They made excuses to shuffle by the bathroom when the young man the brothers now referred to as “JC” took a good twenty minutes to wash and freshen himself. Brother Lucien sat on the bench inside, waiting in case he took a sudden relapse. The coveting that cut into his fellow monks’ faces irked Sebastian rather than tickled him. JC’s awakening was akin to the resurrection of Christ, by the way the brothers carried on.
Supplied with a fresh tunic, JC remained in the infirmary under Brother Jerome’s care. He appeared anxious and confused whenever the monks neared him, baffled perhaps as much as Sebastian, as much as any of them. The brothers tried desperately to bring a smile to his face.
During their morning work period, Brother Eusebius kept his judgments to himself. He narrowed his dark eyes and fastened the coffee beans to the s-clasps, speaking only to ask where they’d stored the Hail Holy Queen centerpieces. Neither he nor Sebastian could explain the mysterious man.
Sebastian waited until after None, when he knew that Father Paolo had summoned Brother Jerome to his private office, before defying the abbot’s request that they refrain from bombarding JC with questions.
With the other brothers occupied in lectio divina, he slinked inside the infirmary, where JC slept soundly. He persuaded Brother Rodel, instructed to remain by JC’s bedside, to give them privacy. Little Brother Rodel hesitated only a moment before leaving to pray at the transept in the chapel, at Sebastian’s pushy suggestion.
Seated next to him, Sebastian observed JC’s rising and falling chest. He fantasized entering his head and peeking into his dreams. Maybe then he might learn something about him. Sebastian’s presence must have stirred him. Shimmering dark eyes flashed open. He sat up, still looking as if they’d caged him against his will. Sebastian resisted laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
JC grabbed for his knapsack, which was lying beside him, the only possession they’d found on him. Earlier, Brother Rodel had shown it to him, and he’d refused to let it go.
“Do you remember the knapsack?” Brother Sebastian asked him, eyeing how he clutched it.
“Yes, I mean… no. They said it was mine. I want to keep it.”
“Of course, you may keep it.”
Sebastian smiled at JC and leaned closer to him. “Are you feeling more relaxed among us?” he asked, although clearly JC was not. “We’ve been fussing over you a bit, haven’t we?”
“I’m… I’m still confused about everything.”
“None of your memories have come back?”
JC shook his head. “I keep trying to think hard, but nothing comes to mind.”
“Has anything come to you in your dreams? Maybe that might help piece together the puzzle.”
“I don’t remember ever having dreamed,” he said with darkness to his tone.
Sebastian grinned to encourage a connection between him and the stranger. Perhaps then JC’s mind might open up. Something lay trapped inside him. There had to be a way to pry it out. “Puede entender mi?”
JC’s eyes popped. “I can understand your Spanish.”
“I guessed you might be Latino. It might help us learn who you are.”
“It’s weird how you can forget everything else, but still understand languages,” JC said.
“That’s perfectly normal. Does Philadelphia or Baltimore ring a bell in your mind?”
“No, they don’t.”
“What about Ohio or Cincinnati?”
“I can’t remember. It’s like my mind is frozen.” He peered at Sebastian. “Why do you ask about those places?”
“You and I share a similar twang,” Sebastian said. “I’m from Philadelphia. It’s possible you might be from there, or somewhere else in the mid-Atlantic. Perhaps along the Ohio River. Sometimes you can trace the migration of Americans by their accents. Did you know that people in Philadelphia sound similar to people from Cincinnati?” He chuckled. “And yet they’re over five hundred miles apart. Isn’t that something?”
“It still doesn’t mean anything to me,” JC murmured.
Sebastian repositioned himself closer to JC, but stopped when the man flinched. Was there a reason for his distrust? Had he been running from something? Sebastian wanted to believe he’d lost his memory. He didn’t sense that he was a criminal on the lam. Yet he might harbor a past he wished to forget.
Hadn’t they all?
Swallowing his own transgressions, Sebastian sat stiffer, his hands firm on his thighs. He smiled wider to relax him. “Are you an expert backpacker of some kind? Maybe an outdoor enthusiast? An extreme sports athlete? We get lots of those types in the Rockies.”
“Don’t feel like I am.”
