by Paul Kelly
“Peter.”
The voice was soft and low sounding… Peter opened his eyes as he brought his arms to his side. He looked around him but three was no-one in the church. He was alone.
“Peter.”
The voice came again, clear and with insistence, drawing the young priest’s attention to the circular window above the High Altar.
Something there had moved in the surrounding mist of the incense haze that encompassed the obscure ornate ceiling, but there was no fear in Peter’s heart, despite the mysticism of the moment. He was calm as he felt a balm touch his aching heart that brought a faint smile to his lips and a swishing, rustling, flapping of wings pervaded the atmosphere surrounding him as the air became permeated with the thick cloud of diffused aromatic perfume. The odoriferous fragrance clung to his cassock as the invading sound increased in volume, louder and louder by the second, until he was forced to cup his ears with his hands and his face became distorted with the intensity of the persistent fracas as the deafening noise intensified and wings whipped the air around him. He struggled to keep his balance, but he stumbled and his soutane was blown heavily against his body whilst his shoulder cape was ripped from his neck, beating the wall as it slithered to the floor, scurrying like a bat, into the corner of the chapel.
“Peter”
The voice came to him again for the third time; clear and resonate above the babbling insanity of the surrounding menagerie. The wings beat against his face and body, as he strained in an effort to hold himself erect and his eyes searched the darkness as a choking sensation attacked his throat.
Suddenly the babble ceased in an instant… like the final beat of a drum. The incense mist began to clear and the chapel was encompassed in silence. Peter’s face was illuminated through the darkness of his incarceration, and the stigmata of his joy was complete … The moon cast its delicate rays over the flaxen head before him and two brown jewels blinked adoringly. He did not want to move, but his arms went involuntarily towards this harbinger of peace and beauty.
“Fern ... Fern? I knew you would come,” he whispered and the touch of the boy’s smooth cheek confirmed the reality of Peter’s vision as he held his love close to his heart and diamonds fell in extravagance from his sapphire eyes.
Their heads appeared in silhouette as a carved sculpture; a flaxen and a raven twin entwined... no longer two, but one in contrast and in defiance of nature and of the universe. Peace had embraced the earth and the world was stilled. They remained together and no words were spoken but each knew the warmth of the other as their hearts beat in harmony, throbbing in unison as they moved forward steadily into the abyss of the unknown. The High Altar bore no substance now as stones fell away, crumbling before them. No walls, no concrete, no element could stop them as they walked from the penumbra of the fading Italian moonlight into the warm rays of the gleaming sun, and the fresh green fields of Bolarne. Their love-transport took only a moment of human time and as they walked together, hand in hand, a deep blue kilt swung proudly from slim hips near the still heavy cassock of the priest. A sporran glistened and an amethyst sparkled as never before in the bright free sunshine ... and the buckles of the young boy’s shoes sang for joy.
“You will never leave me now Peter ... Will you?”
A gentle breeze bore Fern’s request with the wind into the firmament and Peter glanced at him with loving reassurance and pressed his hand as they walked forwards together ... towards LOVE ... The priest in his sombre black soutane and the boy in his colourful kilt . . . And God closed His eyes in restful content . . .
Chapter Fifty Two
DAN HAD MISSED PETER at the dinner table in the refectory and went to his room but he was not there and instinctively he made his way immediately to the chapel. Peter was alone and kneeling erect without any support. His face was ashen and bore an ethereal quality which stopped Dan in his steps, making him afraid to disturb this man who had taken on such an angelic and statuesque appearance and he waited for a few moments before he called his name quietly ... but Peter did not move. Dan called again, a little louder, but with the same response, before he went forward and touched Peter lightly on the shoulder, but the young priest fell forward at the touch of Dan’s hand and lay deathly pale on the floor of the chapel.
“Oh God, what had happened? ... What is the matter, Peter? …Peter please speak to me,” he called out, but Peter lay motionless; his facial expression unchanged. Dan bent down and lifted his priest-friend in his strong arms. He carried him to his room, lay him gently on his bed and removed his clerical collar before he took Peter’s hand in his own and felt for a pulse, but it was very faint. Peter’s face was calm, but colourless; his eyes were closed and his lips slightly apart and as Dan straightened his cassock around him on the bed an envelope fell from Peter’s pocket. Dan lifted it from the floor and noted it was addressed to Fern as, he quickly pushed it into his own pocket and went to the Rector’s Office to report the incident, but not before he had kicked over a waste paper basket in Peter’s room and spattered letter fragments all around the floor. Dan gathered them into his biretta and he left the room.
***
The doctor examined Peter at great length but was still puzzled.
“Has he complained of being ill?” he asked and his face showed the bewilderment of his confusion. “He should be hospitalised, as I cannot make an immediate diagnosis of his problem here, I’m afraid. It appears to be of a nervous disorder as his pupils are dilated. His pulse is weak, but regular, it’s the facial expression that baffles me.
It is peaceful and relaxed and yet there is a spasm coming in intervals from the chest.”
