up to something," said The Phantom, a note of triumph in his voice. "And they will have Phil Thornton with them, I'm thinking."

"They will," confirmed Chef. "They will never go in harm's way."

"Good. What else?"

"Damn pestiferous whelp!" thought Chef angrily. He maintained his calm and said, "Not all the details are finalized. The Grand Master feels it best to go slowly. Nothing will be done until the lads make up their minds."

The Phantom thought carefully. "They will be made knights?"

Chef nodded. "By Special License. The Order is being reformed. Your friends are to be the basis of that reformation." He stared balefully at The Phantom. "But only those who wish it, only those who accept knighthood of their own free will. There must be no coercion. You get me meaning?"

"I have made no demands on them," returned The Phantom coldly. "I have told them of my dream. They have talked, and will talk again. I will not influence them in any way."

"I expected no less from you," said Chef. "Still, you have influence, albeit unconsciously. The lads respect you, and if the truth were told, many of them love you." He leaned across his desk and looked at his new Prince with clear, probing eyes. "Phantom, the lads will follow you no matter what. You raise an eyebrow and they gather around."

"I don't mean to," said The Phantom.

"I know. What is important is that they will follow you. You have this air about you that inspires others. Few have it and even fewer know it." He cleared his throat and straightened. "Because of that influence you will be made a knight and declared Prince of the Order. It is an awesome responsibility and while I hope and trust you will use the power that will be given to you wisely, a Custos Principum will be appointed."

"Colin," breathed The Phantom involuntarily.

Chef noted the warmth in The Phantom's voice and nodded. "Lieutenant Arnott will be here soon."

The Phantom's eyes widened. "Colin . . . Colin is coming here?"

"He is," replied Chef simply. He steepled his fingers and then smiled. "He has agreed to become your Guardian, and to be a professed knight." He returned The Phantom's warm look. "He loves you, Phantom lad, as you love him. I ask only that you take great care not to allow your love for Colin Arnott, and his love for you, to cloud your vision."

"My vision is very clear," affirmed The Phantom with solid emphasis. "Colin might influence me, just as I might influence him, but I know what is expected of me, and I know what I must do."

Again Chef nodded. "And The Gunner?"

The Phantom's face grew soft. "What was between us is over," he said quietly. "The Gunner is a man who cannot give of himself. He is called to a higher duty. In my dream he was apart, sitting on a horse on a hill behind the lines of battle. He is a leader, and will act as a leader should. His sense of duty will not allow him to give of himself." The Phantom shrugged. "I will still love him, Chef. He was a part of my life, of my awakening, if you will. He tried to tell himself that he could be happy with me, just as I tried to tell myself that I could be happy with him." The young man sighed and said, "But it was not to be. We both know that now. Sandro says that The Gunner is like Alexander Nevsky. The Gunner is a visionary and a patriot. He will love many men, but cannot love a man."

"It is for the best, Phantom," offered Chef softly. "Steve Winslow will one day be Grand Master. He will be called upon to dedicate his life to the Order. It is best that you realized this now."

"I know," whispered The Phantom. "It's time to move on."

"It is." Chef rose from his desk and turned to stare out the window. Across the roadway he saw Rob and Brian, the Duty Hands, deep in conversation. Talking, talking, he knew, about what had transpired, and deciding what they would do. Two more knights? Perhaps. Chef hoped so. Rob and Brian were stout lads, schooled in the collegiums of schoolboy strife. Both young men were tough, determined and not afraid to back up their opinions and feelings with brute force. One was the son of a career Warrant Officer who had seen combat in Korea, the other the son of a nickel miner. They would - if they chose to do so.

Turning, Chef regarded The Phantom. "We are on the threshold of a great thing, Phantom. My only concern is that all are very sure of what they wish to do. This evening, Doc will be waiting in the surgery. Those who will follow you, who will follow the rule of the Order, will be examined. It is necessary. There will be no exceptions."

"Article 24," muttered The Phantom. "That will not be a problem."

Chef seemed not to hear as he continued. "When the good doctor has certified them, each boy will be asked, by me, if he wishes to become a knight. I will also ask each boy if he is to be professed. They are young, Phantom, and might not know their own selves."

The Phantom shook his head slowly. "You do them a disservice, Chef. They know what they are. They've always known." He touched his heart. "They know in here, Chef, just as I knew. I think that they finally found their true selves, as you called it, here, in Aurora. Now they can admit the truth."

"A difficult thing," observed Chef.

"Yes," agreed The Phantom. "But be sure of this, those who see Doc tonight will be true knights. They will be true to each other, and to themselves."

