Saints+Sinners

by Saints

  I poured from the pumpkin pot and raised my cup to hers.

  “Cheers,” I said, with as much cheer as I could muster.

  “Good riddance to the ex and the teddy bear woman,” Jackie said, bumping my cup.

  “Indeed,” I agreed, bumping back and giving her a wide smile.

  “And here’s to us,” Jackie said, lifting her cup higher, “fixing ourselves up.”

  Stones with Wings

  Louis Flint Ceci

  Cyprion was pollinating the okra when he heard Father Marten approach. The Father Receiver did not interrupt. He waited while the young oblate twirled a fine brush inside each tight blossom. When he straightened up, Father Marten said, “You don’t like okra, do you?”

  “No, Father Receiver,” Cyprion replied.

  “Nor do I. Yet you tend to them as lovingly as the other plants.”

  “It has to be done. Without pollinators, the garden would be barren.”

  Father Marten shook his head sadly. “We balanced the world on tiny wings, and they broke.”

  “They didn’t break by themselves, Father. We panicked. We sought to stop the blight, and poisoned the world instead. From the First Collapse to the Second, it was our hand.”

  “And all the Powers of the Earth could not stand without their aid. Perhaps more gentle hands may bring them back.”

  Cyprion shrugged. “As the Rule says, ‘Our hands must be in service to Creation till Creation is restored.’”

  “Till Creation is Restored to the Creator,” Father Marten said, completing the verse.

  Cyprion looked away—not in chagrin, but to hide his smile. The Father Receiver often probed him like this. “I am grateful for the protection of the Hermitage, Father, but—”

  “But you are not yet ready to join the religious. Yes, I know. I shall give up on you some day, Friend, but not today.” He looked across the rows of plants. “Is it going well?”

  “The tomatoes need only a brisk shaking to set. Some hybrids even produce seed. Over here,” he walked over a row, “are plants grown from last year’s.”

  Father Marten bent over the hairy-stemmed plants. “There are blossoms.”

  “There were blossoms last year, too. But no fruit.”

  “At least the seeds sprout. That’s more than the companies left us. Your cross-breeding regime has done wonders.”

  Cyprion shook his head. “We can’t eat wonders. We will soon be out of patent seed. If these don’t set fruit…” He trailed off.

  Father Marten straightened up with a sigh. “I hate to think I’ve eaten my last tomato.” He gave Cyprion a half smile. “Though the end of Brother Mallek’s okra gumbo would be less mourned. How are the chickens?”

  “The chicks are improving. Most can walk, though the wings are useless. To get them to the point where they can range on their own, I fear, will take more than we have on hand.”

  The Father Receiver tilted his head. “You mean we need a sturdier cock?”

  Cyprion blushed, though he knew Father Marten meant the resident rooster that woke the community before the first office of the day. “I’m afraid Saint Vigil has done all he can for us.”

  “It may be that Goodman Mack has what we need. I would like you to visit him.”

  Cyprion did not hide his distaste. Mack was a goodman farmer like himself, but he overworked his livestock and treated them cruelly when they did not bend to his will. Cyprion had seen him kill a horse with a single blow from a maul because it refused the bit after a day of plowing. No sooner had the poor creature thudded to the dust at their feet than Mack turned to Cyprion and asked what price the Hermitage would pay for fresh meat. The memory still turned his stomach, though in the end the monastery had made the trade.

  “Must it be today?” he asked. “Our hens are in no hurry.”

  “No, but soon would be helpful. There is another reason to visit Goodman Mack. Will you walk with me?”

  The two of them strolled through the rows of vegetables that supplied the Hermitage of San Lucca and the village below with fresh produce, dried beans, and compost. Father Marten was silent. Usually cheerful and forward-looking, he dwelled less on the deprivations brought on by the First and Second Collapse and always spoke of the Restoration as if it were already underway and certain to succeed. Cyprion had less faith. He knew how thin the thread of life could be, how starvation still hunted the land, and how narrow his own escape had been. He also knew that a soul could be starved of more than food. A journey to the village would stir those memories again. He preferred his breeding charts and plants, and spent many days as silent as any eremitic monk.

