Saints+Sinners

by Saints

  It must be halfway to prime, Cyprion thought. He should carry Paolo back to the storeroom. But the boy was exhausted and suddenly so was he. He laid Paolo down on his cot, pulled the woolen blanket over him, and considered his options. There was little room in the cabin, just enough for the cot and table and rows of potted plants. He could sleep in Paolo’s room, but the smell of feathers and manure would keep him awake. He could spend the night in the chapel, perhaps reading the Songs in earnest, finding the deeper wisdom the monks assured him was there. The one thing he could not do was join Paolo. The boy hadn’t a whisker on his face, while Cyprion’s beard, though short, was full.

  In the end, he took a spare blanket from the shelf over the door, moved a row of plants, and lay down beside the cot. He used the Book of Songs for a pillow and was asleep before another thought could enter his head. He slept so soundly neither Saint Vigil nor the morning bell woke him.

  * * *

  Paolo’s appetite for numbers grew. Cyprion fed him sequences, magic squares, triangles. Each night, the boy grew more expressive, more eager, and more reluctant to return to the coop. Cyprion, too, was feeling the tug of that reluctance. But still the boy did not speak.

  One afternoon Cyprion was tending a graft in the orchard when a deep voice below him said, “Friend.” He glanced down and gave a start at the sight of a tall, bald priest with enormous gray and black eyebrows and a full beard. He scrambled down the ladder. “Father Soledad,” he said, hastily wiping pitch from his hands. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He couldn’t imagine what could have prompted the hermit to break his silence.

  “The boy,” Soledad said. “In the garden. He insists.” He turned and started down the path.

  A thousand fears flooded Cyprion as he followed. Had Paolo been injured? Been attacked? Taken ill? This was just the sort of disruption Brother Ishaak had warned them about! And what did Father Soledad mean by, “He insists”?

  They entered the cloister through the back gate. A small group of brothers and oblates ringed one side of the garden. Father Marten was hurrying toward them from his office. In the center stood Paolo, a hoe in both hands like a staff, ready to ward off attack.

  “Oh, no,” Cyprion muttered. It was worse than the encounter in the barn.

  “He called you,” Father Soledad said. “By name.”

  Cyprion gaped.

  “Well?” Father Soledad’s heavy eyebrows lifted. “Go to him!”

  Cyprion pushed his way through the knot of people to Father Marten. “I am so sorry, Father Receiver. I don’t know what—”

  “I think Paolo has something to show us. He won’t let anyone near, though. He insists on you.”

  “Cyprion!” Paolo whispered hoarsely.

  Cyprion stepped forward, searching Paolo’s face, his hands, the ground for some clue. He had been hoeing between tomato rows and stopped half way. “What is it, Paolo? What’s wrong?” He reached out to stroke his face to calm his breathing, to get that wild look from his eye. But Paolo shook his head and pointed a trembling finger at the plant beside him.

  Cyprion knelt down and looked. Then he glanced up at Paolo. The boy’s breathing had eased, but Cyprion’s was beginning to tighten. He stood up and checked the next row over, then the row Paolo had pointed to.

  “What is it?” Brother Ishaak asked impatiently.

  Cyprion embraced the boy with both arms. He didn’t care who saw.

  “Friend Cyprion?” Father Marten asked softly.

  He turned to them, beaming. “A tomato. Among the hybrids. A tomato from seed.”

  * * *

  “Excellent progress,” Father Marten said as they strolled around the perimeter of the cloister garden. It was six weeks since the sighting of the first tomato. Now there were over two dozen, and the first were beginning to show a blush of red. “Your methods have begun to bear fruit.”

  “The real test will come next year,” Cyprion said. “Then we’ll see if seed from this cross will also produce.”

  Father Marten smiled at him. “I wasn’t speaking only of the garden.” He nodded to Paolo’s gangly, broad-shouldered figure carrying the mid-day meal to the cells. “He makes eye contact. He greets the brothers as they pass. He has even been known to smile.”

  The sun felt warm on Cyprion’s head. “I can’t take credit for that. He grows in his own way.”

