by Mark Carver
He was forgiven.
THE END
THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES
Volume One:
The Manifestation
Copyright 2014 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either the product of the writer’s imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IMPORTANT: DO NOT READ THIS STORY UNLESS YOU HAVE ALREADY READ THE AGE OF APOLLYON. There are characters and plot points mentioned in this series that will not make sense and/or give away important developments in The Age of Apollyon unless you have read the source novel first.
Susa, Italy
I remember everything.
The chaos, the madness.
The terror.
But the moment that burns hottest in my mind happened before that accursed day. It is an image that stalks me wherever I go, stoking the fires of my soul with pain and regret. And anger. Anger at myself, at Father DeMarco, at God.
I’ve still never forgiven Him.
Since that day, I’ve come to realize that I will never know peace again, because whenever I close my eyes in sleep or in prayer, I see her face. Her black, shimmering eyes warm with the light of morning, a soft blush reddening her olive-colored cheeks. Her lush pink lips, melting my heart whenever they speak. There was never a more beautiful face, nor will there ever be again.
I never touched her before that day she left for Paris. As she stood outside the gates of the monastery, eyes like a frightened rabbit’s, darting left and right, I realized in that moment that my heart belonged to her even more than it did to God. Such a thought terrified me, but it was strangely thrilling as well. The beauty of God was too vast for my petty mortal mind to fathom, but this divine creature blushing outside the gates was the most real thing I had ever seen.
We first met almost a year ago, and our acquaintance slowly blossomed into friendship, which in turn bloomed into cautious affection. I even thought I loved her as I would lay awake in my room after evening prayers were over. My thoughts were pure, but I longed to touch her beautiful face. Just once…
Somewhere deep in my spirit, my conscience was screaming but my heart paid no attention. I felt embarrassed to seek God’s guidance, and that should have been enough to convince me to abandon this road. That which is not of faith is sin.
Yet all it would take was one fluttering glance from those fathomless eyes, or one scent of the light fragrance that clung to the letters she would hide for me in the wall near the south gate, in a tiny crevice that had yet to be repaired. I hoped it never was.
I kept her letters hidden under my mattress, only daring to pull them out and read them by candlelight long after the rest of the brethren had gone to sleep.
And now, on this warm afternoon as she looked at me through the ancient iron bars, every turbulent thought I had felt before crystallized into unshakable love. I would have torn those gates from their hinges for the smallest chance of a life with her.
Isabella.
Her name felt like fire and water on my tongue every time I spoke it. Or rather, whispered it. In the days and weeks of our awakening affection, I was careful to hide my feelings from the rest of the monks and postulants.
I wish I could have hidden them from her father, but I was just a seventeen-year-old boy and I suspect he had been one as well, a long time ago. Father DeMarco rarely spoke of his family, or what was left of it. It was highly unusual for a priest to have a family, but his life was also highly unusual in the days before joining the ministry. And I believe that God does not place chastity above humble and willing service.
The life that Isabella had been pulled into after her mother’s death and her father’s vows was not an easy one. I knew this from her letters tucked beneath my head at night. She lived with a benevolent family friend, but I could tell that she ached for what she considered a “normal” life, meaning a mother who was still alive and a father who did not spend nearly every day in the confines of a monastery seeking penance for the sins that led to his wife’s death.
Yet her spirit was indomitable, and she beamed with the brilliance of heaven every time she came to the monastery to visit her father and bring delicious cakes for us. That was how it all started. I could never forget the first day I saw her…
And now it all came flooding back to me as she stood just out of my reach, beyond those cruel gates that loomed like a scowling priest.
Or father.
I glanced behind me and saw him standing beneath the glorious Gothic arch that led into the chapel. His face seemed caught between love for his daughter and condemnation of me, his wayward pupil. He had found out about us a couple of weeks before and had forbidden her visits since then. The brethren lamented the loss of her cakes, though they did not suspect that I was the reason.
She was here now to say goodbye to her father before she joined her classmates at Santa Bianca’s School for Girls for a trip to the Cathedral of Our Lady in Paris. The only reason I knew about this was because I had heard Father DeMarco talking to her by phone last week when I was passing by his office. I imagined her singing in that gorgeous church, lifting her voice to the heavens. She was a soprano in the choir, and though I never heard her sing, I knew her voice must put the angels to shame.
After bidding his daughter farewell, Father DeMarco had asked Brother Josef to escort her to the gate. I had been tending the flowers near the gate ever since she arrived, positioning myself for the chance to speak with her before she left. I didn’t know when I would see her again, and the last few weeks with no visits or letters had left me parched.
Her father watched every step as she walked down the pathway to the gate. After locking the gate, Brother Josef turned away, and I seized my chance. I could feel Father DeMarco’s eyes burning into my back but I didn’t care. I was too excited to be surprised that he didn’t come down and drag me away by the ear.
