The Fire of Eden

by Antony Barone Kolenc

  Just as Xan must change soon also—one way or the other.

  The ceremony finally ended. People streamed from the main church toward the refectory, shouting out to the monk again and again, “Congratulations, Father Andrew!”

  Even Lady Beaumont came to her son and greeted him in this way.

  The Prior of Grenton had planned a magnificent celebration to break the Ember Saturday fast, and all were anxious to begin. Xan was particularly hungry after spending an hour with the sheriff, describing how to find the thieves’ guild. The sheriff had promised justice would be done.

  “Come in! Come in!” Brother Charles beckoned to all at the door of the refectory.

  The ordination dinner took hours to finish—the most esteemed and formal affair Xan had ever attended. Father Andrew and Lady Beaumont sat beside the prince-bishop, surrounded in splendor. The monk and his mother smiled and laughed with each other, just as Xan had done with Mother and Father all those years of his childhood, when he’d had a family of his own.

  Then Xan and the other children headed outside together.

  “Tomorrow is Father Andrew’s first Mass,” Xan told Lucy, walking by her side in the back of their little group.

  “Then on Monday we leave for home.” She sighed. “Your uncle’s messenger will be coming for you soon. Do you know what you will tell him?”

  That was the right question, though he didn’t know the answer. He shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about that magician. When he was young, did he want to grow up to become that—a thief and a fake—or did it just happen to him after the war, like with Carlo?”

  “The bandit?” Lucy asked in surprise. “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “He was a good man at one time. He wanted to be a priest, you know. And he still had goodness in him even at the end. But somewhere in life his choices got all mixed up and he became the villain. I wonder if that’s what happened to that magician, too.”

  “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with you.”

  He bit his lip. “I don’t want to be like that—to pick the wrong path. I used to think if you took a vow to God, everything would be different inside and it would be easier to do good.”

  “That’s not what Sister Regina says.”

  “I know. Look at Brother Bernard; look at Brother—I mean, Father—Andrew and his mother.”

  “They’re still human, Xan. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “But I don’t want to choose the wrong way. That’s what happened to Carlo.”

  Lucy laughed, but not in a proud way. “Life’s supposed to be a surprise. I think God can make any path lead you to the right place, if that’s what you really want.”

  Xan kicked a pebble in the grass. “Do you know? I mean, what path God wants for you?”

  Lucy became very still. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper. “I do.”

  Xan couldn’t seem to ask the question burning in his heart, but didn’t he already know her answer? He began to tremble. Aubrey was heading back toward them from the front of the group.

  Ask her now, before ’tis too late!

  “So . . . you will enter the nunnery at the convent, then?”

  She stared at the grass. “I will.”

  His heart sank. “Are you certain?”

  She held his gaze with clear eyes. “I know what I must do; how could I do anything else?”

  Then Aubrey was upon them, chattering about how much dessert he’d eaten. Without another word, Xan fell away from the group and wandered off into the meadow.

  Lucy had made her choice and didn’t seem the least bit unsure. And wasn’t that the right choice for her to make? She would become a nun. She would belong to God but never to Xan.

  And now he must make a decision too. He made his way back to the dorm by dark. Yet as he tossed on his mattress all night—allowing his tears for Lucy to flow freely—his path ahead remained uncertain.

  When he woke Sunday morning, the others were already getting ready for Father Andrew’s Mass. The monk had made a choice with his life and was very fulfilled. Indeed, at Mass that morning, when he lifted the holy bread and wine to Heaven, speaking the words of consecration, a glow appeared around his body. He was doing God’s will and seemed to know it quite well.

  But the peacefulness of that Mass was disturbed by John, who stood next to Xan rubbing his eyes the whole time. When Mass ended, John stumbled toward the altar with his arms extended.

  “John, where are you going?” Xan chased after him.

  “Don’t you see the little flame?” John said, reaching out in front of him with one arm in the air, as though he were trying to grab a wisp of smoke with his fingers.