  “As do you, I think. You, too, have been known to smile lately. But there is one thing I have not seen Paolo do.”

  “What is that?”

  “Play. It cannot all be weeding and pruning and tending the hens. A boy should play.”

  Cyprion watched Paolo move from cell to cell. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “When were you last at the pond?”

  Cyprion frowned, trying to remember. “During the winter rains, perhaps, to check the pipes.”

  “It’s summer now.”

  He couldn’t imagine what Father Receiver was getting at. “The rains were good. The reservoir should last well into autumn.” Father Marten was silent. “Do you want me to check?”

  Father Marten sighed. “If you must, Friend Cyprion. But the water should be quite warm by now, especially near the shallow end. Warm enough for swimming, I should think.”

  Cyprion stopped, his mouth slightly open. Paolo was returning with the empty bowls, wiping his brow on his sleeve.

  “Think on it, Friend,” Father Marten said, moving off. “But do not think on it too much.”

  They climbed the hill to the holding tank above the hermitage that afternoon and followed the pipe to the pond. They stopped at the shallow end where muddy footprints marred the bank. Cyprion could feel Paolo’s eyes on him, but he stared out over the shining water as if it were an obstacle course. “Well,” he said at last, “I guess…” Then in swift movements, he lifted his smock over his head, shucked his sandals and undergarment, and strode into the pond without looking back. He took a few splashing strokes and felt for the slippery bottom with his toes. A rustling behind him followed by more splashes told him Paolo had followed his example. He dove under the water to avoid looking. When he surfaced, Paolo was beside him looking anxious.

  “Gone!” Paolo said. His dark pupils showed a spark of panic.

  “No, no. I just held my breath and went under for a bit. See?” He took an elaborate breath, made a show of clamping his mouth and nose shut, squeezed his eyes, and went under again. When he surfaced, Paolo seemed to relax. “It’s fun. Try it.”

  Paolo frowned so Cyprion demonstrated again, this time keeping his eyes open. Under the water, he could see the full length of Paolo’s naked torso. The water was murky, but he was close enough to make out details. It was obvious from his development that Paolo was at least as old as Cyprion. It was the lack of facial hair and his original scrawny state that had made him seem younger. His legs were solid white columns disappearing into the swirling mud below, and his muscular arms—his muscular arms were reaching for him. Cyprion gasped and came up sputtering, Paolo gripping his shoulders.

  “Don’t!” Paolo cried. His grip tightened as water poured from Cyprion’s nose. “Don’t go.”

  “I won’t,” he coughed. He grabbed Paolo for emphasis. “I won’t ever go from you.”

  Paolo searched his eyes, then pulled Cyprion to him and hugged him fiercely. Cyprion returned the hug, water dripping from his beard down the lad’s back. With each breath, they relaxed until they were breathing in unison, the sun warming their heads, the water cooling their backs, the summer insects flashing their wings over the water.

  Insects, Cyprion thought incongruously. More than last year.

  He felt something stir against his groin, and as soon as he realized what it was, his own member began to swell. This is not the sort of play Father Marten had in mind, he thought and pulled away. The water rushed between them, cooling his belly and deflating his arousal. He didn’t look to see if it had the same effect on Paolo. “Maybe we should go back.”

  Paolo shook his
head. “Hens can wait.”

  “Well, back to shore, then.” Cyprion took him by the hand and waded back to the spot where their clothes lay. His were in a heap on the muddy bank, but Paolo had thought to drape his over a bush lupine. Waves from their frolic had soaked Cyprion’s undergarment and half his smock. “You were smart,” he said, pointing to Paolo’s dry clothing. “You can put yours on right away.”

  Paolo picked up Cyprion’s wet things and spread them on a bush next to his. He turned, smiling. “Stay.”

  Now they were both naked in the bright sunlight. Water glinted in the hair at Paolo’s crotch and ran down his legs. Cyprion could feel the water drying on his back and wicking from the hair on his chest. Paolo took a step forward and touched his beard with his fingertips. Cyprion swallowed. “You’ll have one, too, someday.”

