Garden of Salt and Stone

by A. L. Burgess Jr.

  Edda shook her head and opened the door. With a firm hand, she pushed Peter over the threshold and closed it behind him. She flipped the store’s aperto sign over to chiuso, which meant closed. Muffled by the glass of the door, she gave her advice, “Destroy it. Burn it, Peter, rid yourself of its evil. Never tell anyone you have it. You’re in great danger while you carry that book.” Visibly distressed and wringing her hands, Edda turned away and hurried into the bowels of her store.

  Peter stood on the stoop for a long moment and contemplated the shopkeeper’s words. There was no way he was going to do anything she mentioned. The book was far too old and valuable to throw it away like some common piece of garbage. All that nonsense about the manuscript being evil was just that: nonsense. Peter scoffed. There was nothing to be afraid of. The book was a real, factual item created by the hands of humans and not by some imaginary demons.

  Peter brushed off the rude and very awkward encounter and stashed the book back into his daypack. At the very least, he had planned his day thinking Edda would be more open to discussing the old manuscript and its origins. He would have been able to get answers and feel confident in its story enough to satisfy his curiosity. However, it seemed the fates conspired against him, leaving Peter grasping at innuendos and misconceptions.

  Peter pointed himself toward the center of old San Cielo. It would be cathartic to visit the ruins of the church where he had stumbled the day before, and it was a good place to pick up further clues as to the mysterious book’s alleged author.

  After weaving through various groups of tourists, Peter found himself standing in the same spot as the day before—directly across from the remains of the ancient house of worship. The dilapidated old ruin had not changed in his mind. The grounds of the church were overgrown, the building’s roof sat open to the elements, and the heavy, oaken entry doors were unhinged and rotting away. The crumbling façade, complete with broken stained-glass windows, gave the old church all the hallmarks of being the creepiest place to visit on a late-night dare.

  From his vantage, Peter could discern nothing out of the ordinary. The outer walls contained a few chiseled reliefs that appeared interesting, and the wooden doors contained intricate carvings, but nothing really stood out as being definitive enough to cause an illusion.

  Unsatisfied, Peter waited for a break in traffic and sprinted across the road. His senses rang as he came near the spot where he had passed out, but Peter fought through the sensation and was otherwise fine. When he reached the sidewalk in front of the old building, he was stopped from going further by the warning barricades placed to keep tourists and curious onlookers, such as himself, from entering the dangerous grounds. The ancient ruin looked safe enough to him, and after doing a thorough scan of the area for police, Peter stepped past the barricades and entered the property.

  The grass and weeds were higher in some places than Peter was tall. He pushed his way through until he found himself on the stone steps leading to the unhinged doors. They were chained shut, but the skewed doors stood enough ajar for Peter to get a partially obstructed view of the inside of the church. He could see what was left of the entry vestibule, but nothing else.

  Peter backed away from the front of the church and moved around to the side of the ancient building. The broken stained-glass windows were set high off the ground, but in one place, a piece of wall had fallen and provided the perfect step to see into the main nave area of the house of worship.

  Peter peered in. Heavy roof beams and broken slate tiles littered the floor. The debris was lumped together with the remains of shattered, wooden pews in the center of the room. He noticed pieces of broken candlesticks mixed in with the rubble. They must not have been valuable to looters as the corrosive patina they carried gave away their cheap bronze metal. No altar or effigies were present anywhere in the old church. From the look of it, the building was deconsecrated long ago and picked clean.

  Peter was disappointed. The interior offered him no new insights over that of the exterior. He maneuvered himself to jump down from his perch but stopped when the distinct sound of breaking glass came from inside the church. He studied the far wall and the small shards of stained glass that remained in the window casings. In one corner of the opening, nearest to where the altar would have stood, was a face. It took Peter a moment for his brain to assimilate the information. It was not an illusion or a trick of light but the face of a little boy—and the child blinked. Peter recognized him as the same young man from the previous day’s encounter. Peter’s anger flashed. He was nearly killed trying to save the little beggar from passing cars and now the boy was mocking him as if nothing had ever happened.

