The Rule of Sebastian Read online

  Delores scavenged the floor, her tail low. She seemed to shun the newcomer as much as Casey had tried to. The hound had taken an immediate liking to Casey his first day at the abbey, but not to JC. Did she sense Casey’s qualms about JC, or did she have a set of her own?

  Casey dried a hand and slipped her a piece of cheese from a tray that Brother Micah hadn’t a chance to cover and store in the refrigerator. Her strong jaw cracked as she chewed the treat. JC began sweeping near Casey by the sink. Tension stewed in their small space.

  Turning back to the pot scrubbing, Casey said, “I suppose it’s tough getting used to things here, especially in winter.”

  “The meatless meals are the worst. But Brother…. What’s his name? The fat mamao.”

  “Brother George?”

  “Yeah, Brother George told me that I should appreciate what I got here, and reflect on the suffering of Jesus, and all that.”

  “He’s right, in a sense. We all have to face the challenges of abbey life. Part of why we come here is to suffer alongside Christ, to immerse ourselves in prayer and work. Opus Dei, they call it.”

  “That’s another part I hate,” JC said. “All this churchgoing, ten times a day. And going to bed at eight and waking at three in the morning. Crazy. And no TV or video games. How can you go without all that?”

  Heat built up under Casey’s tunic. Another one of those moments. He needed to find solitude, to pray for strength and self-restraint. He longed to take his siesta. Longed for Sebastian.

  Brother Giles rolled into the kitchen, his wheels sending a discordant screech into Casey’s ears, before Casey could answer. He wheeled straight up to JC. His silver beard seemed to pull on his terse mouth. Casey looked over his shoulder and gaped at them.

  “You listen up, young man,” Brother Giles said, wagging his long, gnarly finger at him. “You don’t defile the Church or Our Lord. The Lord suffered for your sins so you could go to Heaven. You can at least pray to him seven times a day. Is that asking too much?”

  Casey couldn’t help but notice the veins snaking along Brother Giles’s neck as he wheeled round and took off as fast as he’d come. Old Brother Giles had an uncanny strength for a man his age. Perhaps he’d honed his muscles from his many hours ironing and sewing the sacramentals they sold to summertime guests, or from pushing his wheelchair, since he disliked using the motor.

  In the wake left by Brother Giles’s wheelchair, Brother Lucien stood at the kitchen doorway, a sour expression staining his face. “The father would like to speak with you,” he said to JC, with an unusual listlessness to his English accent.

  Shrugging at Casey with a downturn of his mouth, JC leaned the broom against the counter and followed Brother Lucien out the door.

  Chapter Seven

  SMOKE curled from a cone of juniper incense on the sideboard. He savored the aroma, the scent of Colorado itself. Another gift from the inhabitants of the surrounding villages. An entire case of it. Handmade by the Ute Indians. The incense signified an endless bounty. A burning desire. The smoke coiled with the sophistication of most of the gifts bestowed on the abbey by various citizen groups and individuals. His favorite of these he’d left on the round table by the fireplace. The bottle of red wine waited alongside two tall stemmed glasses, in addition to a tray of chocolate truffles, a gift from a Monfrere candymaker.

  He was waiting. Anxious for his orders to be carried out. He’d instructed Lucien to fetch him, and he would arrive shortly.

  “Bring him to me,” Father Paolo had told him a handful of minutes before, as Lucien had stood before him expectantly. “Tell him I wish to see him.”

  Lucien had ogled him. “But is he well enough?”

  He was becoming more obstinate than Brother Sebastian lately, Father Paolo lamented, remembering their minor exchange. “He’s been working alongside Brother Micah, ran about the abbey as if he were a visiting bishop for nearly the past week. Brother Jerome tells me he’s in perfect health. He’s well enough, you can be sure.”

  “You wish to see him in private?”

  “Yes, of course, in my office. Alone. That is my wish.”

  Lucien’s face had fallen with a lassitude Father Paolo had taken for jealousy. The growing wrinkles around his eyes and mouth had deepened in the glow from the freshly lit fire. Father Paolo had disregarded the flush blooming over his underling’s cheeks, which accentuated his blue eyes. He had no time for challenges from his charges. His word, ordained by St. Benedict, reigned inside the abbey.

