Waltzing With the Wallflower

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “What other artifacts, my son?” His white eyebrow arched in sudden piqued interest. If it was what he thought it was, this was indeed an important interruption.

  “A small vessel tinged with blood, some preserved letters, and—they found a ring cast with the head of a lion.”

  “A lion’s head, you say?” His Holiness grew more intrigued, then he whispered as though only to himself, “The Sacred Ring.” His tone intensified as he directed his gaze back to Marcus. “They are certain?”

  “The bishop sent these sealed papers.” Marcus set the bundle respectfully on the dark oak desk. Pope Gregory reached across and slid the papers towards himself. He slowly broke the seal and opened the messages. His sparkling eyes scanned the parchment for a moment, and he furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “This is news indeed,” he finally spoke.

  Taking a sheet of parchment, he lifted the quill to the ink well and penned a brief reply to the bishop. “Deliver this to the bishop posthaste,” he commanded while pressing his ring into the blob of softened wax.

  Marcus took the offered envelope and bowed slightly before hurrying out of the room, leaving Pope Gregory alone with his thoughts. He rose and strode to the broad window looking out over the Vatican courtyard.

  Stroking his chin between his finger and thumb, he thought aloud, “The Ring. If it’s true, we may have a war on our hands.”

  ****

  Bishop Hébert’s suspicions were indeed correct, but the power of the Ring was not a thing to be trifled with. If it were to fall into the wrong hands, there’s no telling what would happen. The pope’s instructions were simple. Secure the Ring. Get it to the Vatican as quickly and as quietly as possible.

  Already the men working on the site seemed to realize there was a powerful relic in their midst. They stood in small groups speaking in hushed, respectful tones. The bishop did a quick head count. All were accounted for except Leonides of the Santini family. Come to think of it, he had been missing since they pulled the remains out of the crypt. He had taken one look at the artifacts and turned white as marble. Perhaps the sight of the disinterred bones had made him ill.

  He signaled a workman to bring him the leather pouch that contained the artifacts they had uncovered. An errand this sensitive required Bishop Hébert’s personal touch. Clutching the satchel, he climbed into the waiting carriage and instructed the driver to make haste to the Holy City.

  The coach lurched forward and rattled down the cobblestone street. Hébert lifted the flap of the pouch and peered inside. Over fifteen hundred years of burial deep in the catacombs had done nothing to taint the shine of the Ring. It fairly glowed from the darkness of its leather satchel. The ancient carving of a lion’s head in gold wrapped the circumference of the Ring, bedecked with two diamonds for eyes and a startling bright ruby set deep in the mouth. He had never seen its equal.

  The trip was short, and upon his arrival at the Vatican, Bishop Hébert was ushered straight to the pope’s chamber.

  “Your Holiness.” The bishop leaned over and kissed Pope Gregory’s ring.

  The pope accepted the satchel, and his gaze burned into the bishop’s eyes. “Have you determined?” he prodded. “Is it the Sacred Ring?”

  “I believe so.”

  The pope lifted the flap of the pouch and reached inside, withdrawing the lion’s head in a slow deliberate hand, turning it over in his palm to inspect it reverently. His voice lowered almost to a whisper as he scrutinized the Ring in his fingers. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “The men at the site know.”

  “Saint Valentine’s Sacred Ring is an important relic, but in the wrong hands it could cause a war. The legends of the Ring will draw the attention of those who would use its power for evil. The wisest course of action would be to throw off the treasure hunters.” His Holiness took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The remains will be the key. Divide the remains and the artifacts among several churches. And one in Ireland. The friar who was visiting Rome last year. The one who was such a popular speaker. Make a gift to him. The Church is newly revived there, and another saint in Ireland will increase the interest.” He was pacing now, hands clasped behind his back, his robes swishing across the floor. “Friar…the Carmelite. What was his name, Hébert?”

  “Spratt.”

  “Yes, Friar Spratt. He was a good speaker.” Pope Gregory moved suddenly to his desk and slipped another parchment from the stack. “I’ll write him letters explaining the importance of our request.”

  “Perhaps Your Holiness should address the letters to Archbishop Murray of Dublin. He is well-acquainted with the area.”