The doctor scratched his bald-pate and the hair that he had brushed across the shiny area of his scalp fell down over his left ear, where he straightened it immediately. Dan listened to all that he said about Peter and stayed with his friend whilst the others left the room. He took out his rosary and kissed the crucifix, as he knelt down by Peter’s bed and crossed himself to pray and the letter fell from his pocket. Dan studied the address on the envelope and saw that it was written in Peter’s handwriting ... to an address in Bolarne ... He finished his prayers and continued in his meditation before he left the room, ringing the bell at Peter’s bed to call the next student who would sit with the patient through his illness.
Dan reflected on the letter that had never reached its destination, as he sat in his own room and tapped the sealed envelope on his knee, before deciding to post it, but as he went to the post box at the end of the corridor, with the valued letter still in the pocket of his soutane, he took a right turn and made his way to the cellar. The heat hit him as he opened the door from the corridor leading there. The passage was dark and dust-filled with the smell of smoke pervading the air and as he opened the furnace door, the glowing embers winked a welcome to him as he took the paper litter from a large brown envelope that he had tucked carefully into the front of his cassock. The embers shot pink and white flames into the air as they licked the paper scraps into ashes before settling again to the tranquil orange glow of before that faded from Dan’s face as he shut the door having relegated any evidence of his friend’s enduring love to a purgatorial death.
“That should heat the college a bit more,” he remarked as he returned from his subterranean mission and took Peter’s letter to Fern from his pocket and dropped it into the college post box, before he went out into the street to take a walk as he needed to freshen his head from the ache that was lingering with him.
“When Irish eyes are smilin’,” he sang softly, involuntarily and for no apparent reason but his were one pair of Irish eyes that did not smile.
***
Dan dressed quickly the following morning and went to Peter’s room, where the student on watch had been with him all night, kneeling in vigil by the young priest’s bedside. Peter looked the same as he had done when Dan had brought him unconscious
from the chapel. He lay pale and motionless and Dan went into the sacristy to vest for Mass, but as he robed, he could not get Peter from his mind and his Mass was full of distractions. He made his thanksgiving at the prie-dieu in the sacristy and without thinking of breakfast he hurried again to Peter’s bedside.
“I’ll take over now thanks,” he said in a brusque voice and the watch-student left the room, dipping his finger into the holy water stoup as he went and Dan was wishing the impossible in his mind. He wanted to get into Peter’s mind to resuscitate him in some way. Dan knew it was a ridiculous task and he was overcome with grief His logic had gone for a walk…There was so much he had to say to his friend; so many things he wanted to know since he alone knew the distress of Peter’s love, but he could tell no-one. Perhaps if he could have done, the doctor would have been less confused ... and Dan begged the only other One who knew the secret, to help Peter as he lay so still with his marbled features above the white sheets. He stared at his friend with wonder and admiration and prayed as he had never prayed before, distracted by the words of a certain song that ran through his mind and would not be deflected ... The words persisted in his mind and would not go away.
‘We are in love with you, my heart and I ...’ and it went on repeatedly in his head.
Chapter Fifty Three
PETER DIED AT 2.30 pm, THAT DAY. It was August thirty-first, 1937 and Daniel Farne was the only person at his bedside when he breathed his last. There was no resistance; only the gentle cessation of his shallow breath told Dan that he had gone to his Maker and that he was at peace at last. Dan crossed himself and placed his large thumb on Peter’s forehead.
“Go in peace, my friend. Dominus vobiscum.”
***
The doctor was still unable to resolve a diagnosis as he stood next to Dan, almost as though just standing there thinking ... was the way to complete his function.
“I don’t know what went wrong… I cannot understand this death at all. This priest is so young ... so physically healthy ...I cannot understand,” he said as he scratched his baldhead again and telepathically, Dan turned to him.
“My old mother was no doctor, but she would say he died of a broken heart,” he said and the doctor blinked his eye nervously and carefully straightened the lock of hair over his pate before he retired.
***
“This parcel came for Peter this morning …can I leave it with you?”
A young student breezed into Dan’s room with the packet in his hand. It was a bulky envelope and it was lilac in colour, Dan slowly opened it guiltily, since he still could not believe that Peter was no longer with him. It contained five letters, sealed and numbered, with Peter’s name on each. Dan read the accompanying note.
Peter, my very dear friend, I hope you are well. I am sending you, via Shona, the letters that I wrote to you before my illness took over and compelled me just to lie in bed and do absolutely nothing. I am a sneak in writing this letter as it is all in parts, so I hope you will be able to understand it. My hand shakes also and I feel like a drunken man, or rather like a lost soul, separated from his twin ... as that’s what I always think you are. I often wonder if we will ever meet again and I ask God to accept my pain and suffering as a little bribe so that we could be together. I have so much suffering now that I feel I shall never be free of it, but don’t worry. The cure for my aches is the memory of you and the deep longing I have to see you again. I don’t really mind the pain Peter, I am willing to say as you taught me, ‘Fiat’ to God for that, but I cannot accept our parting and feel so sorry for myself that I cry a lot. Yesterday, I made a bargain with God… I told Him to do what He wanted with me, if He would only let me see you again soon. I can only write wee letters as my wrists tire so easily and I can’t hold a pen for very long. I wish now I had learned shorthand. My memory and my love will endure forever.