  “Go bring him to me,” he had said, lowering his voice to punctuate his command.

  Lucien had moved for the door, mumbled over his shoulder, “Yes, Father. Anything you wish.”

  And that was the way the father liked it. His word above all others—with the exclusion of the Almighty, of course.

  His heart beat with anticipation for Lucien to follow through with his instructions. Soon the door would open, and Lucien would announce JC. Another minion to add to his flock.

  He had waited long enough for their private face to face. The young man had lived under their roof for nearly a week, functioning as one of them. Father Paolo had watched him. He’d fit in well thus far. Worked as well as any of the young postulants and novices that had crossed his path—no more hard-working, no less lazy. Eager to please, though a bit inept, as were most from his generation. He loved how the handsome postulants tried so hard to please. So desperate to be accepted, even when unsure of their vocations.

  Father Paolo’s heart leaped when he heard Lucien’s gentle rap on the door. He inhaled, his right hand pressed to his chest to ease the heavy breathing. He savored how the excitement made him retrace his youth. A lovesick youngster, squatting by the arbustos at Vila de Seda’s Catholic youth center. He cleared his throat.

  “Enter.”

  Lucien’s face was dimmer than when he’d left. Dark with protectiveness and unease. No need to fear, my love, he wanted to tell him. More urgent matters demanded his attention. Poor Lucien would have to wait.

  “Brother JC is here, Father,” he muttered.

  Father Paolo waved Lucien out the door. “If you will leave us,” he said to him. “I would like some time in private with our guest.” He eyed JC, standing nervous and pitiful by the cabinets. “Brother Lucien, please assist Brother Hubert with the laundry.”

  Lucien hesitated, nodding in obedience only when Father Paolo glared at him. He left without shutting the door, a small mark of defiance. In the corridor, his sandals clicked against the balls of his feet, fading as he turned for the laundry room.

  “Come in,” Father Paolo said to JC once certain Lucien had gone. He grinned to the point his cheeks lifted his glasses off his eyes.

  JC fully entered the abbot’s private office as if taking his first steps. Surrounded by yet additional new things, JC appeared more vulnerable than when he’d first flashed open his black eyes in the infirmary. Good. The father delighted in the helplessness of his postulants.

  “May I pour you some wine?” he asked after he shut the door. “It’s from one of the finest vineyards of Portugal’s Trás-os-Montes region. Chaves, near where I lived as a boy, a small village not even on a map. The ladies of the Monfrere auxiliary bring us cases in autumn before the snowfall. They are kind to know of my homeland and to consider that I might long for the wines from there. Truth be told, I prefer California’s dry white wines. There are so many restrictive winemaking laws in Portugal. In the United States, winemakers have no archaic regulations to hold them back. How I admire California’s earthy Pinot Gris. But I accept the ladies’ gift with gladness in my heart. Sweet as the red wine they send.”

  The ruby liquid resonated like the cadence of a lute being tuned as he filled each of the long-stemmed glasses. Father Paolo raised his glass, the wine glistening against the fire. JC stared, as if mesmerized for a moment by the play of colors from the dancing flames, and then he pivoted his head, gazed around, leery.

  “I don’t like wine,” he said. “I
never really drank that stuff.”

  “Tastes sweet, with a hint of cinnamon. You may enjoy it. I’ve seen how you devour Brother Micah’s cinnamon rolls. Goes wonderfully with the chocolates.” Father Paolo snickered at JC’s quick head shaking. A pity the youth of America never acquired a taste for vinho. The way they drank milk…. He chuckled inwardly, remembering his first reaction when he’d beheld how Americans quaffed cold milk from tall glasses, as if they were guzzling water. At first he’d been disgusted, but soon he’d grown to find the habit charming. “Perhaps you are too down to earth,” he said to JC. “Your quaintness is something to admire, yes?”

  JC continued to peer around, his hands locked over the front of his scapular. Father Paolo needed to calm him. He was ranting on too much, showing his own nervousness. JC, young and impressionable, sought guidance from a strong figure. Still, Father Paolo feared he might be a tougher nut to crack than even young Brother Casey and Brother Rodel had proved.