  “Watch out!” Xan said, but too late. John stumbled on a crack and plummeted headfirst into the hard stone, crying out in pain.

  Xan sprang to his aid. On the floor, the blind boy kept rubbing his eyes while tears dripped down his cheek. He blinked repeatedly as he held up his hand. “I’ve fallen, Xan.”

  “I know. Let me help you up.”

  “Don’t you see? I’ve fallen at the foot of the cross!”

  Xan turned. John was right—he’d fallen under the crucifix that hung above the altar.

  “Wait, you can see?” Xan said.

  “I see you. I see everything!”

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know. I just kept seeing this little flame. I needed to find out if ’twas really there.”

  At that moment Father Andrew returned to the church with Giles.

  “I can see, Father!” John cried.

  The words took a moment to sink in. “You can see? Praise and worship!” Father Andrew embraced John and lifted him to his feet.

  Giles stared with wide eyes. “Is it magic?”

  Father Andrew smiled. “A miracle, child—not magic, but the true power of God.”

  Still Xan stood dumbfounded. “But—a miracle, Father? In real life?”

  The monk laughed heartier than he had in months. “You predicted it with the words of Isaiah. Not everything is a fraud, son. Miracles surround us every day, both large and small.”

  “So that beggar was a prophet after all,” Xan said.

  “It would seem so.”

  At that moment, John looked down at his legs. “Then maybe—” Without warning, he leaped into the air. But he barely left the ground before crashing into a heap. He lay on the stone floor in disappointment, groaning in pain.

  Father Andrew reached down to assist him. “Be satisfied, John. God has granted you a miraculous gift. Yet each of us is meant to have a cross we must bear in this life.”

  What a confusing few days this had been, mixed with danger and sorrow and anger and fear alongside miracles and healing and reconciliation and solutions. A magician had been proved to be a charlatan, while a beggar had shown himself to be a prophet. Could all this have happened if Xan were living in Lincoln as a merchant’s apprentice?

  Word spread of John’s miraculous recovery. Soon Aubrey marched back into the church with Odo on his shoulders. The boy got down on his crutch and insisted John take them out to the meadow to prove his vision was perfect again.

  Without complaint, John—limping slowly as ever—led them to an open patch of grass near a short tree. Then, wincing through pain, he lifted Odo into its lowest branch.

  Odo squealed with delight. “I’ve always wanted to climb a tree!”

  24

  All Good Things

  Monday morning dawned, and the guests from Harwood Abbey prepared to leave Grenton Priory. The prince-bishop already had departed with much fanfare, while Alford, Gilbert, and the Magician had gone to meet their fates under the law. The local sheriff had sent word that he’d found the guild of thieves exactly where Xan had predicted and had taken them into custody.

  Soon it seemed the entire priory had gathered on the lawn to bid their guests a safe trip and observe the blind boy who’d been miraculously healed. Giles was hopping on one foot saying farewell ov
er and over, while Odo was grinning upon the shoulders of Brother Charles.

  “Be on your best behavior,” the monk called to Brother Bernard, who sat in the back of the cart.

  “I will, Charles,” he replied, with a smile and a wave.

  After Xan and the others loaded up, Lady Beaumont came to her son one last time.

  How much she had changed in the few days since Xan had met her. When she had first descended from her horse litter, she was an image of the perfect lady: composed, proud, gracious, but cold as a winter’s morning. Now her eyes streamed with summer tears as she fumbled to embrace her son. Yet somehow this warmth made her all the more a lady.

  “Father Andrew—my son whom I dearly love—I promise to visit your good abbey soon. Please send the warmest of wishes to my cousin and tell him that he is always in my prayers.”

  “I will, Mother. The abbot will be glad to hear it.”

  And how much Father Andrew had changed too, especially toward his mother. Whereas before he was distant to the woman, now he embraced her gladly with genuine affection.

  Yet this sight was too much like the memory of that heartbreaking day when William departed Hardonbury all those years ago—the last time Father had ever seen his brother in this life.