"Which I also know," replied Chef. "And why I used every power I have to ensure that they become a part of the Order." He returned to his seat. "Once Doc has finished, and I have finished, each boy will be asked to consider again what he is, and what will be asked of him. On Wednesday there will be a ceremony. Each boy will first become a Liege Man of the Grand Master."

"I pledged to The Gunner," said The Phantom. "I am his liege man."

"There was no formal ceremony," replied Chef. "Everything must be done properly." He looked at The Phantom. "Steve understands this."

"You've spoken to him?" asked The Phantom.

"I have," confirmed Chef. "He is the Chancellor and is informed of everything I do. His is the final authority when it comes to accepting candidate knights. He will not interfere in what is being done here."

"He might not interfere but he doesn't like it, does he?" asked The Phantom intuitively.

"He raised some small objections," replied Chef blandly. Actually, The Gunner had raised huge objections. In the end, however, The Gunner had come to realize that the good of the Order, the future of the Order, depended on what was done here in Aurora. "He regrets that he will not be here to see you inducted as a knight."

"Another ceremony?"

"Yes." Chef grinned. "Phantom, we must make all those who participate understand the importance of what they are about to do. They must understand that when they reach out their hands a torch will be placed in them. A torch that is being passed to a new generation, a torch that has never been extinguished. The knights we induct on Wednesday are the inheritors of 800 years of tradition and faith. As Proctor I must ensure that they understand the importance of what they are about to become."

The Phantom chuckled. "Oh, I think when Cory is finished with them they'll understand. You know about this morning?"

"I know," replied Chef. "I had it chapter and verse from Tyler. There is much more to the lad than meets the eye. I think now that I was hasty in my judgement about young Cory Arundel."

"He's no saint," The Phantom pointed out. "But he knows how to motivate people. He might be a dippy twit at times, but when he makes up his mind, he's got balls of steel."

"So it seems," agreed Chef with a smile. "But a quiet word to him, yes?"

"I'll talk to him," said The Phantom. "Cory I think knows enough not to try to influence the others. He's very smart, smarter than most think."

"Aye, so he is." Chef then ran his hand across his face. "The Grand Master has reached a decision regarding Sandro."

The Phantom stiffened. "He is my brother," he declared coolly. "If the Order is to succeed it must recognize that not all of our brothers are Christian." His green eyes flared. "Don't be thinking that you, or the Grand Master, can use Sandro as some sort of a sop. The Order wishes to be a safe haven for all gay men. If the Order is to attain its goals it must realize that we come in all shapes and colours, and worship God in different ways. We are all brothers simply because we are subject to the same bias, the same hatred, the same undeserved ignominy. We are Christians, Jews and Muslims. We are of different colours and backgrounds, but we are all brothers! Sandro is the first, but he will not be the last, and I will never allow you, or the Grand Master to forget that the Order, the Brotherhood, is a coat of many colours!"

"Are you finished?" asked Chef coolly. My, he had touched a nerve!

"Yes," growled The Phantom. "Sandro?"

"A Special Licence is to be issued and he will join you and all who wish it in the Vigil."

"The what?" The Phantom yelped.

"Did I not tell you?" asked Chef, feigning innocence.

"No, you didn't. What 'Vigil'?"

"Well, sure and it is the last chance for all to consider what they are doing. It is an old and very respected tradition for a candidate knight to spend the evening before his investiture in sober, careful contemplation. Usually the Vigil is held in a chapel. Since we don't have a chapel, I think we will have to find a quiet place for all to find peace with themselves."

"I already am at peace with myself," said The Phantom. "I don't need to sit up all night ..." He saw the look on Chef's face and understood. "The Drill Shed?"

Chef shrugged. "Perhaps. I shall think on it," he said. Then he grinned malevolently. "Of course, in order to keep the Vigil you must be chaste, and without sin."

The Phantom realized what Chef was saying and his eyes widened. "But Colin is coming..."

"So he is," said Chef. "But since he will be joining you in the Vigil, there will be no problem, will there?"

"All the Vigil will get you is a bunch of frustrated, born again virgins!" sniped The Phantom.

Chef pretended to be shocked, rolling his eyes and muttering about the hormones of boys. Then he sobered. "It is necessary, Phantom."

Chef was right. Chef was almost always right. When the ceremony was held there could be no doubt, no second thoughts. Each boy was being asked a great deal. Each boy must be given every opportunity to reconsider. "The Twins won't like it," The Phantom observed sourly.

"I don't like it, I don't like it at all!" snarled The Gunner as he slammed down the telephone and stormed into the living room. Ace and Lester, who had been plotting the addresses of the men the Rangers had identified on ordnance survey maps, and had overheard at least one side of The Gunner's conversation with Michael Chan, looked at each other. Lester rolled his eyes as if to say, "Here we go again!" and Ace pretended great interest in what he was doing.