  “Would you care for something else?” he asked him, keeping his tone upbeat. “Ale perhaps? I can call back Brother Lucien and have him fetch you a mug. Cold from the cellar.” Another gift from benefactors. “Or perhaps a cold glass of milk? I can only offer the kind made from powder, I’m afraid. Because we’re shut off from the world during winters, we cannot receive fresh deliveries until the spring thaw. I’ll furnish you with whatever you wish. Will music please you? I don’t listen to rock and roll, but I do enjoy jazz.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m good.” He finally stopped gazing around and pinned his dark eyes on the abbot. “What do you want?”

  Father Paolo flinched from his vulgar frankness. Another aspect of Americans he’d had to acclimate to when he’d first arrived as a young priest, sent abroad to help the ailing parishes of a secularizing United States. “I’m not after anything,” he said. “I only wish to make you more at home here and to check on your well-being.”

  “I’m doing good, I guess.”

  “You have an interesting accent,” Father Paolo said, lifting the glass of the ruby-colored wine to his lips. He sipped, allowing the sweet liquid to evaporate inside his mouth before even swallowing. “Resembles Brother Sebastian’s,” he said after he lowered the glass. “Do you come from Philadelphia also?”

  “How am I to know? I can’t remember anything.”

  “I apologize. I’m not trying to trick you. We here at the abbey only wish to help you.”

  “I’ll be okay. Once the snow clears up, I can get back off the mountain.”

  Father Paolo set down his wine glass with a thud. “But the roads aren’t cleared until April, sometimes May. It’s February. I’m afraid you’ll be with us for quite a few more months, unless you call for the authorities to come get you in a helicopter or snowmobile. We were almost about to do it too, but then you recovered so rapidly and you’re doing so well.”

  “How did I get here then? I must’ve hiked in. I can hike back out.”

  “And look what happened. You nearly killed yourself trying to reach us without proper attire. You’re likely to die if you venture out again. Please, take a seat and relax.”

  JC stood stiffer than a post. His mouth, molded with firm, thick lips, puckered and flexed. He seemed to study the abbot. Father Paolo kept his stance, lifted his wine glass at chin level, the sleeve of his tunic corrugated by the elbow.

  “Were you fibbing when you said you have no complaints with life here?” he said.

  “I like it okay, I guess. I’m just confused.”

  “Confused how and why you came to us?”

  He nodded. “That and everything else. I don’t even remember my name.”

  “Brother Jerome tells me you’ll remember soon enough. It’s only a matter of time. Don’t fret. And is it really so important to know why you came here? Perhaps God wanted you here, so here you are, and that’s all that matters.”

  “You talk like Sebastian.”

  Father Paolo suppressed a cringe at the incessant way American youth called their elders by their Christian names. “Brother Sebastian is a wise man,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad you’ve found friends here among us.”

  The fire snapped. JC stood unmoved. They had spoken one on one before, but only in JC’s cell or the infirmary, exchanging a handful of words. Never alone in his private office, struggling with conversation. Father Paolo realized he might have been premature to ask for JC. His wish might have to wait. Gaining JC’s confidence would take time. Perhaps weeks. He gestured toward one of the Bergère chairs by his desk for him to sit. This time, JC dropped his head and obeyed the father’s request.

  Inhaling, Father Paolo took his authoritative place behind his desk. With the mammoth oak desk between them, JC seemed to loosen up. The father said, “You look good in our attire. Do you feel contented in your tunic and scapular?”

  JC scanned the length of his body. “I feel kinda silly, to be honest. But at the same time, it’s comfortable.”

  Father Paolo couldn’t help but chuckle. He set his wine glass aside and leaned back in his chair. “They are practical for our needs here at the abbey. A symbol of our vow of poverty and devotion to God.”

  JC’s eyes fixed on the wine on Father Paolo’s desk. The abbot grunted to recapture his attention. JC turned to him, his expression blank and expectant.

  “Have you put much consideration into your religious beliefs?” he asked JC, wishing to focus on the mission at hand, which was to influence JC to remain at the abbey. He pressed his fingertips to his chin. “Do you recall attending Mass where you’re from?”