Isabella was waiting for me, of course, but she didn’t step up to the gate like I wished she would. I could see a thousand emotions flickering across her face, but the one that lingered was worry. I wanted to reach through my cage and embrace her, give her comfort against whatever was troubling her. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I was worried too, though I didn’t know why.
“Isabella…” I barely dared to breathe her name, as if it were a sweet fragrance that would blow away in the slightest breeze.
Her eyes shimmered with tears, but none fell. My heart ached worse than any pain I had felt before, even greater than when I had watched my father die many years ago.
“Tourec.” Hearing her say my name felt like a drink of cool water on a scorching summer day. I wanted to just close my eyes and drown in that moment, but I saw the uncertainty darkening her face.
“What is it?” I asked.
She looked down at her hands. “I…I don’t know if we can continue like this.”
I’m sure everyone working outside that day heard my heart crack.
“What do you mean?” Every nerve in my body was tingling.
“I mean like this. You are in training to be a monk, Tourec. You have pledged your life to God and…to chastity.”
A small, beautiful blush crept across her cheeks. “I do not want you to stumble. You have made a vow before God, and it is wrong of me to distract you from your promise.”
I held out my hands like a beggar. “But my love for God and for you are not in conflict! I love God with all my heart, and I love you just as much…”
The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. I watched them drift across the small yet infinite space between us, and I held my breath.
“I love you too,” she said with a gentle smile.
It’s strange how you can hear something that you’ve felt for a long time but it feels like that’s the first moment. There had been the unspoken promise of love
between us, disguised in letters brimming with youthful affection but never daring to cross that line. Yet here, now, separated by cold iron bars, our love became as real as the world around us.
But my heart was still reeling from the shock of her first words of doom, and I was cautious.
“So what can we do?” I pleaded. I needed an answer, anything to give me hope.
She made no reply. Instead, she stepped closer and slipped a delicately-bound letter between the bars of the gate. I stared at it for a moment, afraid of what it might contain. But I took it.
And when I did, my fingers touched hers. This was the first time we had exchanged letters face-to-face, since our correspondence had always been hidden in the south wall. As I brushed her skin, just for the briefest moment, I felt a thrill rush through my veins like electricity. A judgmental fellow might say this was simply teenage lust for carnal satisfaction, a natural consequence of weary toil in the exclusive company of men.
But it was more than that. Much more. I don’t know how to describe it to you, and perhaps I will never find the words. I know one thing: as long as I live, I will never forget that moment when her eyes rose to meet mine, and a thousand unspoken words passed between us.
Our conversation at the gate took less than two minutes, but it felt like years. It seemed even the wind was holding its breath, shrouding us in a warm embrace of silence so deep, we could almost hear each other’s heart beat.
My soul ached as she stepped away from the gate. I tucked the letter in the folds of my robe and squinted in the sun as she turned and walked away. The breeze stirred her raven-black hair and I waited for her to look back at me, but she never did.
And then she was gone.
I stood by the gate for several moments. I didn’t even try to sort out my thoughts, and I must confess that I strangely enjoyed that turbulent limbo. It was as if I stood on the precipice of great joy or great sorrow, and the anticipation was delicious.
She told me she loved me. No matter what would come, no matter what her letter said, I had heard these very words spoken from her mouth.
I don’t know how many times Father DeMarco called out to me, but when his words finally reached my ears, I immediately detected irritation bristling in his voice.
“Tourec! Come here, now!”
Casting one more longing look to the road that had swallowed my Isabella, I walked with leaden steps to the archway where Father DeMarco stood like a Roman statue.
“Yes, Father?”
I couldn’t look up and meet his eyes. I knew I was wrong. I knew it was against my vows to give my heart to anyone but God, no matter how I rationalized it. And it was downright foolish to fall in love with the daughter of the priest overseeing the monastery. If it had been someone else’s story I was describing now, I would have laughed and chastised them for reading too many romance novels.
Yet here I was, a love-struck postulant withering under the gaze of the father of the girl I loved.
And the girl who loved me.
“Tourec,” he said again. There was a bit less fury in his voice. Not much, but less.
I raised my eyes, squinting in the sunlight reflecting from the polished stone archway. He looked down at me, his weathered face creased by sorrow, worry, and kindness. I knew he was angry with me, but there was something else in his eyes as he stared into mine.
Fear.
I had never seen fear in Father DeMarco’s face before, never heard it on his voice. Even then, it was barely perceptible, but it was there, as real as the stones arcing over his head.
“What’s wrong, Father?” I asked.
He stared at me for a long moment, and he seemed to want to speak but something held him back. Finally, he let his shoulders drop and his eyes swept towards an ancient broom nestled in a corner.
“Clean the steps,” he muttered, then disappeared inside without another word.
The giant wooden door creaked shut, and I let out a sigh. My heart felt torn in so many directions, and I couldn’t take one path without feeling guilty for forsaking the others. I looked up at a small bird swooping gracefully through the sunshine. For a moment, I envied the creature, envied its simple, uncomplicated life.
