saint Sebastian the Rose

by Glover, Michael W.

  For everyone in the Monastery of the Word, only a few words could suffice: quiet, solemn, and empty. That one day finally passed, and much to everyone’s surprise, another came. Most did not wish it to come and would have been satisfied if it had been the last. The foolish desires of broken hearts and shattered wills do not decide what fate is to come. That is something that will never be understood.

  Most kept to themselves while a few came together for mutual support, even if nothing would be said. Even Father Donovan, who was normally the caretaker of morale, did not venture out of his office. He sat and wrote sporadically, trying to find some direction in the old habits. He pondered that day and how very strange it was; he remembered right after it happened, there was not the usual response of action and nobody really tried to man a rescue. All hope escaped them with the closing of that stone. They knew that hope had left with their friend, dragged down into the darkness and taken as far away from them as possible. They could not reach for that hope; it was too far away.

  Father Donovan sat in his chair staring blankly into the room. He looked at nothing, but his eyes saw everything: they saw it over and over, replaying the most tragic hour of his life. The hour his best friend had been taken from him, and he was too old and helpless to do anything about it. He had often thought that he had lived through his toughest hours long ago. He slept peacefully with the notion that it was all downhill from here. How silly he had been on many counts: that was not his toughest hour, it was his toughest minute. That’s how long it lasted—one minute, a vampire minute, as he had discovered in the old folklore in Sebastian’s room. How could one minute be so bad? Like a mustard seed so small that blooms into a massive tree, it was one minute that trumped a lifetime. He shook his thoughts from his head and went back to scribbling.

  ***

  Father Lemoine wandered the castle like a trapped soul in one of his stories, one that was stuck and couldn’t escape. He wondered if anyone could see him, or if he could see anyone else because he simply didn’t see anyone, or at least was unaware of their presence. He finally settled in the room that called to him every day now, even three weeks out—the study. This was a special room for him; the stories he told with Sebastian would never be the same. He looked up and saw the mantlepiece before him. He would never tell those stories again, he decided. That was it.

  Without even realizing he had carried something with him this day he looked at his left hand to see what he had—a slim sword of magnificent but simple design, a rapier—Sebastian’s rapier. He examined it closely, reading the familiar inscription down the blade of its owner: Sebastian. That inscription had been there as long as he had known Sebastian, but now he felt it was incomplete. In a not-so-perfect fashion he had added something, something appropriate. Now the blade spoke more clearly of its owner, he thought. Father Lemoine had completed, he thought, what was more appropriate—the blade now read saint Sebastian.

  Even though Father Lemoine was considered the weapons master of the castle he could only recall who had taught him everything he knew—his teacher, the one who didn’t appear as he should, the old soul trapped in the body of a waif.

  The sword felt comfortable in his hand, and he longed to bring the blade to bear and take the thing through its paces, but he could not; it was too connected to its owner, and it also mourned. Father Lemoine supposed that is why he brought it here, to the study, to reside with everything else that had history, that had … a past. There was no other place the rapier should be; it now was at home with all the others. If it stayed in the armory, the very walls would crumble from the reverberations that emanated from its soul. Too strong it was; only in the presence of other great relics could it find peace. Peace with others who have seen too much.

  Father Lemoine walked over to the wooden stand that stood next to one of the walls. The stand held a book—a book with its own story. He leaned the rapier on its tip in the round curve of the base of the stand and rested the hilt on the column. The sword sat there as if it had always been there, in a place made for it. The place was not one of honor; no place in here bore that title. It was just a place. That was the beauty of the room: everything came together, and it wasn’t until someone picked an item that the thing came to life. He understood this; that’s why he loved this room. Father Lemoine walked away from the rapier and hoped he would never look upon the thing again. That story for him was a personal one and one he wouldn’t share with anyone. He found a chair and sat, there in the room, him and his stories.

  ***

  Jacob didn’t seem to have a place; he wandered from here to there, restless. His time was split between the library and the armory, as he only sat in his father’s chair, searching those places that had meaning for him. He sat on the stairs waiting for that hole to open and take him in. He sat in the armory and the study when Father Lemoine was not in there, but mostly he stood outside on the roof of the Lonely Tower, trying to recapture those moments with Jessica and Sebastian when he felt so alive. The three of them—the triangle they formed had an energy that passed between them like a live current.

  This is where he was now, standing in the open air with the wind hitting him in the face. It’s a strange relationship people have with the wind, a very personal one. They embrace one another like with family or a loved one, not a stranger. Everyone shows themselves to the wind; their very soul is shown as the wind brushes and envelops the soul … and wipes away the tears when no one else is around.

  Jacob opened his eyes again and through their watery perspective he saw the future once more. He looked out from the tower over the grounds and to the trees that marked the perimeter, and he saw it. He saw the future: the wind was blowing through the trees, and he saw the leaves as they fell to the ground. Nearly a year had passed; fall was here, and he could feel the coming winter. The wind told him that. They came here in the winter; the snow had greeted them and had marked this place in white, greatly distinguishing it from the dark of the woods. This place became dark, and he wondered if the white snow would purify anything or would it just be a false covering?