  Peter stumbled off the makeshift perch. “Stay right there—don’t move! I want to talk to you!” he yelled, before setting off through the tall grass and weeds to circumnavigate the ruin. The towering flora gave way to smaller weeds as he traversed from the soft soil at the front of the church to the hardpan scrabble that made up the rear grounds. He rounded the corner in time to see the small boy scamper up and over the mud-brick enclosure wall.

  Peter did not slow his pursuit. His only chance to catch up to the beggar child was to use his greater stride length to its full advantage. He reached the wall and jumped into the air, planting a sneaker halfway up its six feet of vertical height. He then used his considerable momentum to pull himself over the top. It was then that Peter realized the ground on the other side sloped down steeply. The topography behind the church enclosure was significantly lower in elevation than at the building’s front. He fell headlong down the scrubby hill, barely missing the trunk of a large oak tree. Bruised but not badly hurt, Peter fumbled around for his glasses that had come off during the tumble.

  San Cielo had been constructed in various stages over the years. The church and kitschy shops of the original village were significantly older than the bulk of the contemporary city. Across the street from where Peter lay was the modern-day San Cielo. Most of the town’s influence came from the early- to middle-twentieth century. Familiar, symmetrical street blocks delineated the city’s boundaries. Paved roads and the use of manufactured materials in the building process spoke to architecture reminiscent of the 1930s. San Cielo must have seen a revival period during that time as the newer town bore a definite art deco flavor. A few cars were parked along the streets, but it was mostly quiet and devoid of tourists. This portion of San Cielo was the everyday center of working and shopping for the locals.

  The little boy stood on the street corner diagonally opposite to where Peter came to rest. The child was grinning ear-to-ear with his eyes fixed on the disheveled man.

  Peter rose to his feet, adjusted his glasses, and dusted off his clothes. He gestured to the boy. “Now stay there, okay? I just want to talk—that’s all.”

  The young man cocked his head to the side and smiled as if trying to understand the tourist. He opened his mouth and said something, but the words were too faint for Peter to hear. The little boy ran up the block and looked back to see if the man was following him.

  Peter gave chase. He sprinted across the street and made an effort to catch the child at mid-block, but the young boy was too fast, reaching the far corner before Peter could gain the sidewalk.

  The little boy stopped and turned to taunt the much older man with laughs and gestures designed to bring shame to the pursuer’s obvious lack of athletic prowess.

  Winded, Peter moved slowly up the sidewalk in an attempt to close the distance between them covertly. “You run really fast, kid, you know?” he chided, breathing heavily. Peter inched closer and held out his hands as if to signify he had no weapons and intended no harm. “I only want to talk.” The nearer he got to the young man, the more ill Peter felt. A ringing rose to fill his ears and his vision closed in around him. Peter’s head ached and he went flush with a cold sweat as it pushed its way onto every surface of his body. His balance waivered and he found it increasingly difficult to move forward.

  The little boy
held his ground and watched with interest as the older man began to feel the full effects of his incapacitation. As Peter staggered his way closer, the child calmly spoke a few words that were inaudible and darted around the corner, out of sight.

  Fighting his disorientation, Peter pushed himself forward in a final effort to catch the beggar, but a loud CRACK echoing through the narrow confines of the downtown street stopped him. From above, a large piece of cornice molding broke free and fell toward Peter. He lurched out of the way, tumbling into a heap on the concrete sidewalk and narrowly escaping the wrath of the granite façade. He rolled onto his back and waited for his head to clear. After a few moments, the ringing subsided and Peter’s vision returned to normal. He raised his head and adjusted his glasses. The side street was empty and the boy was gone. “That little bastard.”