  Father Marten, on the other hand, was usually voluble, so his silence marked a difficulty. “Goodman Mack’s tally is still in our favor,” Cyprion ventured. “He cannot charge us more than he owes.”

  Father Marten laughed. “No, but he’s certain to try. Look at the books with Brother Ishaak to be certain. But tallies are not the reason I wish you to visit Mack.” The Father Receiver halted where okra gave way to cucumbers. “A wild boy has been found on Mack’s farm. In the woods actually, between his land and ours. It’s not really clear where he comes from, but Mack has him now and I have…concerns.”

  A chill lodged in Cyprion’s stomach. “A wild boy? Wild, how?”

  “Naked. Mute. Likely starved. Probably more starved now, since Mack has him.”

  Cyprion nodded. “I’ll go today.”

  * * *

  Cyprion tallied what Mack owed the hermitage for seed and manure and considered what he might demand for lending out a cock to stud. Promising Brother Ishaak he would make it balance, he tucked a hen under his arm and headed down the mountainside. The path was steep and rocky, and parts had washed away in the winter rains. Ball alum and blue dicks poked above the still-green wild grasses. The blooms would wither soon and the grasses sear beneath the sun.

  The land was difficult to farm, with arable plots only in narrow shelves between the mountains and the sea. The Hermitage of San Lucca lay along one such strip. Years ago, inland visitors had flocked to these folded lands for their scenic wonder, but when agriculture collapsed in two catastrophic slumps, roving bands of desperate families streamed to the coast, looking for food. They soon wore the land bare. The Hermitage had escaped seizure only by virtue of its charter with the village below: the monastery would take in the old and infertile, people the village had no use for and therefore no obligation to feed. In return, the hermitage shared its harvest from garden and orchard and got to keep the sanctuary of its cloister.

  The year he turned thirteen, Cyprion’s family had crept south along the shore. Picking seaweed on the rocks below San Lucca, he slipped and broke his ankle. His family left him there. A villager found him on the sand, too weak to fight the incoming tide. He was dumped into a cart and hauled up the mountain and left at the hermitage gate. A stone of silence had settled on his heart then, a stone that seemed part of the cloister walls.

  In the years since, Cyprion had gradually taken charge of the gardens and hens. Like all oblates, he slept outside the walls, but the community sheltered and fed him—a thin meal, but sustaining. Even now, as the path down the mountain leveled out through a clutch of stunted cypress, he was looking forward to the journey back. He resolved to finish his business with Mack as quickly as possible.

  Mack’s farm sat at the edge of the village. As Cyprion entered the muddy yard a blast of oaths came from the barn followed by a whip crack. Fearing the worst, he rushed in. “Goodman Mack!” he shouted, thrusting the startled hen forward with both hands.

  The farmer and his eldest son stood beyond the light cast by the open door. The son was crouched as if ready to spring on a cornered animal. His father squinted at Cyprion. “What yer doing here?”

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Cyprion saw a third figure dressed in sack beside a tumble of hay. Both hands gripped a pitchfork. His eyes were wide with terror. If this was the wild boy, he was tall for his age. His skin glowed agai
nst the dark recesses of the barn, his black hair nearly disappeared.

  Cyprion caught his breath. “I’ve come to…I’d like to offer…”

  “I can take him,” the son said, eyes fixed on the thin figure.

  “We’re busy, monk,” the elder Mack said. “Come back another time.” He turned and raised his whip.

  “Wait!” Cyprion stepped forward, clearing the rectangle of light from the door.

  The wild boy gasped, dropped the pitchfork, and took a halting step toward him.

  The son sprang forward with a grunt and slammed the boy to the ground. “Gotcha, ya little bitch!” He writhed on top of the boy, pinning his arms above his head.

  The commotion caused the hen to squawk and ruffle her neck. Cyprion cooed her to silence as he approached. As soon as the wild boy made eye contact with him, he went still.

  So did Cyprion. He swallowed. “Is this the wild boy?”

  Goodman Mack spat. “Boy my ass. He’s some rich fuck’s plaything that’s run off.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, he’s obvious been fed, ain’t he? But he’s never done a lick of work in his life. Look at those feet, them hands.”