But then I felt grateful that I didn’t have to worry about cats and hawks and sleeping outside in the rain. With a cough of embarrassment, I grabbed the broom and began sweeping.
*****
That night, after my various duties were completed and evening prayers had been said, I lay awake on my rock-hard bed, looking up at the dark stone ceiling above me. Isabella’s letter was clasped to my chest, still unopened. But it wasn’t her face alone that danced through my mind.
I saw my mother, all those years ago, tears of sadness and joy streaming down her face as I waved goodbye. My half-brother Patric stood by her side, his face partially hidden by her dress. He was only a young boy but I saw wisdom beyond his years sparkling in his eyes. He watched me with a curious mixture of relief and anxiety. I knew he would be happy to have our mother’s affection all to himself now, and the eleven-year difference between us had prevented us from becoming too close, but I knew he looked up to me. Part of me felt like I was abandoning them, even though Patric’s father was good for our family.
But they were my family first.
And though I felt God’s hand tugging on my soul, I couldn’t prevent a small amount of doubt from seeping into my conscience. It had never completely gone away.
I don’t know why I thought of them now as I lay on my back in that cold gray room, especially when I clasped a rose-scented letter to my chest. Perhaps her affections had awakened other emotions and memories that lay dormant for so long. Do not misunderstand me – coming to the monastery in Susa was the best choice I had ever made and I never regretted a moment of it. But now, my eyes were opening to a world I had only seen in passing and had never really touched with my own hands. I had fancied other girls when I was in school but the call to serve God was much stronger than any hormonal urges.
As I lay there alone with my thoughts, a quiet voice in the farthest corner of my mind wondered if I had made the right choice. Was I truly happy where I was? Was it not natural for a young man to yearn for the love and embrace of a beautiful girl, to delight in her beauty and savor her sweetness? To feel her warm caress, to brush the softness of her…
I gasped as if I had been underwater. Clenching my eyes shut to clear my mind of impure thoughts, my lips trembled with hasty prayers. I was playing with fire, and I knew it. Who was I fooling, anyway? What could I ever give her? How could I make her happy? We were just two children playing a game of knight and fair maiden, when the truth was that we really had no idea what we were doing.
Did we?
A crumpling sound wrenched my thoughts back into reality. I looked down and saw my fist closed tightly around the letter. Stifling a cry, I bolted upright and smoothed the paper as flat as I could. It was still a bit wrinkled but it wasn’t torn.
My heart pounded as I laid it on my wool blanket. I wanted to open it more than anything, but I hesitated. I didn’t know why. Perhaps I loved the anticipation…perhaps I was afraid of what it might say. She had told me that she loved me but that didn’t mean that she was going to be mine. Did this letter even have the answer? What if it said that we must part? What if…
With trembling fingers I snatched up the envelope from the bed and tore it open with careless haste. There wasn’t a letter inside. It was a picture. A picture of her.
I held it close to my face, turning it so the candlelight shone full upon it. A simple portrait, black and white, only her face and neck. She wasn’t even looking at the camera, her eyes turned towards something off to her left. But she was smiling, and I could almost feel the breeze that gently lifted her hair.
It was several moments before I realized how close my heart was to bursting with joy.
She’s mine.
My fingers trembled as I turned the photograph over and found some words written on the o
ther side. I peered at them closely.
Red stone, south wall.
Psalms 37:4.
I closed my eyes. Psalms 37:4. “Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.”
I knew what it meant. If I sought after God, giving Him my body, mind, and spirit, then I would naturally desire that which is of Him, and I would be content when I received them. But I felt an icy finger touch my soul. What if the feelings I had for Isabella were not of God? If I surrendered myself completely to Him, what if I lost the desire for her?
My head felt heavy as a stone, and I lay back down on the bed. My hands folded over her picture and my breath slid slowly over my lips. I didn’t dare pray, and I didn’t let my mind wander to Isabella either. I was too scared to follow either path.
Instead, my mind’s eye took a trip across the monastery grounds, gliding like a ghost through the gardens, over walkways, beneath blooming arbors, and down to the south wall. It wasn’t constructed to keep intruders out – it was easy enough to scale. The real purpose for the wall was to prevent erosion that plagued the grounds every time it rained. The monastery had been constructed on a shallow hill of loose, silty clay that loved to migrate downhill, and the south wall was our best defense against losing the topsoil we brought in every year. It would pile up against the wall, and with a shovel and wheelbarrow it would find its way back into the gardens again.
And on the top of this wall, almost in the exact center, as if someone had purposefully placed it there like a ruby in a crown, was a humble red stone. It looked more like a brick than anything. I had passed by countless times and given it no thought, but now, at least to me, it was the most important geological specimen in the world.
It was killing me that I had to wait until the next day to find out why.
*****