  His thoughts migrated from everything he wanted to do and what he needed to do. There was still much unsettled in his mind and he was not done, not by a long shot.

  ***

  In the bowels of the monastery where she spent much of her time, Jessica kept the fire going almost continuously. The room was kept the same, with books strewn about the messy desk like some mad student was doing a term paper at the last minute. She coveted this room like hidden treasure, but she did not keep it to herself. Anyone who wanted to come in could, and they could spend their time here, alone if they wanted, or not. But the other room, the one behind the beautiful door, was still out of bounds; no one ventured into that room save for a few, who only did so rarely.

  Jessica and Father Donovan both did on a couple of occasions but no one else. Jessica found herself in there once when her curiosity got the better of her. She wandered around the room disturbing nothing, trying to find Sebastian in everything she saw … and he was there. The room was simple but complicated at the same time, much like Sebastian. It was one of the things she loved about him, and it brought about a rare event, a smile.

  She had taken a mental inventory of the room and its contents; there wouldn’t be anything she didn’t know about the room now. One of the things in the room that inevitably captured her attention was the lone bookcase against the left wall, standing sentry over everything else. If Sebastian’s library was private, this was almost a secret, hiding in his room. Once again the mix of simple and complicated struck her as she examined the thing—modest but beautiful wood from its base to its sides, until you came to the top, and simplicity fell by the wayside. Smooth wood reached higher, and slowly the small curving lines of carving began, like a single note drawn out by an accomplished violinist until it blended with others, creating a symphony of sound that was never heard by the ears, but only with the eyes. Those who cannot read music would never truly apprecia
te what they saw, but those who understand the language of lines could see what was written there; so sublime, so simple but so beautiful, a lone rose stood out, giving the song fulfillment. The books contained within were precious beyond imagination, not only because of their beauty and rareness, but because they were the personal selection of a studied mind.

  The time clicked in Jessica’s mind as she browsed the selection of work before her. Even though this place was special, one she held dearer than any other was calling to her. She left the room without a glance and walked, zombie-like, as she made her way through the now very familiar corridors—no maps needed, no confusing passageways with cryptic markings. This was now home. She blinked many times as she made her way across the floor of the Grand Staircase Hall, her eyes never leaving the stone that would not move, until she passed. Before she exited she prayed for the sound that once had made her skin crawl, the sound that had ushered in her half-existence. She almost begged internally for the sound to come and take her; that future might be better than the one she was living in now. She exited once again, just like the day before … and nothing.

  She was close, and even in her standard melancholy mood she felt the excitement rise in her slightly; this always happened right about that time. Jessica both cursed the feeling and welcomed it at the same time. Was hope still in her or was she just reliving the past she could not let go of? This little feeling kept her coming back day after day, night after night, and she couldn’t get enough of it. She felt her soul was damned. Hell must be similar to this because of the torture she put herself through; was it Hell if she conjured it herself? Yes, you make your own Hell. You make it so you never forget the pain, and the pain makes you appreciate the rare good things that come along.

  Jessica didn’t hesitate as she pulled the door open and stepped out with as much authority as she could. The courtyard opened up like it had the day or night before; this morning that was barely waking scarcely revealed its contents. Jessica was not concerned with most of the courtyard. Her focus rested on one thing—the bench. Situated in the middle of the courtyard and surrounded by lush grass, the stone seat was empty. The dim light of the dawn showed her that much; she didn’t really expect to find it any other way … but she could always hope.

  The sun rose, and she sat in her spot, leaving just enough room for someone else. This was her spot that she loved; she told no one of its significance. But some knew, and they let her keep it special. Jessica’s mind drifted back to that moment, the moment that had been the only one in her lifetime that stood out from the rest in a good way—when she had first looked around and saw someone sitting there, and something happened. She didn’t know what it was, and most will not understand even when you explain it. Some people are luckier than most; for many, this moment never happens. If you did try to articulate it they would laugh and say the delusions of the mind are powerful, and the dim-witted are easily tricked. Their response is typical and easily understood by those who only express love as a word. The meeting of two souls is like two worlds colliding and the consequences are cataclysmic events. You will feel like the wisest of all when someone asks you, “How do you know when you have met the one?” and you respond, “You just know.”

  ***

  The sun rose in the sky, and Jessica strayed not from her spot, preferring to linger in her thoughts and to take advantage of the last of the warm weather. She was also focused on her new project; she was engrossed in the sketchpad as she eagerly moved her pencil back and forth, trying to understand the form and make the connection with the pencil. She looked at the inner wall of the monastery and moved her eyes over the façade. The wall held her attention, and her eyes broadened as she traced the stones and the windows over and over. All of a sudden, the wall became something different, and she didn’t need to look to her pad but felt the lines form. A shadow formed behind her and a voice came with it.

  “What do you see?”