  The lay brothers, Miles and Jacob, spurred on the horses. The carts drove off, and Odo’s little hand—waving in the morning sun—could be seen for a long while as they passed out of sight.

  Xan lingered beside Lucy in the back of the cart on this, their final journey together. Aubrey sat again in front with Brother Miles; John lay in the back gazing into the cool September sky. Father Andrew held his prayer beads in his hands and kept his eyes closed most of the trip.

  The earthy smell of autumn filled the air as the horses kicked up dirt on the road. None of them spoke much, except perhaps about the sunny sky and unseasonably warm breeze. What more could Xan say to Lucy right now? When she returned to Harwood Abbey one day, it would be as one preparing to become the bride of Christ.

  As the morning wore on, John perked up, asking questions of Father Andrew like never before. And the monk seemed genuinely interested in John’s thoughts, especially about little Odo.

  “That boy is smart,” John said. “He just needs someone to help him out a little.”

  Father Andrew patted John on the shoulder. “Maybe someone like you, who has borne such a cross these past weeks. A few days ago, I could never have imagined such words coming from your mouth. But by stealing your sight—yet only for a brief while—the Lord has caused you to see. Let us speak on this more at the abbey and discover what God has planned for you.”

  Xan had heard similar words from the monk in the past, but always directed at him.

  Before noon, the cart rolled along the final path to Lucy’s manor.

  “We’re here,” Xan said, when they arrived at Eudo’s shop, where the fixed wheel awaited.

  “Aye,” she said. Then she lowered her voice to a hush. Aubrey would not hear this. “If you leave the abbey, Xan, I may never see you again.” A veil of raven hair passed over her eyes. “I want you to know that in my heart we will always remain the dearest of friends.”

  “Always.” Xan tried a smile. “I’m glad for you, Lucy. You’ve found God’s will.”

  “Aye,” she said in a whisper. “And you and I shall meet again if God wills it.”

  The wagons creaked to a halt before the chapter house at Harwood Abbey. A crowd already had gathered to welcome the group of travelers home. But instead of shouts of congratulations for Father Andrew, they were met by a pale monk who rushed to Father Clement in a panic.

  “The abbot calls for you, Prior. He barely clings to life—come quickly!”

  Father Clement—followed closely by Father Andrew and Xan—rushed to the abbot’s house, where the frail monk labored to breathe upon his bed, the covers pulled up to his neck.

  Xan stood back in the corner and let the two monks care for their leader.

  “I’m here,” Father Clement said, taking the abbot’s hand in his own.

  Father Andrew took hold of the abbot’s other hand. “Cousin, I have returned with greetings from my dear mother. She sends her prayers, and she wishes to visit you soon.”

  The abbot’s eyelids scarcely parted. He coughed and tried a weak smile. “That sweet reunion will not take place in this world. See—with all my heart I prayed to linger ’til you and Clement returned. The Lord has granted that request, but just barely.”

  Father Andrew embraced the abbot, who looked upon him with moist eyes. “I am so very proud of you, Andrew. You shall make of yourself a priest of all priests.”

  Then the abbot spotted Xan in the corner. “Come close, boy.” His finger beckoned weakly.

  Xan stood near the bed. “I’m praying for you, Abbot.” What else could he say?

  The old monk smiled. “I must depart this place, boy. But when I am gone, remember how I told you this day not to fear the decisions of your life. Embrace with a full heart each step the Lord shows to you. Then, and only then, will God light the next step in your path.”

  “I will, Abbot,” he said, backing away as the monk broke into a fit of coughing. He wiped at his tears falling for the stubborn, kind, wise old monk. He would dearly miss the man, wouldn’t he?

  “And you, Clement,” the abbot said, catching his breath again. “As the new abbot here, you will fulfill my dreams for this place. You must not doubt in yourself, but trust in God.”

  “I will honor your memory all my days,” Father Clement said, weeping openly.

