The Book of Thomas - Volume One: Heaven

by Robert Boyczuk

  “Perhaps he fears betraying God,” I said.

  “The Church,” Kite said with utter conviction, “is not God.”

  This made me angry. “He’s a priest. He cares for us. For our souls.” I felt my face flushing. “You had no call to taunt him.”

  Kite shrugged. “I did it only to show you how men deceive themselves. And to show you the desperation with which they wish to stay deceived. You can insult a man’s mother, and yet make amends. But show him how he has deceived himself, and he will drag you to Hell sooner than forgive you.”

  It was another lesson, one I found difficult to accept. “So you provoke him for being a man?”

  “For being a coward or a dupe, or both.” Kite locked eyes with me. “I can see you are angry, boy. And for what? Because I tried to show you how you deceive yourself?”

  This brought me up short.

  Kite barked out a laugh. “See what I mean?” He swung his halberd over his shoulder and started down the road, leaving me behind to smart.

  Ali smirked at me, then followed Kite; Lark thrashed out of the high grass to catch up.

  I didn’t want to believe that men were men, whether they wore a collar or not. I wanted to think better of those chosen to be God’s ministers.

  Except I knew Kite’s lesson to be true. I’d seen it at my father’s inquisition, at San Savio, and amongst the Meek. It is not those who are unashamedly evil that we need fear the most, for their intentions are plain; rather, our fear should be reserved for those equivocators who would allow evil to flourish, and name it good so they might sleep better at night.

  My Secret

  The next morning, after we had broken our fast, Kite collected three stout sticks from the wood that skirted our road, and handed one to each of us. He paired me off against Ali and, with a gesture, bade us fight.

  Since the night of the ambush both Ali and Lark had treated me with indifference and silence—Kite had attributed it to their shame the night we rescued them. So, to try to balance the accounts, I resolved to let Ali best me.

  I need have made no such resolution.

  Although slight, Ali was taller, had a longer reach, and was remarkably quick. And I was slowed by my blistered feet. Ali peppered my shoulders and arms with half a dozen blows before I could execute a clumsy thrust—from which he easily danced away. My resolution completely forgotten, I lunged at him with force, only this time as he skipped out of the way he swung his stick so it smacked my cheek. This infuriated me so much that I yelled and charged at him, swinging with all my strength—and ended up in the dirt as he deftly ducked my clumsy slash while kicking my feet out from under me. I sat up, my palms scraped from the fall, knowing a bruise or two would soon colour my skin. My mock sword lay uselessly on the ground several metres away. Ali stood above me, the tip of his stick hovering an inch from my nose. His eyes shone above a crooked smile.

  Kite stepped up and wrapped his long fingers over Ali’s, lowering his stick and tapping it against my chest, directly over my heart. “Here,” he said, releasing Ali’s hand. “Not the head.”

  Ali nodded.

  Then he lowered his stick and extended his other hand. I reached up to grip it and he helped me to my feet.

  “Now see if you can do any better, boy,” Kite said, pointing at Lark.

  He did, indeed, fare better, landing a blow or two, and once, when they grappled, Lark used his weight to stagger Ali. But Ali danced around him much as he had danced around me, and I could see he was taking it easy on Lark. My cheeks burned at my false pride in thinking I might do the same to Ali.

  “Switch,” Kite said, and Ali started to walk away. Kite raised his hand. “No. You fight until you lose.”

  So Ali and I went at it again, only this time my resolution was to take what I observed in Lark’s fight and my own, and use it to my advantage. Once, I managed to crack my stick across his ribs with great force; but he was as tough as he was fast, for he didn’t even wince. He thrashed me soundly a second time. If I could take any satisfaction from this bout it was that, at least between me and Ali, the books were more in balance.

  When Kite called a halt to the practise (Ali having won every bout), I was surprised to see by the shadows that we’d been fighting for what must have been two hours. Ali was lathered in sweat, as was I. And poor Lark was on the ground grunting for breath.

  We broke camp shortly after.