  Jessica looked around to the silhouetted figure she couldn’t make out except for the voice; the raspy sound that came forth could only be Father Donovan. He moved to the side and looked at the empty space on the bench. Jessica nodded for him to sit. She looked back at the wall of the monastery and said, “You can’t tell someone what you see. It’s just there. If they want to really know, then they have to really look and maybe then, they too will see.” Jessica turned back to Father Donovan and looked him dead in the eyes. “A good friend taught me that.”

  “I had a friend teach me that a long time ago. It’s a good lesson.” Father Donovan looked around, taking in the peace the courtyard offered. Only time would heal everyone; he knew this because he had passed more time than anyone there. They were beginning to heal; everyone had spent their time the way they needed to, some spending more alone than others, but all had come back slowly and their family was now reuniting.

  “I wonder why we stay,” Jessica said. “They could come back at any time, right from underneath us.”

  “Yes, they could, and we would be hard-pressed to stop them. I actually don’t think we could now. But I do not believe that is what they want, at least not right now. I believe they got what they were after when all is said and done,” Father Donovan said. Jessica puzzled over his response. Could that be the simple truth of it all?

  “Do you really think they came just for Sebastian?”

  Father Donovan screwed up his face and delved deeper into the thoughts that had been brewing since that day.

  “I do not pretend to know what they want. It is a tricky thing to try to understand a vampire. They do not think like we do, and their perception of time is something we will never understand.”

  Their dialogue was interrupted for a moment when they were joined by Jacob, who sat down in the grass in front of the bench. He didn’t say anything; he just wanted to be in on the conversation. Jessica went right back to the questions.

  “So you think they will be back?”

  “I dare not to hope for that day, but one thing is for certain: their plans extend far past our vision and understanding,” their old friend explained. Jacob listened to the foreboding warning and felt it necessary to express his feelings.

  “Myself, I can’t wait for that day,” Jacob’s demeanor had darkened just with the speaking of that line. Father Donovan took this as a bad sign and wanted to head off the brash youngster as much as he could.

  “Do not wish that fate upon yourself or those that you love. Sebastian would not want that, and he did everything he could to prevent it. Don’t throw away his sacrifice for revenge; he wouldn’t want that.”

  Jacob and Jessica felt the reprimand for what it was, and a twinge of shame came over them. They knew the only reason they were sitting in the light of the day was because of Sebastian. Still, they both had strong feelings that conflicted in so many ways. Father Donovan didn’t want to be too harsh with them; they had suffered much, so he decided to change the subject.

  “I believe Father Dagrun has been working especially hard to make a very wonderful meal. He has even recruited two of his favorite workers to assist him. Maybe Father Jacques and Father Andrew have been able to keep the kitchen to their master’s specifications?” Father Donovan said.

  Jacob smiled and chimed in. “I am not sure who you are trying to torture by putting the two in there, them or Father Dagrun.”

  Father Donovan nodded and began to walk away, waving his hand in the air at something.

  “I do not know of what you speak.”

  The twins got a good laugh from the monk’s sarcasm, making it ever so clear that he was completely delighted with the idea. They smiled at the odd family they had been adopted into and wondered what would be next.

  Jacob looked at his twin sister and thought he saw something different as she looked at the wall she was sketching. Jessica felt the penetrating stare and looked at her brother; the silent communication had returned with a vengeance. He knew something was different, and she knew he knew, but that would be the end of it fo
r now. Jacob stood up and looked around and then up to the sky where the sun was making its trek down to the horizon. The day was passing, and he wanted his sister to come with him, but he knew she wouldn’t, not yet.

  “Staying here won’t make him come back.”

  Jessica shot a look at him. She wasn’t hurt or sad, just dazed at the honesty in her brother’s voice, and that hit her hope hard. Her throat became dry and started to clench, and she had to force her words out.

  “But if he does, he’ll know where to find me,” Jessica said, as much to herself as to him. Jacob knew this was an uphill battle and one he was not prepared to fight; his sister was dug in and prepared for a siege, one he knew he could not win.

  “Are you coming in then, for dinner?” he asked. Jessica looked around and decided.

  “I am going to stay here for a while, see the sunset, you know. Then I’ll decide.”

  Jacob couldn’t force her and he was getting too hungry to wait; he would try his best to raid the kitchen before dinner. After he’d satisfied his never-ending hunger he would search for her in the typical places.

  Jessica watched him disappear into the monastery and went back to her sketching. She had realized something new sitting on the bench, something she couldn’t describe. Maybe it was some semblance of peace or even acceptance. That thought flashed across her mind and she suddenly hated herself. How could she accept? How could she give up? If she gave up what would she have? Her soul felt empty like on that day. She looked around again, to the fading light, to the bench … their place. How could she give up hope sitting there on their bench … his bench?

  Her eyes widened with the questions challenging her. She toughened herself and found something inside sparking a dormant reflection. No, she would not do that here; she would die first. The bench was a sacred place for her, and it had once been a favorite spot for Sebastian, but she knew this was not the only spot he haunted. Everything in this world had a twin or an alternate side, a mirrored duplicate or a darker half. This bench was always there for Sebastian in the edges of the day, and here he always occupied it at those times, but at night he sat in the dark, in a different area, on a different bench.