It is empty as I look inside. But as I raise it to my lips the bowl is suddenly filled with crimson liquid. I take it into my mouth and taste the heavy sweetness-of life, of hope, of the everlasting joy of serving the Eternal One. With each remembrance, I drink again from the Holy Chalice and my vow, like the quickening liquid it contains, is renewed.
To remember, for me, is to enter again the vision I was granted on that night. 'Not everyone sees a vision,' Zaccaria told me then. 'And not everyone who sees a vision sees the same thing. You have been richly blessed, brother.'
True enough, but as it is written: from those to whom much has been given, much shall be required. My joy comes at a price which none but those who have likewise borne that heavy cost can ever know.
Caitriona knew. Pemberton also.
That night, as I took the sweet, life-changing liquid into my mouth and felt the holy fire spread through my dull limbs, the cavernous room, altar, and men who presided over the sacrament-everything! – vanished. I raised my eyes from the cup to see that I was kneeling before a man dressed in the robes of a simple priest-a young man, his hair dark and curly, his beard a thick black mass of tight curls through which his quick smile broke like a flash of light from a cloud-troubled sky. 'Greetings, friend,' he said, 'I have been waiting for you.'
'Brother Andrew.' I had no need to ask-knowing it was he. 'How may I serve you, lord?'
'I am not a lord that you should kneel to me.' He reached down, took my elbow. 'Does one servant kneel to another? Stand on your feet, brother, and let us speak to one another as servants together of the Great King.'
He took my hand and turned it over, exposing the wrist. And there, imprinted on my flesh, was the livid red wound-like stigma: the Mark of the Rose. The other wrist bore the sign, too, and I gazed upon the blood-red marks in wonder.
'As you have been chosen,' Brother Andrew said, 'so you must choose.'
I plucked up my courage to reply, but before I could speak he raised a hand in warning, saying, 'But I would not have you choose in ignorance. For you must know that to be a guardian is both blessing and burden, and I would have you count the cost.'
'Tell me, then.'
'Any who take up the service of the cup will extend their lives in the world – far beyond the age reached by other men and women of mortal birth. You will neither age, nor experience frailty, infirmity, or decrepitude. Your allotted span will be measured in scores, not years, and you will grow great in wisdom.'
‘I was just thinking that the burden did not seem overwhelming, when he said, 'Know also that you will live to see your friends grow old and die, your children, too, and their children after them. Not only this, you will watch many whom you would befriend drown beneath the tides of illness, insanity, and evil which sweep restlessly over the world. You will see dear friends suffer and succumb; you will see good men stumble and fall by the wayside through weakness, and your heart will break-not once, but a thousand times.'
I looked upon the wound-like marks on my wrists, and at last began to understand what it meant to be a guardian and what was being asked of me. Could I shoulder such a burden, I wondered, could I watch those I loved fall one by one into the sleep of death? Could I stand aside and watch the sufferings of the world, and not yield to the crushing pain?
'It is a hard thing you ask of me,' I told him.
'It is a hard thing, yes,' he agreed. 'As it is written: many are called, but few are chosen. But if it helps to make the choice any easier, hear me when I say there will be no more guardians after you, my friend. You will be the last. You will live to see the glory of the Great King acknowledged throughout the world when the treasure so faithfully preserved by the Cele De is at last revealed. In you, the long obedience of these loyal Servants of Christ will be rewarded, and it will be the glory of the ages.'
It was then I realized what Pemberton had been trying to tell me. The pain is swallowed in peace, and grief in glory.
He had been a guardian. He had known the pain and grief that now stood before me, and he wanted me to know that it would be all right. That, in the end, the pain of my guardianship would be redeemed, any grief I suffered would be swallowed in the glory to come. Ultimately, the blessing would be far greater than the burden.
'The time has come to decide, brother,' said the White Priest. 'What will you choose?'
'It is an honour to be chosen,' I replied. 'And I will do my best to prove myself worthy. Yes, I will serve.'
Brother Andrew smiled and offered me a blessing. He then told me of the trials to come, and how I must prepare myself to meet them. We talked of this, and of other things before he went away and I awoke from the vision with the burning certainty that the course before me had been established long, long ago.
I was the last in a line that stretched back to a young man in the Orkney Isles – to Murdo, who was not willing to stand by and see his birthright stolen. Foolish, reckless, headstrong, and impetuous, Murdo, and Duncan, and Caitriona in their turn, remained true to the vision they were granted, to make of their place in the world a haven 'far, far from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving'. Together they made a place where the most precious and sacred objects under Heaven could reside undisturbed until the day of their unveiling, when the world should again see, and remember, and believe.
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