by Paul Kelly
He thought of Laura and he feared for Peter as he did so. Yes, he thought for a long time, until the wind chilled and he rose to return home, but as he walked, he was aware of a strange new awakening within himself and he summarised all his meditations and deliberations of the day to find a new knowledge of himself that he had never known before.
He was jealous; jealous but not of Shona, nor of Laura; nor even of Peter. He was jealous of God…
Jonty interrupted the scene with his wet slobbering mouth around Fern’s wrists. He had come to meet him as he journeyed home. Tom often gave the command to the dog, to “meet Fern” and Jonty understood and loved it, consequently they jogged home together, both panting as they ran.
Peter’s absence was long and lonely for Fern, and he wondered what sort of a priest he would find after this concentrated hothouse personal examination that he had taken upon himself. It surely must have made a difference and he was anxious to see the results as he waited with patience until the day arrived at last and Peter came back to Bolarne, before he telephoned the church to find if the change would have affected his voice or his mannerisms. He would know immediately by the voice, of that he felt sure.
“St. Mark’s Presbytery here…”
Miss Harrison spoke to Fern. How stupid of him not to think that she would answer the phone, although it was only logical that she should.
He was about to speak when another voice spoke into the telephone.
“Father Spinelli, here, can I help you?”
Fern was overjoyed. He knew the same voice so well. There had been no change.
“Hello Father, welcome back …”
Peter changed the phone from one ear to the other.
“Fern… How lovely to hear from you. I have only been back this past hour. Are you O.K?” he asked and Miss Harrison replaced her receiver and smiled as she returned to her chores.
“Yes, I’m fine, how are you? Did your Retreat go well?”
“Everything was fine, Fern, but I missed ... I missed Bolarne.”
Fern was a little disconcerted. He knew he should have felt differently... He was a young man, after all, but he had hoped that the priest would have had quite a different answer for him as he bit his lip in disappointment, knowing that he had nearly another week to wait before Peter’s next day off, however, the problem was soon resolved.
“Why don’t you come over to the Presbytery this evening, if you are free? I will be, round about seven, and I’d really like to see you.”
Fern gasped as he answered ... and seven o’clock was so slow in coming.
***
Peter stood at the door to welcome Fern and they shook hands with long and lingering handshakes betraying an inner longing of friendship and the evening went so fast, with questions from both men and very little time to answer. Each wanting to talk so much to the other; each anxious to know how the other had got on in the long absence…
“I’m supposed to be going to Italy, Peter, but I’d rather not.”
Fern explained his reasons as he had done at the waterfall and Peter understood.
“This is the ‘something’ you were going to tell me about, isn’t it?”
Peter asked and Fern grinned as his priest-friend continued to talk with concern. “I don’t think you could improve greatly from an Italian coach,” he said, “But he might learn something from you,” Peter laughed, but his thoughts were serious. Here he was, having just returned from a Retreat where he had been re-assessing his spiritual life as a celibate priest, a devoted servant of the God he had chosen to love and to follow all the days of his life, exclusively…
Nevertheless he wished this young man did not have to leave him and his inner prayer was that God would understand how he felt... Understand and bless his heart for the feelings that he felt, against the spirit of the prayerful life that he aspired after. Jesus had loved the beloved disciple John and had allowed him to rest on his shoulder and Peter Spinelli knew there was no real comparison ... but he didn’t want Fern to go.
“You two men must be hungry ... I’ve made some sandwiches. If you need more, let me know. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Miss Harrison’s attention and kindness was most appreciated and they ate heartily before Fern left the Presbytery at 10 o’clock as he had some rehearsing to do before he retired and Peter had agreed to come to the Glasgow concert if he could get a supply priest for the occasion.
Needless to say, Miss Harrison had already booked her ticket.
Peter reflected over the evening’s conversation with Fern, after the boy had returned home and he was a little afraid of his thoughts. He was aware that he was attracted to Fern, not only because of his singing voice, in fact, he just liked everything about him, but there was something about this boy, which made Peter forget about himself and he remembered the wise rules of the seminary about particular friendships. He knew there could be hidden dangers, even in the most innocent of relationships, particularly for a priest... and he looked up above the fireplace to the scroll on the wall.
THOU ART A PRIEST... AND A PRIEST FOREVER, ACCORDING TO THE ORDER OF MELCHISADECH . . .
Peter prayed that he would never dishonour the friendship that was becoming so important to him and again, he asked God to make him understand his feelings and that He, in his mercy and love, should understand him in the feelings that were his. He felt happy after he had done that, for there was a certain inner glow in him that evening that he had never experienced before together with a tingling excitement; newness to his mind as he went upstairs to bed…
Chapter Twenty Five
THE SIRENS WERE SOUNDING MADLY and the village was a stir with tension and excitement as two people were stranded on the mountain and the rescue crew had been alerted. Fern had seen this drill so many times before, but it always caused him concern and anxiety each time it occurred, especially now that he could never forget the fate of his own father. The evening was drawing in and soon the mountain would be enveloped in darkness. It was then that the rescue became more hazardous and relatives and friends of the rescue team joined the friends of the climbers in fear and apprehension. The mountain was beautiful, but equally cruel in its proud majestic stand.