  “Nope.” JC shrugged and snickered. “Maybe I’m Jewish. In America, it’s hard to tell.”

  An icy yet burning sensation froze Father Paolo’s face. Yes, he knew that, with circumcision, telling a Jew or Muslim from the rest of the pack was difficult. Father Paolo squirmed in his chair, straightened the front of his scapular.

  “The brothers say I’m probably Catholic because I’m Latino,” JC offered.

  “Never mind what the brothers say. Do you feel a connection with God here?”

  JC lifted his eyes toward the portrait of Pope Benedict XVI hanging above the father’s desk. “I don’t know. I’m not really sure.” He flushed. “I… I think it’s nice what you do here. Having such strong faith is good, right?”

  “Of course it is.” Father Paolo surprised himself by his harsh tone, and he smiled to mollify the frightened look that eclipsed JC’s face. “Faith is all that guides us, here and everywhere,” he said softly, resting his folded hands atop his smooth desktop. “Don’t you think faith is what brought you to us through all this snow and wind, so high up in the mountains?”

  JC’s eyes fell to the red carpet. “I guess so. I wish I could remember.”

  Father Paolo fluttered a chuckle. He took a sip of the wine, tasted the sweetness lingering on his dry lips with a swipe of his tongue. “When your memories return, I’m sure you’ll realize that you were meant to be here with us, perhaps forever.” JC’s anguished expression brought a wider grin to Father Paolo’s face. “Don’t worry. We won’t keep you against your will. I’m merely hopeful. Perhaps too much.”

  “Everyone’s been really nice to me. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. Don’t think that I am.”

  Father Paolo leaned back in his chair. He almost wanted to cup his hands behind his head in exuberant victory. Replacing JC’s fear and standoffishness with subservient shame had come easier than he’d anticipated. Perhaps he’d underestimated his influence.

  After a moment of luxuriating in his triumph, he stood from his desk and positioned himself before JC. Heat from the fireplace warmed him. He sipped his wine, cleared his throat, and set the glass on the desk with a light scrape.

  “We enjoy having you here, Brother JC,” he said. “You’ve given us reason to practice our Trappist tradition of caring for the sick, downtrodden, and wayward visitor.”

  “Am I all that stuff?”

  Expectant, Father Paolo sat on the edge of t
he desk and allowed his tunic to spread fully and his arms to lay open by his sides. “We all need a helping hand from time to time. Love comes the most easy when we allow it. It’s more difficult to receive, sometimes. Don’t you think?”

  JC looked directly into the abbot’s eyes. Hot blood pumped under Father Paolo’s tunic and steamed his neck. The young man was perhaps used to seducing his wants even more than Father Paolo. He most likely lived a promiscuous life in the city, leaving a cordon of brokenhearted girls (maybe even young men) in his wake. A fledgling lothario reared itself behind those dark eyes.

  “You do like it here among us, don’t you?”

  JC licked his lips and gazed toward the smoldering incense on the sideboard. “I guess. It’s been okay. I’m kinda getting used to all the quiet. The work, I don’t mind. Getting up so early has been tough.”

  “I admit I had difficulty adjusting to the early mornings here myself. But faith in God stirs us to overcome hardship, just as our Lord had to.”

  Father Paolo reached for JC’s hands. In typical acquiescence, JC allowed the father to hold them and gaze into his palms. His brown hands were strong. Exquisite. No longer any sign of frostbite. He’d done hard labor in his short life. The nails were chipped, and grime wedged under the cuticles. A mechanic perhaps. The hands of a passionate soul.

  “You do not fear work, I can see,” he said. “You know more about hardship and dedication than perhaps you realize. It’s that zeal that drove you to us despite so much wind and snow.”

  JC’s lower lip dropped. He murmured, as if thinking aloud, “I… I hadn’t really thought of it that way. Maybe I am supposed to be here.”

  With the gentleness of a mother laying to rest her baby, Father Paolo placed JC’s hands into his lap, his fingertips brushing his scapular, where underneath the fervor of a young man desperate for guidance and love simmered.

  He released his hands and rose before him, stretching his short frame to look its tallest. Best when his underlings were seated so that he could tower over them. JC stood about five ten.