Sebastian pursed his lips. “Did anyone bring you here, do you remember? One of your friends, maybe? Can you picture anyone’s face in your mind?”
JC shook his head.
“Well, we didn’t find any other sets of tracks, or even yours, for that matter. There was so much blowing snow. Amazing how you survived. We think of you as sort of a miracle.”
JC flushed and faced the far wall, where the IV, disconnected from him since lunch, stood in the corner. “Isn’t that place, Philadelphia, where you said I might be from, isn’t that far from here? Where is it you said I am? Colorado? Why would I come from so far to a place like this?”
“Whatever reason brought you here, you must truly have wanted to see us badly enough. So for that, you should take comfort that you’ve arrived.”
JC turned back to him and showed fine white teeth. His first smile since Sebastian had laid eyes on him. No denying his beauty.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?” he asked. “I’m craving one. I guess I’m a smoker.”
Sebastian chuckled. “I’m sorry, we’re forbidden to smoke here. I used to smoke when I was your age. When I wanted to quit, I ate carrot sticks to help with the cravings. I can bring you some if you like. We keep them fresh in the cellar.”
“That’s not necessary, Father, but thanks.”
“Please, call me Brother Sebastian. I never underwent ordination for the priesthood. I’m a brother of the O.C.S.O., Order of Cistercians of the Stricter Observance.”
JC crinkled his brow. “I thought you said you guys were Trappers.”
Sebastian’s grin hurt his face. He’d once made the same mistake when he was JC’s age. “Trappist. It’s the same as Cistercian. A more reformed order, you might say. A group of Cistercians concluded that they’d become too worldly and sought more seclusion. The name Trappist is kind of a nickname. It comes from the small village of La Trappe in France, where the brothers had moved hundreds of years ago.”
A lull lingered between them for what seemed minutes. JC roved his eyes around the room, as if gauging an escape. Sebastian continued to smile to lessen the unease. He made sure to respect JC’s personal space by keeping his hands to himself, but he leaned toward him slightly to suggest a hint of authority.
“Can you think of any names other than ‘JC’?” he said in a soft tone. “A family member perhaps? A surname? Anyone’s face come to mind?”
“There is a name that keeps popping into my head lately, other than JC, but I don’t get why. I can’t put a clear face with it.”
“What name is that?”
“Manny.”
Prickly shockwaves traveled up Sebastian’s stiff arms. “Don’t worry over things too much,” he said, swallowing the sour taste left on his tongue. “Your memories will come back to you sooner than you think. Brother Jerome said so. And then we’ll be able to help you sort out why you’ve come to us.”
Brother Lucien broke their intimate chat. “I gathered I might find you here, Brother Sebastian. Father Paolo wishes to see you right away. He’s in conference with Brother Jerome and wishes for you to join them. Don’t worry. I’ll watch over our special guest.”
FATHER PAOLO sat at his large mahogany desk, drumming his broad fingertips on the polished top. The burgundy velour drapes were pulled shut, and the office wa
s dim. Pope Benedict XVI’s portrait hung above the abbot, while the fireplace, lit with small, lapping flames, snapped and hissed. Shadows danced over the ruby carpet. Brother Jerome sat across from the abbot in a Bergère chair, clutching the padded armrests. Sebastian stood by the threshold, waiting to be noticed—and yet hoping not to be. Neither man was speaking. They seemed trapped in a gully, unsure of which direction to carry their discussion. Father Paolo lifted his eyes to the doorway.
“Ah, Brother Sebastian. Please, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.” He gestured toward the chair beside Brother Jerome. “Shut the door and take a seat, will you.”
Once Sebastian situated himself in a chair identical to Brother Jerome’s, the abbot peered at him and said, “We’ve been discussing our unusual visitor, as you might have guessed. Brother Jerome agrees that in a day or two he might be well enough to move into one of the vacant cells. But he has misgivings. I wanted you to clear our standoff.”
“What’s that?” Sebastian asked, though not without hesitation.
“Brother Jerome still believes he should be transported to a hospital once the weather clears. He wishes to call for the forest service, or even a costly helicopter from the hospital in Telluride.”
Sebastian found himself white-knuckling the armrests. “Perhaps we should ask JC what he wishes.”