“Don’t let any harm come to them. Keep them safe.” Fern prayed aloud as he waited in the lounge of Tom Mahon’s house, but the rescue team had gone and the waiting game had begun ... once again. There was a fear with Fern; an inordinate fear that he could not comprehend as he tried to occupy himself with his music, but he could not remain still and walked about restlessly until he could stand this unfounded feeling no longer. He put on his coat and a scarf and went out of the house as he felt it would be better if he could walk about in the fresh air and allow his thoughts to wander at will, but he had not gone far when Miss Harrison appeared in the lane, wearing a shawl around her head and shoulders. Her face was drawn and cold in the wind and the snow rested lightly on her head. She saw Fern in the distance and called out to him.
“What is the trouble, Miss Harrison? You shouldn’t be out here alone.
There is nothing anyone can do until the team returns” he called out as she ran towards him, but she threw her arms in the air and began to sob.
“Fern, I am worried. It is beginning to snow and there is no sign of them returning. I am sure there’s a storm in the air ... I know it.”
“Go back to the Presbytery, Miss Harrison. There is nothing you can do at the moment. The women will be preparing soup or tea in the church hall for their return and perhaps you could help there.”
Fern escorted Miss Harrison to the priest’s house as he spoke, but she dallied as they went “I don’t want to go back just yet, Fern,” she said as she released her arm from his grasp and her voice became faint as a tear appeared in her eye. “Peter is up there, too. . . Father Peter,” she repeated” as fear possessed her thin
frame and her voice shook with emotion.
Fern was stunned at the housekeeper’s statement as he looked in horror at her and the picture became clearer to him. He had not understood before, as he had not known Peter when the last sirens had been alerted over fifteen months ago. Of course, he, as a priest would be up there with the team.
Fern reached the Presbytery and went into the library with Miss Harrison, but no speech would come to him... No answers to the many questions that tortured his mind at that moment, as he knew how dangerous the mountain could be and he forced himself into a new awareness. Quickly he grabbed one of Peter’s thicker jackets that hung on a hook in the hall and left the Presbytery, but as he threw the jacket around his shoulders, he spoke quietly but resolutely to Miss Harrison.
“Don’t worry, get some warm food ready and some brandy if you have any,” he said, but Miss Harrison turned to him with fear in her eyes as she guessed the boy’s intention.
“Don’t go, Fern. You’re only a boy, please don’t go up there,” she pleaded, but Fern smiled as he embraced her tenderly.
“I know the mountain well, Miss Harrison; like the back of my hand, so to speak. Don’t worry about me.”
The snow was falling, forming a thick blanket as he ascended the mountain and his breath ejected clouds of steam in the cold night air as his feet clung to the mounds of white covered earth in defiance of his hurry as he moved up the slope. He went higher and higher, straining to breathe as he climbed. His chest, filled with the moisture of the night, made him cough and he stopped to regain his strength, but his head felt light as he went higher and still he could see no trace of any of the rescue team. He called out, but his voice was feeble and the harsh winds drowned his efforts in their wailing lament. Suddenly he heard the ‘All Clear’ of the sirens below. He knew then that the search had been called off and he waited anxiously for the second signal. There was a further muted siren a few minutes afterwards, which rose in sound to a higher sharp piercing pitch and then stopped suddenly. Two sharp blasts and a further long one followed the silence…
Fern trembled. He knew that this signal was given only when one of the climber’s was still on the mountain. This happened when it had become obvious that there was nothing further that could be done to continue the rescue that night and fear paralysed him as he become rooted to the spot where he stood. Could that one person be Peter? He could not bear to think of this possibility but could not dare to ignore it, as he plodded on through the now thicker and heavier snow but despair was his only feeling as he gazed around him into the vast abyss. It was as though he had never seen this place before and his mind went blank.
Everything around him was strange ... and he was suddenly afraid... and alone. His warm tears heated his cheeks as they flowed down his face.
He had once been unable to cry, and yet now, the tears flowed more copiously than he had ever thought possible.
“God, you are Peter’s friend,” he prayed as he closed his eyes, “If he is here, then help him. If he is safe below, I thank you, but help whoever is here. I don’t know you as well as Peter does, but I’m trying hard. I want to get to know you better because you must be really something, the way Peter talks about you.” Fern stumbled and coughed.
His chest ached and his throat was on fire, but he continued to make his plea. “I haven’t got a lot of time to talk at the moment, so I’m going to put myself on the breathing. You know what that means don’t you?” he asked as he stumbled again in the snow and fell into a hole.
He cried as he tried to get out again, and when he did, he sat down wearily and put his hands into Peter’s jacket pockets for warmth. He could feel something in one of the pockets and it felt bulky. Fern took his hand from the pouch and found he was holding a rosary. He knew what it was as soon as he saw it and kissed the crucifix that was attached to the end, as just then, a whimpering sound distracted him making him stir and a few moments later he heard the noise again. He stopped breathing and held his breath in order to hear more clearly as the sound came nearer to where he was sitting in the snow and then a shape appeared from behind a snow mound and Fern rubbed his eyes in fear and curiosity. It was Jonty. The dog flew at Fern lovingly knocking him about in the snow so that he could hardly keep his balance, but he was delighted for such a companion who brought his wet mouth and breath to welcome him. He pushed him aside as Jonty shoved his slobbering nozzle into the palm of Fern’s hand, snorting enthusiastically as he did so.