  Look at that face, those eyes, thought Cyprion. “You mean to work him?”

  “If he eats, he works.”

  “Has he eaten today?”

  Goodman Mack shifted his whip to the other hand. “What yer here for, monk?”

  To some, everyone on the mountain was a monk. Cyprion didn’t bother to correct him. “I’m here for…for him.” He nodded at the boy. “We heard up the mountain you had an extra hand—”

  “Extra! Hah! He’s more trouble than he’s worth. Can’t talk. Won’t listen. Can’t even pitch hay.”

  “We need an extra hand in the gardens. It’s pollen time.”

  Mack looked at him and set his shoulders. “He was found on my land.”

  “I heard he was found in the woods, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll pay for him.”

  “Da!” the son wailed from the barn floor. “You said I could—”

  “Shut it!” his father commanded. “Pay what?”

  Cyprion held out the chicken. Mack snorted. “She’s well-fed,” Cyprion said. “Hermitage feed.”

  “Fuck your crippled chooks,” the son muttered.

  “I said, shut!” Mack boomed. He eyed Cyprion narrowly. “How does this tally?”

  Cyprion drew a breath. “It tallies even.” He was going to have some explaining to do with Brother Ishaak.

  “You’ll need this,” Mack said, throwing him a rope. The son groaned and rolled off the boy, who rose slowly, never taking his eyes off Cyprion.

  “What for?” Cyprion asked, handing over the hen.

  Mack wrapped his huge hands around the bird, which immediately began squirming and squawking. Mack grinned at it toothily. “There’s some meat on this one at that.” He looked up and jerked his head at the boy. “For that. He’ll run off otherwise.”

  Cyprion held the boy’s gaze. “No he won’t,” he said.

  * * *

  “How can he declare himself if he doesn’t speak?” Brother Ishaak objected to Father Marten.

  “He is too young to declare himself, even if he could speak,” the Father Receiver replied.

  “It’s another mouth to feed.”

  “He may be another mouth,” Cyprion said, “but he is also another pair of hands and feet.”

  “He is more than his parts,” Father Marten noted. “There is something else there. You see it in his eyes, don’t you?” He looked from the brother to the oblate, but neither spoke.

  “What if he proves…” Brother Ishaak glanced at Cyprion, “disruptive?”

  “He won’t,” Cyprion said firmly. “He’ll be too busy in the orchards, the garden, and the coop.”

  “The garden is inside the cloister,” Ishaak insisted.

  “But the orchard isn’t,” Father Marten replied calmly. “And the henhouse abuts the exterior wall, a few paces from Cyprion’s cabin. Do I remember correctly, Friend, that there is a store room at one end, walled off from the roost?”

  “There is, Father.”

  “That might be a suitable place for—well, what shall we call him? We can’t keep referring to him in the abstract. He’s far too real for that.”

  Ishaak snorted. “You might well ask, but you’ll wait for an answer.”

  “Palom—” Cyprion blurted out but stopped when they stared at him. He shrugged. “Paolo.”

  “Paolo it is,” Father Marten said. “I’ll enter him in the rolls, but on promise of discernment, not as a received member. In particular, Friend Cyprion, he is your charge. If he proves disruptive, he cannot stay. He will have to be returned.”

  Cyprion gasped. “But surely—”

  Father Marten raised his hand. “Let us not worry about the future until it is discovered.” He turned to Ishaak. “Thank you for your counsel, Brother. We will be alert to your concerns.” He pulled the leather-bound Enrollment Book from a side drawer and laid it on his desk.

  Brother Ishaak bowed and left, scowling.

  Cyprion turned as well, already thinking about what needed to be done to make the storeroom habitable.

  “A moment, Cyprion.” Father Marten rose and approached him and clasped his hands in both of his. Cyprion felt heat bloom from his chest and rush over his face.

  Marten said, “I know this touches your heart. I know it touches more than your heart.”

  “I will not return him to Mack.”

  “But if he has to go?”

  “I will go with him. I will not leave him undefended. He deserves a life free of fear, free from cruelty.”