“Wise words, Brother Sebastian,” the abbot said.
Brother Jerome adjusted his glasses over his nose, careful as always not to raise his arms too high above his shoulders. “I suppose that makes the most sense. If he chooses to stay here and falls ill again, I can treat him the best I can.”
“Is there a chance he might?” Sebastian said. “I mean, fall ill?”
“Not really. I’ve given him a full physical. His youth and fitness will persevere, I’m certain. His feet and hands have almost fully healed.”
“What if he chooses to stay?” Sebastian asked. “We don’t know anything about him. He still can’t remember anything.”
Father Paolo glanced toward the fireplace, where smoking embers leaped and arched toward the hearth. Small flames reflected in his eyeglasses. “Do you think his memory loss is genuine?” he asked.
Sebastian mulled over his thoughts before responding. Innocent until proven guilty. That notion had been branded into his brain. “I… I suppose he’s being sincere.”
“I must admit, he seems to be on the up and up to me,” Brother Jerome said. “Memory loss really isn’t so unusual after one suffers from unconsciousness, especially at this altitude. He might’ve taken a hit on the head before we found him, although he has no visible signs of contusion. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to send him to the hospital, for tests to—”
“We’ve already settled that, Brother Jerome. We’ll ask if he wishes to remain. We can’t cast him out. It would go against the Rule. Besides, there’s no way off the mountain until the storms pass. You know how February is in the Rockies. It might be days, weeks. Has he mentioned anything about his religious convictions?”
“I’m around him most of the time, and I haven’t heard him utter one word about Our Lord. In fact,” Brother Jerome said with a scrunch of his nose, “he’s made a few downright disrespectful comments, if you ask me.”
“I’m sure he’s unaware of what he’s saying,” Father Paolo said. “He’s been ill. He’s clearly of Spanish heritage, is he not? He must’ve been raised Catholic. The Latinos are very devout, the last pious Catholics left in America, in my opinion. When I first came here in 1975, my parish was a quarter Latino even then. Today, across the United States, priests recite entire masses in Spanish.”
“He wasn’t wearing a crucifix when we found him,” Sebastian said. “He wasn’t wearing any jewelry at all, other than the heart-shaped diamond in his left ear. I suppose a crucifix might have fallen off in the snow.”
“And even if he wasn’t wearing one, that doesn’t disprove his devotion,” the abbot said. “My grandfather was devout to his bones, and he never wore a crucifix around his neck.”
“Even with a hampered memory, how could anyone forget his belief in God?” Brother Jerome mumbled.
Sebastian noticed the sweat beads appearing on the brother’s bald scalp. Holding his breath, Sebastian fixed his eyes on the ruby carpet. He could feel the burn of the abbot’s dark eyes studying him, and he squeezed the armrests harder. The ceaseless smell of juniper incense in the private office had never seemed more pungent.
“Why else would he have traveled here?” the abbot uttered finally. “His coming here through impassable weather and terrain, his devotion must be gigantic. Reminds me of the old women of Vila de Seda, where I grew up as a boy in Portugal. They would walk to church on their knees for miles uphill to prove their subservience to the Lord. Much like our JC has.”
“What if he’s an escaped convict, like Brother Rodel worried?”
Under his brow, Sebastian peered at Brother Jerome. He sighed, relieved on hearing the older brother murmur those words. Mounds of unanswered questions piled up around JC. His devotion—if he had any—could not have been the sole reason that had conducted him to the abbey’s grounds in the dead of winter. He had come to see them for a profound need. A need that might have stemmed from a strong, personal pledge. Sebastian sensed religious convictions had not been behind it.
“I’ve checked with the local prisons and police bulletins,” Father Paolo said. “There’s no news of escaped convicts or anything of that nature in the area.”
Sebastian stared straight into Father Paolo’s pale face. “No APBs?” he asked.
Firelight glinted in Father Paolo’s eyeglasses. He positioned his chin parallel with his desk and seemed to sneer at Sebastian. “All-points bulletins? No, Brother Sebastian, no authorities are looking for this man.”
His mouth dry, Sebastian said, “Maybe we can encourage him to remember more.”