  On the morning’s march, Kite spoke at length about what he observed us doing, and what we could have done to best Ali. Some of his observations were the same as my own, but most were things I hadn’t considered. In the afternoon, Kite lapsed into his characteristic silence, and I took the opportunity to reflect on how I might best apply his advice. That evening, I had a chance when Kite had us do it all over again. Ali, who’d no doubt been considering the same words, bested us again.

  And so Kite supplanted Ignatius as our teacher. In the days that followed, we kept to the same pattern: an hour of sparring each morning, followed by Kite’s discourse on the art of combat as we marched; a silent afternoon in which to consider his words; and then an evening bout before we supped. We quickly developed blisters on our hands; but these burst and, by and by, were replaced with calluses. Kite didn’t restrict us to swordplay. He also taught us the use of the dagger and long knife. In all this, our true weapons, the short swords we had brought with us from the Postulants’ camp, stayed sheathed, and we used what sticks we could find. Ali continued to excel, and I could see improvements in Lark. But I felt like I was making little progress. If I was improving at all, it was in such tiny increments as to be unnoticeable; I became despondent as I watched a multicoloured garden of bruises flourish on my skin.

  “You don’t practise.”

  This was on the seventh day out from the Assumption. Ali sat on his haunches on the other side of the fire’s dying embers; Lark, exhausted, snored heartily into his bedroll; and Kite lay perfectly still in his, whether awake or asleep or in some state between was impossible to judge.

  “I do,” I said, puzzled.

  “For the choir, I mean.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, neither do you and Lark.” Since Ignatius’s death, none of us had sung.

  “I just thought . . . I mean, Kite said it would take us three months to get to the Vatican. We’ve only got a month left. Maybe less. We should practise.”

  Ignatius had never told us what happened to the boys who weren’t taken into the Sistine Choir, but it was easy to imagine. So I understood Ali’s concern. Still, I shrugged, pretending indifference. After all, how could I tell him I already knew I would never sing in the choir?

  “Are you afraid we will outshine you?”

  It would have been easy to make him believe that simply by not denying it. “No,” I said, unwilling to lie to a friend—for I had come to think of Ali as a friend.

  “Then why will you not help us?” I knew this must be hard for him, asking a favour.

  “I will help you,” I said, considering. Ali and I had repaired our relationship, but Lark still harboured some resentment. Perhaps this would help. “I will coach you both as best I can, and try to teach you what Ignatius taught me. On two conditions.”

  He looked at me, wariness settling on his face. “What?”

  “That you do not ask me to sing.”

  He looked surprised. “Why not?”

  “That is the second condition: that you do not ask me why I choose not to sing.”

  He hesitated, but having no other choice, nodded agreement. We shook on it.

  And so the next afternoon, as we marched towards the next Assumption, Ali and Lark sang and I directed them. I feared Kite might object, but if he thought anything about the juxtaposition of the martial and choral training, he never said a word.

  The problem was, I couldn’t think of a good excuse for not singing. So in the moment I’d struck the deal with Ali, I thought myself clever for attaching the condition that I’d have to make no excuses. But as the days
passed, I realized that all I’d done was to push the question to the side, not banish it. I could see Ali wondered, as did Lark. But both kept to our agreement. And who knew what Kite was thinking? I began to regret not taking the time to fabricate a lie that would appease everyone, rather than publicly harbouring a secret.

  Knowing there was no place for me at the Capella Sixtina, I had formulated a plan to slip away from Kite and strike out on my own at the first reasonable opportunity. Yet now I found myself reluctant to leave—I recognized the practical value of Kite’s training, as difficult and frustrating as it was for me, and was reluctant to forgo it. And this Sphere seemed largely agrarian, the few towns through which we passed more villages than anything, where everyone knew everyone else. There were no other travellers, and few inns (which Kite would have refused to use, in any case). A boy on his own here would stand out. I also had no knowledge of this Sphere, for what geography lessons we’d had were only on our own Sphere. Why learn about other Spheres when you are never expected to leave your own? No, if I was to have any hope of surviving, I decided, I would wait until after our next Assumption. At least then I’d be back in my own Sphere. Though I’d travelled little as a boy, I’d seen maps of the Sphere and knew the names of all the major lakes and rivers and cities (and many of the minor ones). Better yet, I’d heard gossip, and knew something of places by their reputations. Enough, at least, to form an opinion on where my chances might be best.