Yours,
Fern.
Dan stared at the letter and read it again and again… ‘A lost soul who has been separated from his twin’ … and a shiver ran down his spine. It was only yesterday that he had posted Peter’s letter to Fern and as he folded the boy’s letter carefully, his eyes were full of trouble. He felt so close to Peter and to Nella and little Dolly, and strangely enough to Fern, whom he had never met.
***
Peter’s funeral was simple and unostentatious. His father was too ill to attend but a telegram of condolences arrived from him in the hospital in Glasgow and Dan put it with the letters from the lilac envelope and the body was laid to rest overnight in the Lady Chapel with the coffin lid placed against the wall for any to see Peter for the last time. Dan was in vigil throughout the resting time, although many others came and went through the night. He looked for a long time at the face of the friend he had lost, unable to believe that he would never see him again and when the reality of the situation came home to him, he broke down. His heavy shoulders shook unashamedly for the man he had so admired and respected. His eyes were red and sore when he took the lilac package from his inside pocket, together with some other letters that he had rescued from Peter’s room, and put them into the coffin beside him. ... and the pale figure in the coffin accepted without question, for the contents of these letters were embedded in his heart and would be with him ... FOREVER.
***
The following morning, the entire college assembled for Mass; staff and students alike. The Requiem Mass was at ten o’clock and Dan had replaced the lid on the coffin with Peter’s stole wound around his biretta on top of the lid... and a silver chalice lay at his feet.
‘ De profundis clamavi ad te Domine.’
The students sang their farewell and Peter was buried in a little cemetery on a hill in Rome. That was on September-fifth.
***
Dan sat all alone by his bed and pondered how much the world had changed as he glanced at the prie-dieu, but he was sitting again under the Bridge of Sighs and a young voice whispered into his ears.
“I am no longer able to be a priest. I no longer have the competence,” he heard again and he shivered. “It is not a woman Father... It is a man … It is a boy, a young boy.”
Dan glared at the bare stucco wall in an effort to rid his mind of his memory, as his eyes filled with tears.
“Are you are able to forgive yourself, Father Spinelli?” he muttered to himself and his shoulders hung in total surrender as his soul demanded an answer. “WHAT IS THERE TO FORGIVE, PETER SPINELLI ... LOVE … ONLY LOVE.”
Dan slowly rose from where he was sitting and took his biretta from a hook on the door. He walked along the corridor to the Notice Board in the students’ hall and read the obituary notice for Peter. It read …
PETER FLAVIO SPINELLI
Born November 3rd 1913
Died August 31st. 1937.
Aged 24 years
R. I. P.
“Priest of God… a priest forever.”
Dan Farne smiled and held his head high, but he shook a little as he swallowed hard.
“Good on ya, Kiddo,” he said ... and walked away
Chapter Fifty Four
ROSE PICKED THE LETTER UP from the mat behind the door and took her spectacles from her apron pocket. She read the address, but when she saw the post mark, she read it again and her fingers shook as she opened it ... her face was pale and worried.
“Tom Mahon,” she called to her husband, who pretended to be busy in the garden. “Mahon,” she called again, straining to see through her spectacles.
“I’m coming, Rose. I’m coming.” Tom removed his gardening shoes as he came through the back door. “What is it, Rose?” he enquired and as his wife held the letter towards him, the paper shook.
“Do we know a Father Daniel Farne, in Rome?” she asked and Tom looked at her over his bifocals.
“The name doesn’t mean anything to me Rose ... Why?”
Tom’s face grew white and he touched his forehead with his fingers before he sat down heavily and thrust his head into his hands, whilst Rose came nearer to comfort him.
“Father Spinelli is dead, Rose. He died on the same day as our Fern,” he said sadly.
Tom Mahon and his wife hugged each other in their grief and confusion as they gazed into the horizon to contemplate the utter silence and desolation of their lives.
“I wish I could understand all of this Rose. .I can’t … I just can’t,” Tom went on… Rose pressed his head to her bosom and patted his shoulder, but there was fear in her eyes as she looked towards the skies “You know, of course ... that Anna had another child ... another little boy, before Fern was born?” she said almost in a whisper and her remark made Tom Mahon pull away from her embrace.
“What? What are you saying, Rose. what other child? Fern was her only son. You know that,” he snapped, but Rose shook her head slowly.
“Mahon ... Anna went into Edinburgh ... not just to get married to Miguel Zambrano, but to look for the little boy she had six years before and whom she’d given up for adoption, since she was all on her own at that time. She never found him. All the information she got was that he had been taken by an Italian couple who couldn’t have any children of their own, but Mahon ... Anna gave birth to that little boy on the 3rd of November 1913. I know that‘s true as I would never forget a date like that.”