  “Yes, of course. I will leave the procession arrangements to you then, Hébert. In the meantime, we will hold the Ring in safekeeping. Perhaps the scattering of the saint’s remains will throw off those who would seek this for their own gain.”

  There was a solid knock on the door, and Marcus slipped in quietly. “Your Holiness.” He bowed slightly. His eyes were wide, and he seemed uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot and casting nervous glances at the door behind him.

  “Yes, my son?”

  “Roberto Santini. He requests an audience.”

  “Santini.” Pope Gregory shifted his gaze abruptly to Bishop Hébert’s and indicated the leather pouch with a pointed glance. Hébert scooped up the satchel and slipped out the side door. The sooner this Ring was out of Rome, the safer the world would be.

  Chapter One

  Dublin, Present Day

  The rain came down in torrents, driving the chill right through Kynan Murphy’s light jacket and deep into his bones. He trudged down the street toward his house, pulling his collar closer around his neck. The rain dripped down his cheeks and off the end of his nose. His dark brown hair lay in wet, stringy curls all over his head, drenched in the downpour.

  The weather mirrored his mood. Home had been plagued with strife this week. Though they usually fought with each other, his parents had abandoned it for the new favorite pastime of hassling him for his grades, his friends, and his irresponsible choices. And they wouldn’t be happy with the report card he was bringing home today. Just what he needed.

  He clambered up the steps to the front door and entered. The house was eerily silent.

  “Ma?” He kicked off his wet boots in the entryway and tossed them to the rug, then slipped off his jacket and dropped it on the floor with his school bag. “Ma?” he repeated.

  “In here.” Her reply was weak, quiet for her.

  “Where?” Kynan asked; his voice cracked. He hated it when it did that. So embarrassing.

  “In the sittin’ room.”

  Kynan trudged into the next room while running his fingers through his wet hair, shaking the moisture from it. “What are you doing in here?” he asked as he rounded the corner.

  His mother and his father were sitting on the sofa. Quietly. Next to each other. Staring at him. With that look.

  This was not good. Did they somehow get a heads up on his grades? Would the teacher have called them already?

  “Sit down, Kynan,” his father said.

  Trying not to show his blatant fear, Kynan took a seat as far away from his dad as possible and smoothly folded his hands in front of him, waiting for the inevitable lecture from one or both of his parents.

  “Kynan…” His mother began to speak, lips trembling. He noticed a single tear slide down her cheek. Her face flushed, and she looked away and wiped at her face. His father cleared his throat and gave his mother a slight nod as if to encourage her to go on.

  Suddenly Kynan wondered if this was all about his grades; they were acting like someone had died.

  His father patted his mother on the hand, but she abruptly pulled away. Shrinking into herself as if his father had slapped her instead of offered her a bit of comfort. “We love you, Kynan. You know that, don’t you?”

  Kynan nodded only because he didn’t trust his voice to speak. So it was true then, someone really was dead, or worse yet, what if on
e of his parents had cancer? Or some other disease. Chest constricting, he waited in silent torture.

  Clearing his throat, his father began again, “Your mother and I think it’s best that we spend some time apart.”

  Kynan bit his lip in thought. “You want to take a holiday?”

  Kynan’s mother sighed.

  His father, normally confident almost to the point of being arrogant, broke eye contact and blushed. “No son, not a holiday.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’ve grown apart.”

  Kynan looked from one parent to the other. “And when you say we, you mean...?”

  “Your mother and I. I won’t insult you by trying to explain something that is beyond your years to understand, son. The truth is simple. It isn’t the same as when we fell in love.”

  Feeling insulted, Kynan scowled. “I’m not stupid, Da.”

  His mother tensed; his father insisted, “This is our decision. We know what’s best. That’s all you need to know right now.”

  “What’s best,” Kynan repeated sourly. “People don’t just give up on one another.”

  “We aren’t giving up,” his father said calmly.

  Kynan snapped, “That’s exactly what you’re doing. Tell him, Ma. Tell him I’m right!”

  His mother had been relatively silent the whole time. The only clue he had that she was paying attention was the long succession of tears that poured down her face. “Tell him, Ma.”