  “So do we all, I pray.”

  “He should have a normal life.”

  “In a hermitage? Did you?”

  Cyprion looked the Father Receiver in the eye but did not answer.

  Father Marten tapped the Enrollment Book. “Paolo will be given the opportunity to declare himself. If the community agrees to receive him, he can remain here the rest of his life. But before that, he must reach discernment. He must make a choice.” He looked up. “A choice I fear you were never given.”

  “I have always had a choice. I chose to stay.”

  “Because you had nowhere else to go? A monastery is not a place to hide away from the world, but a place from which to engage it. I think we have done you a disservice, sheltering you here. Your plants, your numbers, your charts—they keep you to yourself. But keeping to yourself keeps you from yourself, your full self. I hope this boy, this Paolo, can change that. You may serve each other.”

  Cyprion did not understand. Marten was talking about love, he knew that much, but what kind of love? What was Father Receiver giving him permission to do?

  Father Marten seated himself behind the desk. “The choice to stay or go must be his own, once he can voice it. Not yours, not ours. You must promise me that, Cyprion, if you undertake this charge.”

  Now he understood. He could put all his heart into the boy, but he had to be willing to give him up if the time came. But what choice did he have? To give him up now would be to throw a wingless bird into the howling, hungry world. “I promise,” he said.

  * * *

  Paolo became a frequent sight inside the cloister, and not just in the garden. He was ideal for delivering meals to the eremitic monks. He would move silently from cell to cell, stopping at each door to open the outer cabinet, remove the soiled plates, and insert the day’s meal, never seeing the contemplative inside. If he did happen upon one, his lack of eye contact with anyone but Cyprion and his continued muteness guaranteed the monk’s inner journey went undisturbed.

  He had the opposite effect on Cyprion, who narrated everything to the boy, whether he was candling eggs or charting hybrids. He read the Songs to him each evening, a practice one of the older monks pronounced “ancient, profound, and approved.” But the Songs did not lead Cyprion to deeper spiritual truth. He knew he was using th
e recitations to keep the heat of Paolo’s presence in his room past compline. His hypocrisy humiliated him.

  One night, with Paolo seated on the cot beside him, Cyprion found the words of the evening’s Song hollow and lifeless. Unwilling to end their time together, he opened the book to the index and said, “This is how I learned to count. It can be very calming. You start anywhere.” He closed his eyes and jabbed his finger at the page. “Here. Song Twenty-six, page 122. Add the digits together, one, two, and two, that’s five. You go down five to Song Thirty-one, page 127. This time, you sum the digits and go up. You alternate up and down, tracing a path. Sometimes a Song repeats, and when it does—” He looked up, expecting boredom or bewilderment on Paolo’s face.

  What he saw instead frightened him.

  Paolo’s fathomless eyes were wild and the pupils twitching. He rocked back and forth, his hands clutching the air.

  “Paolo!” Cyprion cried, fearing the boy was having a seizure. He dropped the book and hugged him to his chest. The trembling stopped and he heard a deep indraw of breath, like a drowning man surfacing. Cyprion drew back. “Are you all right?”

  Paolo took several more breaths. With each his lips would contort and his tongue move, but no sound came out.

  “Are you trying to speak, Paolo? What are you trying to say?”

  Paolo took several ragged breaths, then let out a long sigh. He hung his head and tears dropped from his eyes.

  They still embraced. Paolo’s legs were draped across his. Neither moved.

  “Did I upset you?” Cyprion whispered. “I upset you. You wanted to hear the Songs and instead I played my silly game. I’m sorry, Paolo, I won’t ever—” He stopped. Paolo was touching his lips very softly, very gently. The room thundered with silence. Paolo picked up the book of prayers and opened it. He took Cyprion’s hand and placed it on the index page. “Again?” Cyprion asked. “You want me to do it again?” Paolo gazed into his eyes.

  Cyprion started the formula again, reading aloud as he followed it. Whenever he looked up, Paolo was still looking deep into his eyes. After one particularly long sequence, the pattern led him back to the Song where he started. “There,” Cyprion said, smiling, “it repeats.” He looked up. Paolo was asleep.