"And that fat gut robber is in this up to his neck!" The Gunner continued angrily as he slammed around the small kitchenette looking for a coffee mug. "I see his ... spoor ... on everything!"

Lester giggled. The Gunner glared at him, thought a very dirty word, and clumped back into the living room. He plopped down onto the sofa, his dark look daring Lester, or Ace, to say something. Lester looked obliquely at the irate Gunner, looked at Ace, giggled, and said in a low, almost erotic whisper, "He's ever so cute when he's angry."

Ace opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and then broke down in a fit of giggling, nodding his head emphatically.

"I fail to see the humour, gentlemen," growled The Gunner, his choler rising. "This is a damned serious business! You two, of all people, should know just how dangerous it might be!"

Ace pointed to a street on the map for Lester to mark, and then pushed his chair away from the table. "Gunner, you might as well shut up. Michael has made up his mind. He would not have listened to Chef if ..."

The Gunner muttered about fat cooks and stirring pots. Ace ignored him but gave Lester a knowing glance. "So much for enduring, lasting, lifelong friendships," he said snidely. He returned to The Gunner. "Steve, you know and I know that not one of those boys - I suppose we should call them young men, now - will go anywhere near danger."

"And who better to relate with the boys we rescue than your cadets?" Lester pointed to the maps. "We have identified 15 men and 34 boys here in Toronto alone." He scratched around the pile of papers that hid the polished tabletop and brought out a long, handwritten list. "Six men in Ottawa, four in Montreal, two in Quebec City. We've yet to hear from the prairies or the West Coast. We're looking at a hell of a lot of rescuing and the list goes on and on. We need all the help we can get."

"Yes, we do," agreed Ace. "We can get the boys out, and we can get them to the new hospital. What we can't do, and your young cadets can, is talk to them, hold them, and listen to them. Lester's right, Steve. The boys we rescue won't want to talk to an adult. They will talk to a boy their own age."

"And we need what they know," Lester pointed out. "What we've discovered is just the tip of a very large, and very dirty iceberg! Most of those boys have been passed around. They can name names, and places."

"Particularly those in the States," reminded Ace needlessly. "For every man we discover up here in Canada, I'll bet the farm there are five or six in the States."

"More," said Lester. "I worked Boys Town. I listened to some of the boys chattering and telling each other about the men they went with. At least two of those boys were runaways from just such a situation. The States is a cesspool."

"And at the moment not our problem." The Gunner stood up and walked to the table. "You've marked every house?"

Lester nodded. "Yes. We know now where each house is exactly located, and how many boys are in the houses. We know the names of the men who are holding them, where they work, and so on. Brent is doing a background check on every name we came up with." Lester glanced at his watch. "He should be here around four-thirty."

"The Rangers?" asked The Gunner.

"Shane and Max pulled an all-nighter bird dogging that jerk in Buttery Street and are taking some down time. Unless some poor unsuspecting missionary - of any religion - came calling they should be sleeping."

"Teddy Vian and Jeff MacKenzie?"

"Checking out a very ritzy house in the upscale, lakeside resort of Oakville," drawled Ace.

"Spare me the travelogue," growled The Gunner.

"Last night Teddy and Jeff were confirming a report from one of the Chinese we have watching and saw a limo pull out of the driveway of the residence they were surveiling. The house in Moore Park."

"We need to talk to ... what's his name? Michael's man here in Toronto?"

"Tung, called Terry, Fu-hsiang," supplied Lester from his notes. "He's coming this afternoon as well."

"All right, back to Teddy and Jeff."

"They followed the limo to Oakville, to the area by the lake. It's very upscale and makes the Bridle Path look like Tobacco Road." Lester pawed through his mats and found what he was looking for. "Here, this place right here," he said pointing at the map.

"Boys?" asked The Gunner.

Ace nodded. "Two, one about sixteen, the other perhaps thirteen. The house is behind a stone wall with gates and security guards. Teddy is going to stay around until we get a little more information."

"Have Brent check it out," instructed The Gunner.

"Already done," Lester said smugly. "Sam and Gil are at City Hall researching property titles."

"Aaron Edgar?"

Ace snickered. "He spent the night furthering relations between the RCN and the Israeli Defence Force."

The Gunner's right eyebrow rose imperceptibly but he said nothing in reply.

"Anyway, he has an appointment at noon to meet the rabbi and finalize the leasing agreement for the hospital."

"The bank messengered the draft for the first year's rental this morning," advised Lester. "We're getting a good deal, thanks to Aaron's newfound ..." He licked his lips delicately. " ... Friend."

The Gunner smiled coolly at Lester's delicacy. Quite a change from the old Lester, who would have camped all over the room when describing Aaron's new relationship. "Invite Aaron's new friend to come to see me, Lester," The Gunner instructed. "We may have use of him."