“I know you’ve been sitting with him,” the father said. “I don’t mind you flooding him with questions, if he cares to speak. You don’t need to trick me. I’ll overlook your insubordination, considering the circumstances.”
Shame warmed Sebastian’s cheeks. He lowered his eyes to his lap. “Thank you, Father.”
“Well, has he opened up about anything?”
Sebastian shook his head. “He doesn’t remember a thing.” He almost mentioned JC’s recalling of the name “Manny,” but for some reason refrained from sharing the information with Brother Jerome and the abbot. What importance did it have for them at the moment, anyway?
Father Paolo took several deep breaths before going on. “We must care for him, then. If he chooses to remain once the blizzards pass, we’ll embrace him as our brother. The way Christ and St. Benedict prescribed.” He gazed toward the fire and grinned. “Perhaps Brother Giles was correct. Perhaps our guest will join our brotherhood and lay prostrate at my feet in the distant future and become a professed member of our community.”
The sizzling fireplace shrouded Sebastian with a veneer of hollowness. Through the drifting shadows of ambiguity, he sensed the standoff had ended. The father had won. His word always triumphed, despite Sebastian’s and Brother Jerome’s wishes to notify the proper authorities.
“If you learn who he is,” the abbot said, pressing his palms on the polished desktop and standing, “please keep me posted before you tell the others. Not that his past matters, but for the sake of his family, anyone who might be missing him, if his memory recovers we should notify the proper people, and we certainly do not wish to alarm anyone.”
“Yes, Father,” the men said in unison, standing to take their leave. “Whatever you wish.”
Chapter Five
AS SOON as Brothers Sebastian and Jerome left his private office, Father Paolo stretched across his Victorian desk chair, allowing the skirt of his tunic to spread over the burgundy leather. The wool fabric chafed his skin, but he enjoyed the flow of the skirt around his shins, especially when he sat. A few minutes later Lucien entered, locked the
door, and took his place by the father’s feet. How nice that Lucien kneeled before him, as he often did after the passing of another stressful morning.
The fireplace reflected off Lucien’s white skin. Even in the scant light, Father Paolo detected the age lines and sagging skin of his beloved Lucien. He no longer found him physically attractive—and he certainly no longer regarded him as a challenge—but he relished the worshipping, the adoration. The obedience.
Father Paolo had no doubts about his minion’s loyalty to him. Lucien would die for him—perhaps even more. Like the Belém soldiers who guarded Portugal’s Presidential Palace, Lucien, his obedient servant, catered to his every need, his every wish.
And that he had an Englishman, one plucked from upscale roots, at his beck and call made his worship all the more pleasing. Lucien’s obedience would impress his long deceased grandfather, a man who’d clung to the fantasy of Portugal’s long-lost colonial power while Britain’s continued without end. The Iberian explorers had even beaten Britain to the New World, clutching onto Brazil when Captain John Smith was nothing but a daydream for a small Lincolnshire farm girl yearning for marriage and children. Portugal was the first to establish the spice trade to India, before the British had seized its spoils for the Crown.
His grandfather had sympathized with the Nazis, and Father Paolo shouldn’t care about what he might think. But then almost every one of his grandfather’s cronies had supported the Nazis in spirit, if not in deed. And there was something grandiose about it all—the idea of the European continent expanding. The glory of colonization. Powerful and seductive. Spreading civilization and glittering empires.
Yes, those days of colonial rule had long dissipated. But no harm came from luxuriating in the splendor of the far-off past, all while spreading one’s arms wide for the unforeseen spectacular future and the wondrous present.
Here he was, abbot of a monastery in the New World itself—America.
It was all his, bequeathed to the Church by Mrs. Kalil Dalakis, a laywoman wanting to atone for her late husband, the maligned publisher of three newspapers who’d lost his mind during the long, isolated winters, and was alleged to have practiced Satanism. She had donated the land to the Catholic Church upon her death in 1957. Her reparation was to gift the land and all the buildings on it, including the two-thousand-square-foot cottage situated behind the abbey, which they used as a lodge for paying guests in summer. She had but one stipulation—that the Church use the land to build a Trappist monastery. Apparently, one of Mrs. Dalakis’s ancestors had been a Trappist in Champagne, beheaded along with his fellow monks during the apex of the French Revolution.
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