  I couldn’t sing, or they would immediately know my secret and, at best, I would be left at the first orphanage we came upon. You see, I was precocious for a boy of my age, and with the onset of puberty my larynx had begun to lengthen and my voice change.

  Kite’s Secret

  As the days passed, and no one challenged me, my fear of discovery abated. I knew there would come a time when I’d be confronted, but I tried, as much as possible, to put this dread from my mind. I pitched my voice lower and lower, reduced it almost to a whisper, and spoke as little as possible. I made no excuses; rather, I let them concoct their own. It would be a month (by Kite’s estimation) before we reached the next Assumption, and if I could make it that far then I was fairly confident I could successfully strike out on my own.

  We fell into a rhythm, much as we had with Ignatius.

  Despite my apprehension, I recall those days with great fondness. The Sphere through which we journeyed was a marked contrast to the one below. It was verdant and serene, undisturbed by strife. When we saw other people, it was almost always at a distance in the fields, ploughing or harvesting. Most essayed a friendly wave. After half a dozen such encounters, our suspicions dissipated and Lark and I waved back. Time moved apace, probably because I found myself occupied constantly with Kite’s lessons morning and afternoon, and my tutoring in between—and pleasantly exhausted at day’s end. During this period I enjoyed restful sleeps troubled by few dreams. Most of all, though, I enjoyed tutoring Ali and Lark. Pedagogy, I discovered, was fraught with challenges and frustrations, but also with great joy. When the boys sang beyond my expectations, I felt a surge of pride. Not a sinful, self-aggrandizing pride, but the humbler satisfaction of playing a small, but essential, role in the accomplishment of others. Life was calm and ordered and meaningful in ways it hadn’t been since I’d been taken by the Church.

  Five days before we were to arrive at the Assumption my uneasiness returned; if I was to part company shortly, I’d have to prepare. I resolved to surreptitiously gather a small supply of food, enough for two or three days travel. But I didn’t. I deferred that first day, then the next, reluctant, I suppose, to spoil the respite. When I slipped a small piece of hardened cheese into my pocket on the third day, I felt sickened, as if I had somehow betrayed my friends. It made no sense, for there was no danger of starving now: we carried an ample supply of dried and cured food, and fresher provender was not in short supply as we passed through villages. Nevertheless, I couldn’t assuage my guilt. As we walked that day, I rolled that lump of cheese between my fingers until I’d ground it into a pocketful of tiny morsels—most of which fell through a small hole and trickled down my leg and onto the hard-packed earth of the road.

  “You won’t make it.”

  We were pitching camp in a small clearing at the side of the road. I was on my knees, arranging sticks into a cone over the tinder and kindling for our fire. Lark and Ali had wandered off to gather bulkier fuel that would last well into the evening. A short distance away, opposite me, Kite sat cross-legged. Until he had spoken, the only sound he’d made had been a slow, rhythmic snick, snick, snick as he ran his sharpening stone across the blade of his halberd.

  “I don’t know what—”

  “You do.” He fixed me with a stare, the stone poised over his blade.

  There was no point denying my intention; Kite seemed to know what I was thinking before I’d thought it myself. “I can’t go to Rome.”

  “You can and you will.”

  I felt an urge to tell him why I couldn’t go, but saw no gain for me—at least not yet. I wanted to get through the Assumption first. Once back in my own Sphere, I’d still attempt my escape. If I failed, then I’d tell him my secret and he’d leave me in an orphanage. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but better than being abandoned here. So I said, “Okay.”

  “You will have to lie much better than that in Rome.”

  I felt my face flush. “What do you want from me?”