  Peter examined the fallen cornice. Hewn upon the granite were a number of carved-relief cherubs. Grouped together at what was once the exact corner of the building, the cherubs, with their chubby checks and mischievous smiles, stared lifelessly back at Peter as if mocking him. He smacked the playful cherubs’ faces with his hand and used them as an advantage point to get to his feet.

  The buildings along the side street were two-story. The lower portion of the structures once contained shops and small businesses that overlooked the road through large windows. Most were empty, and by the looks of it, they had been for some time. Above the shops sat residences. Some of the properties had signs of habitation and appeared to be active homes, but most, like the shops, sat in disrepair. Directly across the street from Peter was one of the few open stores. The proprietor of the business stood in the window and studied Peter as if to confirm the tourist had not been injured.

  Peter was immediately taken by the woman gazing back at him. Her burgundy hair was short and angled forward in an a-line bob that further pronounced her sharp facial features. The woman’s large violet eyes stood out above her aquiline nose and curt small mouth. She wore a tight, off-white pencil skirt and a deep red blouse that hugged her slim and athletic curves. Jet-black, kitten heel pumps made her appear taller than she actually was and rounded out her serious, business-type look. The woman was quite fetching and oozed confidence.

  The woman pointed at Peter and said something through the storefront glass he could not quite make out. She said it again, but all he could do was shake his head. Visibly irritated at the communication difficulties, the woman walked around to the front door and opened it. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

  The first thing Peter noticed was her clean and crystal-clear command of the English language. She had an upward lilt to her voice that made it positively bewitching to listen to. The other thing that stood out to Peter was her sincere and seemingly heartfelt concern for a total stranger. Most individuals would not have given him a second look once they realized he was unharmed. She not only took the time to check on him but was clearly distressed as well.

  When there was no response, she queried again, “That old building has been crumbling for years. It’s a wonder it hasn’t killed anyone.” When there was no response, she followed with, “You hit your head pretty hard, I see?”

  “Huh?” Peter came to his senses. “I’m—” he started, and then visually checked for injuries, “I’m okay—I think.”

  The woman smiled. “You don’t look so good. Would you like to come in and sit down—have something to drink?”

  Peter hesitated, wondering what his wife would think of the offer. A beautiful woman was asking him to share a drink, and he felt suddenly guilty, as if accepting the shopkeeper’s charity would somehow endanger his relationship with his wife. It was a silly thing to think about. Renée would not find out, nor did she need to know on a voluntary basis. He was simply accepting an offer of kindness. Nonetheless, Peter was apprehensive. “Yes—please.”

  Peter crossed the street and introduced himself, holding out a friendly, but professional hand to shake. “I’m Peter.”

  The woman stood in the doorway and shook Peter’s hand delicately. “Kea. Very nice to meet you, please come in.”

  Peter followed Kea into the store, the shopkeeper’s bell ringing as the door closed behind them. His anxiety quickly left him when he detected the odor of stale and musty books. Peter scanned the small shop. Shelves, crammed full of books, covered the walls. Freestanding racks overflowing with manuscripts occupied the center floor space with even more books and periodicals stuffed into the corners.

  Kea gestured to tables and chairs next to the front windows. “Please sit down. I’ll get you something to drink,” she said and disappeared up a flight of wooden stairs at the rear of the store.

  Peter unslung his daypack and took a seat. His eyes perused the nearby racks for interesting manuscripts. He was struck by how old the books were. Most were centuries old. Some were known collector’s items, while others were only rumored to be in existence. Peter grabbed one of the manuscripts off a nearby shelf and thumbed through it.

  “I see you appreciate old books,” Kea remarked, carrying a silver tray with a tall bottle and two glasses.

  “This is incredible,” Peter replied, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “It’s a first edition Don Quixote.”

  Kea nodded and set the tray down on the table.

  “There,” Peter said, pointing to the bookshelf nearest him. “I see a Filostrato. And there,” he said, gesturing to the top of a nearby pile, “that’s a De remediis.”

  “Yes,” Kea replied, taking a seat across from Peter. “I’ve collected many books over the years.”