  “And I will continue to pray for you all—even from Heaven.”

  Xan quietly slipped out of the room. Surely he could not be there at that final moment, which must be coming soon—could not witness that last breath of life. Another loss of one who was loved.

  He rushed from the building and across the meadow, back toward the boys’ dormitory.

  That’s when the mournful bells tolled throughout the abbey again and again.

  The abbot was dead.

  The abbot’s sad funeral passed like a dream the next day. A day later, the monks held an election to choose Father Clement as the new abbot. That same afternoon, Father Clement chose Father Andrew to be his successor as the new prior—so many important choices already made.

  Yet the most important choice of all to Xan remained unclear. A full fortnight had passed. Uncle William’s messenger, Joseph, would return tomorrow. How would he answer the man?

  His feet led him to the door of the convent and to Sister Regina. Together they walked among the autumn leaves that had fallen about the greenery. He told her about Lucy’s decision; about his own uncertainty; about the wavering of his heart; about the abbot’s final words to him.

  “God reveals His will to us at the proper time,” she said. “He gives us all we need—but only when we truly need it. That helps build our trust and total dependence on Him.”

  “I just wish He would hurry up, Sister.”

  She laughed and took his hand. “Are you ready right now to follow the path God has set before your feet, whether it be to stay here at the abbey or go with your uncle?”

  He hesitated. “I think I am.” He could choose the path of a novice monk, as so many boys had done before him. But what of Brother Bernard’s broken vows; Father Andrew’s childish behavior with his mother; King Henry’s murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket? Holiness seemed to have many flaws. Yet there was also the abbot’s faith; Carlo’s redemption; John’s miraculous cure; Lucy’s pure devotion.

  Or he could choose to be with Uncle William and Christina in Lincoln as a merchant’s apprentice. There he would devote his life to buying and selling. But could worldly goods ever bring satisfaction when they had brought only ruin to people like Carlo and the Magician? Yet there was Uncle William—so much like Father, and without family in the world except for Xan.

  The nun gave a light chuckle. “You are pulled in two worthy directions. But remember what I told you: al
l of this will seem small when God becomes the ‘I Am’ in your life.”

  “Is that what happened with Lucy?” he said.

  “Aye, and it will happen for you too.” She took his hand. “Go pray once more. Tell God you are ready to follow whichever path He sets before your feet, no matter how proud or humble. Then embrace your choice with a full heart, as the abbot said. God will do the rest.”

  She spoke true, and Lucy would have said the same. The time for answers drew near.

  “All right, Sister.”

  He took his leave and made his way to the tiny chapel outside the abbey’s infirmary—the one with the statue of Saint Benedict, the wooden crucifix, and the lamp behind the oak box of the Blessed Sacrament. He knelt humbly before the crucifix and raised his hands in prayer.

  There in the dimness the still figure of Saint Benedict seemed to beckon him from behind. He stood and approached the statue, holding its gaze as though it were a living person. If anyone could help him figure out God’s will, it would be Saint Benedict, founder of the black monks.

  He offered up a prayer: I’ll do whatever you want, Lord. I’ll go wherever you say.

  Then he listened.

  Father Andrew had once told him a story about the prophet Elijah, who was waiting for the Lord to give him guidance. But the Lord did not speak to Elijah through a heavy wind, or a blaring storm, or a terrible earthquake. Instead, a still, small voice in the silence brought God’s answer.

  In the same way, looking at the silent statue of Saint Benedict, Xan caught a glimpse—just a moment’s light—of his path ahead. Perhaps he didn’t need to see far down the path after all. Its final destination would be a surprise no matter where it led. Like the woodland trail that had brought him to Harwood Abbey on that morning long ago. Or like the journey to Grenton Priory that had brought sight to John.

  “Thank you, Benedict.” He embraced the statue and kissed its smooth, tonsured head. Then he turned to rush from the chapel. He must find Father Andrew and tell him immediately.

  Except there was no need; the monk was standing there, watching him from the door.