  “Do not attempt to flee.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  He swung the end of his halberd out, knocking over my carefully constructed cone.

  Anger got the better of me, and my voice rose sharply. “I tell you I will never sing with the Sistine Choir!” In the vehemence of my response, my voice cracked.

  “No need to look horrified,” Kite said, barking out a sharp laugh that was like a slap in the face. “I already knew your little secret.”

  I was nonplussed. “I . . . I don’t understand. If you know, why have you not left me behind?”

  “Rome,” Kite said flatly, “is more than a choir.” He turned his attention back to his blade, and resumed rasping the stone against its edge. His movements were precise and careful. Affectionate.

  “Why?” I asked again. But I knew he’d already said as much as he was going to say, leaving me to reason it through on my own.

  I gathered the disarrayed sticks, chewing my lip, thoughts tumbling over and over in my head.

  Rome is more than a choir.

  I began reassembling my cone, examining the sticks one by one, then placing them in exactly the same positions they were before, as if building a puzzle.

  Kite knew my secret, but didn’t care. Which meant he wasn’t taking me to join the choir at the Capella Sixtina. Yet, he was still determined to take me to Rome. For what purpose? I confess my first thought was of the other boys who’d been bound out at the same time as I, and I remembered the man Ignatius had called Georgie, who’d wanted to buy me for his brothel. Could Ignatius’s commission have been to find boys suitable to be catamites? I could hardly credit that. I was certain there was an ample supply of willing boys (or, at least, guardians who were willing) closer at hand. Such boys could be procured with far less trouble. No, there was something else . . . something about me. I’d suspected this before, when we’d been waylaid by the brigands. But false humility had made me reject this as too absurd. How could I possibly be that important? Yet the Captain had known who we were, and seemed willing to do whatever it might take to capture me alive, including murder. And, for his part, Kite had demanded I flee with him, abandoning Lark, Ali and Ignatius—once his lover—to their probable deaths. And he would have, had I not demurred. My stomach knotted, for it sickened me to think that there was something about me important enough to have cost Ignatius his life.

  Rome is more than a choir.

  With a shock I realized what it was that Kite had wanted me to work out: Lark and Ali meant nothing to him. If I fled, they would never see the Vatican. I
had insisted on rescuing them; and now Kite counted on me not to betray their hopes. And he was right, for as soon as I realized this I knew I couldn’t flee. If I did nothing else, I’d see them through to Rome.

  Why? I wondered. What was so important? I’d thought Kite was bound to see us there because he was honouring a debt to Ignatius. Now I knew different.

  I stared at my fragile pile of sticks, then at Kite who endlessly sharpened a blade that needed no sharpening. I knew it likely that I might never apprehend his reasons. Kite was the sort of man who kept his secrets—unto his grave.

  First Love

  After waking from a restive sleep before sun-on, I stole away from camp.

  I’m not entirely sure why I did so. At the time, I remember rationalizing it as an urge to revisit the habits of my childhood, to rekindle the peacefulness of wandering field and forest by myself. But now, looking back, I suspect that was more an excuse. I’m sure I did it more to provoke Kite. It galled me that he was confident I wouldn’t run away, and I suppose I wanted to shake his confidence. But if he heard me rise, he gave no sign. His eyes did not flicker, nor did the regularity of his breathing change. He appeared as fast asleep as Ali and Lark.

  Only I knew he wasn’t asleep. Or, at least, not asleep in the way of ordinary men. I was certain he was aware of my movements on some level; I had no doubt it was as much an autonomic reflex as his heartbeat.

  I backed towards the margin of the forest where the undergrowth was thick; still he appeared unperturbed. Turning with disdain, I pushed my way through some brambles and plunged into inky shadows beneath the trees, stumbling onto a deer run. After my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I followed the narrow path for a few minutes, pushing aside slender young branches as I made my way. I came to a fork and paused; in the stillness I heard morning’s first birdsong and the rush of a river. I took the left branch, which ran in the direction of the river.