  Paolo shook his head slowly. “No. Never.” He dropped his hand and turned away.

  Cyprion shivered. He wanted to call back the sunlight of Paolo’s smile but didn’t know how. He picked up a stone, smooth in his hand and warm from the sun, and threw it at the pond. It skipped a few times before sinking.

  Paolo gasped. He looked at the ripples spreading over the pond’s surface and turned to Cyprion in bright excitement. “Again!”

  “What? The stone?” He picked up another one and flung it at the water. This one skipped much further. Cyprion smiled. “Not bad, huh?”

  “Stones fly!” Paolo exclaimed. He grabbed a handful of stones and threw them at the water. They sank.

  “Wait,” Cyprion laughed. “You have to pick the right stone. A smooth one.”

  Paolo picked up a stone and inspected it. “Smooth stones have wings?”

  “Well, not exactly. We give them wings when we—” Paolo threw his straight at the water where it disappeared with a splunk! He turned around with such a furious look that Cyprion laughed out loud. “Here, let me show you.”

  They chucked stone after stone until finally Paolo flung one that seemed to skip forever. They counted seventeen hits before it sank, then whooped for joy. Cyprion clapped Paolo on the back.

  “Aeii!” he cried, wincing.

  They had stayed uncovered for too long. Both were badly sunburned. They dressed, hissing in pain as the rough cloth scraped against their reddened shoulders. “I have some aloe juice,” Cyprion said. “It may help, but I’m afraid neither of us will sleep tonight.”

  “Why?” Paolo asked.

  “It’ll hurt, that’s why.”

  “No.” Paolo pointed to the water. “Why?”

  “Why the stones?”

  Paolo nodded, his eyes shining. “Stones fly. How?”

  Cyprion looked at the pond. “I never thought about it. I guess…” He looked at Paolo’s eager face. “I guess it could be calculated. The weight of the stone, the shape, the angle.”

  “Yes! More.”

  “More? The surface tension, I suppose. Viscosity. Air friction. All those affect the number of skips, the length of the run.”

  “But we are the wings. We make them fly.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. How hard we pitch them, but I don’t see—”

  Paolo leaped forward and kissed him hard on the mouth, then danced down the path, shouting, “We are the wings! We make them fly!”

  They did not sleep that night. They filled every scrap of paper and wooden plank with Cyprion’s calculations and Paolo’s drawings. Saint Vigil sang and they did not hear. The bell rang and they did not go. A rap at the door made Cyprion look up and realize it was day. He opened the door to find Father Marten and Brother Malleck.

  “Friend Cyprion, have you seen—?” Father Marten broke off when he saw Paolo leaning over the table. “Ah. Brother Malleck was wondering if Paolo would be collecting the eggs this morning?”

  “And the morning meal grows cold in the refectory,” Brother Malleck added. “He missed yesterday’s evening delivery entirely.”

  Father Marten smiled. “We’ve come to rely on our young friend, I’m afraid. Perhaps we’ve taken him for granted.”

  “I’m so sorry, Father Receiver,” Cyprion stammered. “We were up at the pond—”

  “Swimming?” Marten asked hopefully.

  “We started out swimming, yes. But then this question came to us, about stones and how they skip across the water and, well, you see…” He gestured to the table and the surrounding floor littered with their work.

  Father Marten took a step into the room. Feeling Brother Malleck peering over his shoulder, he turned and said, “Brother, perhaps one of the other oblates can deliver the morning meal?”

  “There’s mid-day prep as well.”

  “Paolo will be there to help you—” He looked at Paolo, who was scrutinizing his drawings, a knuckle in his mouth. “—directly.”

  Brother Malleck nodded and left.

  Father Marten approached the table and picked up a sheet of figures. Paolo grinned at him and nodded. “You go for a swim and come back with calculations,” Marten said. “You have a strange notion of fun, Friend Cyprion.”

  “It is fun!” Paolo exclaimed. “Stones fly! We are the wings!”

  Father Marten put the paper down carefully. “Yes, perhaps. But the hens need tending to and Brother Malleck needs help in the kitchen. Friend Cyprion, you have tasks too, I believe?”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “Good,” Marten said and headed for the door.