  “They’re in pristine condition. What do you do with them?”

  Kea nodded and poured Peter a glass of mineral water. “I buy them, I sell them—sometimes I’ll barter if there’s something I want.”

  “It must be fate or something,” Peter said, rummaging through his daypack and producing the old manuscript. “Can you tell me about this book?”

  Kea’s character changed visibly at the sight of the old tome, but after a few moments, her polite demeanor returned. “I’d love to,” she replied and took the book from Peter. She flipped the manuscript over and inspected the binding. Kea caressed the heavy leather covers and examined the coarse stitching. She thumbed through the thick parchment while scrutinizing the handwritten text. Once Kea was confident of her analysis, she said, “The monk Nicholas wrote this book.”

  “Impressive,” Peter replied. “How did you know?”

  “It’s impossible to escape the story of the monk Nicholas.” Kea smiled. “This is San Cielo, of course.”

  Peter nodded at his own ignorance. “Yes—I’m sorry. What can you tell me about him and this book?”

  Kea handed the manuscript back to Peter and cocked an eyebrow. “What do you want to know?” She filled her glass with mineral water and took a small sip. “He had a very dark and troubled past.”

  “I would appreciate anything you could tell me.”

  Gracefully, Kea rose out of her chair and walked the few feet to a shelf of books. She sifted through several old volumes before pulling out the largest of the group. Kea brought the book back to the table and opened it to an illumination within the text.

  Peter scrutinized the illuminated manuscript. The painted picture was that of a stately monk, wearing robes and holding a cross. Above the figure’s tonsure-cut hair was the familiar aura-like halo that adorned many religious images of the period. Peter was struck by how similar the image looked to that of the man who had given him the book in the basement of Edda’s antique store. For fear of sounding insane, he did not mention it to Kea, but the resemblance was unsettling. Along the bottom of the illumination, hand scrawled and barely visible amongst the border filigree, was some Latin text. Peter read aloud, “Brother Nicholas.”

  “It’s refreshing to see someone appreciate the fine art of Latin as much as I do,” Kea praised. “Did you learn in school?”

  “I teach history,” Peter answered meekly. “Archaeology is my main p
assion, but I never liked digging very much.”

  “A professor?” Kea said. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  Peter was embarrassed, but kept quiet so as not to confirm his lower echelon standing in his vocation as a junior college professor. Though technically speaking, Kea was correct; his current position was a faculty professorship.

  Kea was calm and spoke evenly, “Nicholas was taken in as a child and lived at the San Pietro monastery for many years.” She gestured off to a distant part of the country. “It’s on the other side of Rome.” She paused and took a small drink from her glass. “Nicholas lived a peaceful life. He studied, worked, and prayed. By all accounts, he had proven himself worthy to the brotherhood.” Kea took Peter’s manuscript and opened it atop the illuminated book. “One night, he was caught by the other monks chanting and crying—writing in this book.”

  “Chanting?” Peter asked. “Worshipping the Devil?”

  Kea shook her head. “Not according to Nicholas, but the monks jailed him and held an inquisition. Nicholas told a strange tale of visitations by angels who instructed him to write this book. It was nearly finished when he was discovered.”

  “They would have considered it heresy.”

  “Yes,” Kea replied, “and they ordered him to burn at the stake for his sins.” She held up Peter’s old manuscript. “His work was to be destroyed with him to purify it from this world.”

  Peter flipped to the end of the book. The Latin text ended nicely on the last row of the last page. “But the book is complete and he lived—how could that be?”

  “The night before his execution, he was freed by a few of his sympathetic brothers.” Kea smiled. “They believed Nicholas was telling the truth and burning him at the stake would go against God’s wishes, so they let him go.”

  “And he came here?”

  “He needed to escape and money to live,” Kea replied. “San Cielo was on the pilgrim trail to the Holy Land. He wrote prayer books and sold them to passing soldiers.”