Lester made a note on his ever-present legal pad.

"Also, please gather the troops. We need to discuss what we are going to do next. I want everybody here, say around dinnertime. Can you arrange food?"

Again Lester made a note.

The Gunner began pacing. "We need to co-ordinate our final effort." He saw Ace raise an eyebrow and continued on. "I would like every house to be hit at approximately the same time. That way the men who are holding the boys will not be able to warn each other - I think that they are in contact with each other, and with their supplier. We can't have any warning in this."

"And the boys of Aurora?" asked Ace.

Shrugging, The Gunner glanced at his watch. "They will be going to Ste Anne de Beaupre on Thursday or Friday, it depends on when the funeral is being held for Sylvain. Personally I believe they're off on a wild goose chase, but Michael has agreed to their going. What they could possibly sniff out at a funeral quite escapes me."

"It keeps them out of the line of fire," offered Ace, "which is what you wanted in the first place."

"True," agreed The Gunner. "In the event, we won't know how many of them there are going to be. It's just gone three here, which means it's noon in Comox and they'll just be sitting down to lunch. I understand from Michael that there will be a meeting after lunch, when the boys will make up their minds."

Andy pulled away from his lover's body and groaned loudly. The small cabin that he and Kyle had inhabited most of the summer was still and warm with their recent sex. Breathing heavily, with his eyes closed, Andy reached down to slowly stroke Kyle's warm, hard stomach. He moved his hand lower and brushed the heated, heart-shaped glans of Kyle's still hard penis. He heard a soft gasp escape Kyle's lips and rolled onto his side. As he lowered his head Andy whispered, "I love you, Kyle. I want you with me always."

Kyle reached down to gently run his fingers through Andy's sweat-stiffened hair. He felt Andy's lips caress the head of his penis and arched his body slightly. "To Ste Anne de Beaupré, to Annapolis," he whispered, stifling the groan of pleasure that was building deep within him. "Together, Andy, always together."

Michael Chan stood by the open grave, listening as the priest droned through the funeral service, a reading from the Book of Common Prayer, the 121st Psalm:

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills: from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord: who hath made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: and he that keepeth thee will not sleep ..."

At the foot of the grave, with his hand resting on the softly glowing wood of the flower-covered mahogany coffin, Gabe Izard, weeping softly, tried to say goodbye to his brother, his friend, his lover.

In echelon behind Gabe, Joe Hobbes kept his unwavering eyes on the colleague he had grown to love. Michael saw the look and placed his hand on Joe's shoulder, comforting the tall, dark, handsome man.

Beside the open grave Bertie Arundel, his brother Louis, and old MacReady, their eyes filled with tears, listened as the psalm came to an end. Louis, his heart aching with the grief he felt for Gabe's loss, moved quickly to stand beside the young man who would soon be his adopted son. He knew that the hardest part, the lowering of the coffin, was next and Louis would not allow his beloved Gabe to stand alone.

The priest's voice rose above the green trees and lush lawns of the cemetery, echoing gently against the white monuments and stones that marked the last resting places of the dead, "Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God of his mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother, Darren, here departed ..." The priest took the silver scoop filled with earth from his teenaged, sad-faced acolyte, and sprinkled the coffin with it, forming a cross. " ... We therefore commit his body to the ground ..."

As the priest continued the Litany the undertaker bent down and pressed a hidden lever on the chromed frame that held the coffin. A deep, heart-rending moan rose from Gabe's throat as the coffin sank slowly into the cold earth.

" ... Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ ..."

"Go to him, Joe," murmured Michael. "Hold him and care for him. He needs you now more than ever."

Joe shook his head. "He's not interested in me," came his whispered reply. "I love him, but all he wants is to be my friend."

Michael did not reply. He rested his hand against Joe's back and pushed slightly. "Go," he ordered.

As Joe moved to Gabe's side and the priest finished his peroration Michael glanced around. He raised his eyes to the clear, blue sky and then leaned down to look at the coffin resting deeply in the earth. He felt strangely at peace. Darren was gone. A boy in a man's body, a boy who was, through accident, and now death, denied his adulthood. Darren would forever be little, a little boy, a child.

A shiver ran through Michael's body as he thought of all the boys who lay in unmarked, anonymous holes in the ground. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes and slowly rolled down the cheeks of his smooth, handsome face. Other boys were gathering, boys who would right the wrongs inflicted on so many of their kind.

Michael did not see the strange looks that Gabe, and Joe, Bertie, Louis, MacReady, the priest and the two fresh-faced acolytes were giving him. Michael wept for the lost boys, and suddenly the words sprang from him:

"Jesus said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the Kingdom of God.'"