  “Father!” Paolo blurted out. Marten and Cyprion turned to him. “I have—” He rubbed his hands together. “I have decided.”

  “Decided what, Paolo?”

  “I want to stay. I want to stay here.”

  A broad smile spread over the Father Receiver’s face. “You are declaring yourself, then? You want to be part of our community?”

  “Yes, Father, I do!”

  Marten turned his smile to Cyprion. “See what a little play can do? We’ll have to settle on a cabin, or clean out one of the unused cells.”

  “No!” Paolo exclaimed.

  The smile died on Cyprion’s face. He longed for and dreaded what he knew was coming.

  “Here,” Paolo said. “I want to stay here. With Cyprion.”

  “Oh.” Father Marten looked from the boy to the oblate. “That might prove…disruptive.”

  “It will not, Father Receiver,” Cyprion said immediately.

  “You have already missed morning offices. Twice.”

  “That will not happen again.”

  Marten looked around. “It will be cramped in here.”

  “It is cramped in the henhouse. He is a growing boy.”

  “Nearly grown, I should say.” Marten turned to him. “Paolo, do you understand? You are asking to be part of our community, but we religious keep to separate cells.”

  “Cyprion is not religious,” Paolo answered.

  Cyprion’s heart skipped a beat. Father Marten cleared his throat. “No, he is not. He is an oblate. But he follows the rule and the offices, and is under my authority.”

  “I understand, Father Receiver.”

  “Hmm,” Father Marten said, unconvinced. “Can you eliminate these night-owl arithmetics and keep to our schedule?”

  Cyprion looked at Paolo. Did he understand? Paolo’s eyes were clear, no trace of wildness. “I can, Father,” Paolo said.

  “And attend all offices?” He glanced at Cyprion. “Whether Friend Cyprion does or not?”

  Paolo smiled. “I will, Father.”

  Cyprion felt a stone lift from his heart.

  “Good.” Father Marten turned to go. “The community must still consent. I will bring the matter before them at the charter meeting next month. Until then, you remain in your room beside the henhouse, is that understood?”

  “Thank you,” Cyprion and Paolo said together.

  Marten paused at the door and looked at them. “Stones with wings,” he said shaking his head.

  * * *

  Father Marten seemed determined to keep them busy at opposite ends of the hermita
ge that month. Cyprion was put in charge of rebuilding the village path. Paolo continued his rounds delivering meals, but surprised both Cyprion and Father Martin with plans for a greenhouse inside the cloister, which he set about building. They saw each other only at offices, but whenever Cyprion looked up from the Songs, he invariably met Paolo’s eyes across the aisle, dark as night and bright with life.

  At the mid-summer charter meeting, Paolo was received as an oblate into the Hermitage of San Lucca. That night, he moved into Cyprion’s cabin.

  The cabin still smelled of earth from the plants Paolo had moved to the greenhouse. There were two chairs, a table, a lamp, and two cots set against opposite walls, but Cyprion couldn’t see anything but the tall young man before him.

  Paolo took him by the hand. “There are two cots,” he said evenly.

  “Yes,” Cyprion said, unable to think.

  “They are narrow.”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, Paolo said nothing. Then he wrapped his arms around Cyprion and pulled him close.

  Cyprion felt light, as if he might float away. “This is…disruptive,” he murmured.

  “No,” Paolo said.

  “It is too soon.”

  “No.” He pulled his work smock over his head, then gently lifted Cyprion’s and stepped into his embrace. His skin was as smooth as water, as warm as a stone in the sun, a stone with wings.

  Flawed

  Felice Picano

  I’d be amazed if the little shop were still there. It’s not really convenient to go back and check, so I’ll probably not know for a while. But back then even that scuzzy part of San Francisco was giving in to the gentrification that had begun taking over the city.

  At the time, the shop was surrounded by small, ethnic, counter-top diners, a tumbled-down tailor shop and a cigarette store cum tiny grocery for the cripples and drunks and layabouts whenever their monthly welfare benefits arrived.