“Good boy! ... Lovely Jonty! Good boy!”
His words encouraged the animal more and he ran around in circles throwing loose snow into the air. His hind paws sliding around wildly in the mire.
“Here, boy, here.”
Jonty heard the command and clunked to the ground from his mid-air posture, cracking the hard snow surface and as Fern cuddled him and tickled his ears Jonty knew something was amiss as he made strange noises and licked the tears from the boy’s face. The love moment was short. Fern remained still and the dog stood to attention ... his eyes wide and wet and ready for any command that the boy would give and a few yards away Fern could see a figure lying in the snow. He rubbed his eyes again and looked closer, approaching quickly and knelt down to assist, turning the body around to see the face and his worst fear was realised as he recognised the face of his priest-friend. He broke down and put his arms around the cold frame that lay before him. He could not stop crying.
“Oh! My God ... Peter, Peter, speak to me ... Please Peter ...Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Peter,” His body shook with the cold that impregnated him and the fear that sent terror shocks through his frame. Peter’s face was white with the snow that had covered him as he lay there. Jonty whimpered and licked the priest’s face whilst Fern took his friend’s hardened hands and massaged his wrists feeling for a pulse but without success. The young boy knelt closer and put his head to the priest’s chest, but the clothing was too thick for him to hear anything and he rammed his hand into Peter’s jacket and tore open the shirt to feel the flesh of his chest. The breathing was audible, but only just ... and very faint.
Fern looked around him in the space of nothingness that stared at him from all sides and he was terrified…
“Where are you God?” he called aloud with moist clouds of vapour spurting into the cold dark night air, but it seemed to him to be a supplication in despair. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and cringed as he moved back and forward on his knees, begging the priest’s God to help him but the only response he found as he floundered in the dark ... was silence.
“I can’t do anymore ...you must help me. You MUST.” he screamed and his echo came back to him ... Must… Must … Must … Jonty looked on and continued to whimper; his eyes scanning the skies for the object of his master’s supplication and Fern looked at the rosary that he still held around his wrist. He tugged hard at the crucifix and broke it from the beads, pushing the metal figure into his pocket, before he grabbed Jonty by the neck and kissed his ear, as he wrapped the beads around the dog’s throat, hoping his plan would work.
“Jonty, good boy… Good boy, Jonty, go to Tom. TOM, GO TO TOM,” he shouted and his echo returned to him again as Jonty blinked and shook the snow from his coat. He looked long at Fern before he took off; his tail stump wagging furiously and Fern removed the jacket he was wearing and wrapped it around Peter. He lifted the priest’s head and cradled it in his arms, but Peter’s lips were cold, hard and turning blue. His eyelashes were dusted in light snow and his face was ashen. Fern gently brushed the blanched flakes from the priest’s eyes and then, with no further thought, he placed his own warm lips against Peter’s to melt the frost that stemmed his breathing. Fern’s tongue warmed the ice until it turned to thaw and when Peter’s lips were more subtle, he ran his own lips tenderly across them, gradually inserting his yearning tongue into the priest’s mouth.
He remained this way until he could
feel the warmth returning and went on with this ceremony of breath transference, thanking God in his heart, when he could feel a slight movement in Peter’s throat and a faint sound coming from his lips. Fern sat back on his heels. The snow was hard and penetrated through his clothes onto his skin, but he was unaware of anything that took his mind from his mission of love. He sniffed and brought Peter’s hand to his mouth.
“Please, please speak to me. Please speak to me, Peter?” he sobbed and a warm, thick tear fell to the snow.
His demand became a question as he feared the consequences of his actions until Peter slowly opened his eyes. It was an agonising task, as the skin above them had become raw and red and he looked at Fern with surprise. He wanted to talk but he couldn’t, as he raised his hand in spasms, slowly to touch the boy’s face before he moved his finger to Fern’s forehead and smiled his gratitude. Fern closed his arms around his friend, all embarrassment had gone; all inhibitions were thrown to the wind, as he whispered with his head on Peter’s chest.
“I love you, Peter ... I really, really love you.”
Ferm kissed Peter’s cheeks and brushed his frozen lips lightly with his warm mouth. He lulled him as a mother would her baby, and closed his legs around him to ensure that he had all the warmth he could muster as they lay there together ... waiting ... for what seemed an eternity and Fern began to hum a tune and rocked to and fro with the love of his young life in his lap.
***
“Hello ... Hello there ...” The voices echoed through the hills. “Is there anyone there? ... Hello there ... Hello…” Fern sat up and tried to scream his response, but his voice had no sound. He gasped and tried to cough.
“Please, please ...Over here, please,” he whispered, but his timid appeal came back to him with scorn as he opened his mouth as wide as he could and yelled. Something in his throat broke to allow the sound to flood out and he continued to scream, never wanting to stop.