  “Leave it be, Kynan,” his mother whispered, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Kynan, don’t pry into things you don’t understand.” His dad stood looming over him. “This discussion is over. It is what it is.”

  Kynan turned toward his mother. “This isn’t right.” Then he bolted from his seat, stormed into his room, and slammed the door.

  ****

  The annual school trip to the shrine was something Kynan had been looking forward to for weeks. But not anymore. Usually learning about Ireland’s saints was a favorite pastime. Today it was a painful reminder of his parents’ stupidity. When his best friend Michael Connell slid into the seat beside him on the bus, he didn’t even notice.

  “Hey, butthead.” Michael’s voice jolted him back into reality.

  Kynan glanced up at him and scooted closer to the window, giving him some room. “Hey,” he replied flatly and turned his gaze back on the view out the window.

  “Look what I brought,” Michael said, seemingly oblivious to Kynan’s distance. He pulled a small plastic bag out of his school satchel, which contained about a dozen snap noisemakers. Kynan looked at what Michael held. He raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “Where’d ya get those?”

  “My Uncle Joseph. Well, I snuck one out of each box, so he wouldn’t notice. Thought we could toss a couple out of the window and scare the wick outta the peds.”

  Kynan suddenly had a wicked idea. He knew it was wrong, but he felt this need to do something bad. “Okay. And maybe we can save a few for the shrine.” A haughty and mischievous grin curled across his lips.

  Michael’s eyes grew wide. “The shrine?” he whispered, his voice quiet. “I don’t know. We could get into a lot of trouble – and it’s a holy place. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He carefully slid his treasure back inside the bag.

  “Come on, Mike, nobody will know it’s us. Think of the laughs!”

  Michael didn’t answer. Instead he crammed the plastic bag down further in his satchel and wrapped both his arms around it, hugging it to his chest. He slid down in the seat and propped his lanky knees up on the back of the seat in front of him as the bus rumbled into motion.

  Though there was plenty of chatter and laughing on the bus, Kynan and Michael spent the ride in silence. Neither looked at the other.

  Looking out the window, Kynan watched the buildings fly by in a blur. The way to Whitefriar Street Church was familiar. It would only take a few minutes. Just long enough for Kynan to get lost in his mental replay of the conversation with his parents from the day before.

  A repetitive thumping on the seat in front of him caught his attention, and he glanced up to see who could be so annoying. It was Brianna Collins. She was smacking her gum nonchalantly and drumming her fingers on the top of the seat. Her long strawberry blonde hair was already falling out of her loose ponytail. “What’s the matter with you two?” she slurred through her gum, popping a small bubble on her tongue with a loud snap.

  “Bug off, Brianna,” Kynan mumbled. Her clear blue eyes danced with temper. Usually Kynan enjoyed making her mad. The instant flush of red in her cheeks and the fire in her eyes made his stomach do flip-flops. But today, he just wanted her to leave him alone.

  “You’re such a jerk, Kynan. I was just making conversation.”

  “Well, don’t. If we felt like talking, we’d talk to each other.” He elbowed Michael and rolled his eyes.

  Michael chuckled. He elbowed Kynan back, leaned his head down and reached to his eyes. When he lifted his head again, his eyelids were flipped up. Michael crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at her. Kynan burst out laughing. Brianna snorted in disgust.

  “You guys are so immature!” She flopped around in her seat and faced the girls in the seat in front of her.

  Michael reached into his bag and pulled out a snapper. Using his satchel as cover, he threw it hard on the floor under Brianna’s seat. A loud pop resounded in the enclosed bus, setting off a chain reaction of girls’ screams and squeals.

  Kynan and Michael put on their best innocent expressions and pretended not to notice anything had happened when Brother Leroy stood at the front of the bus and demanded to know what the trouble was. Brianna shot a scorching glare over her shoulder at them.

  Finally the bus rattled to a stop in front of Whitefriar. The door squeaked open, and Father Leroy began droning out instructions for proper behavior inside the church. Kynan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe if he said a special prayer to the saint and lit a candle, Saint Valentine would see to it that his parents would stay together.

  Astraea Press

  Pure. Fiction

  www.astraeapress.com