Introduction
To briefly explain the time period, this story takes place in Europe during the mid-1500s to the mid-1600s, during the throes of the Reformation, as well as consequential invasions by the Ottomans.
This is not a biography. The characters are not historically accurate, even if they share similarities with real historical people. But my hope is that the story shows a time when western civilization faced potential extinction internally and externally.
I
The war is endless. The sprawling corpses rotting in the once unified country are now soaked in blood. Despair ravages the minds of our people. Inept, or unprincipled, leadership cannot win the day or convince the hearts of our brethren to change course. Instead, the body of Christ has been dismembered, and, likewise, our Church — torn like the temple curtain at His Passion. I fear the judgement that will befell us all.
My superior’s sight remained unmoved, unaffected by the decaying piles and pillaged, burned lands cascading on the road. Instead, his brow was affixed in a curly demeanor, staring out from his perch on the cart — pulled by a loathsome mule — at the farmlands once ripe with wheat. The wafting ash and dust shrouded our path, amalgamating with the foggy morning air. The combination extenuated his dart, green eyes, which have sunken further into his skull. His loose skin draped toward the once vibrantly colored habit’s collar, and his wiry, wrinkled hands wrung the reins. No vitality and youth had been preserved, both in demeanor and thought. I cannot imagine him as a child. He must have been born old and detached.
As the cart jostled on the muddy road, we passed a nearly abandoned, peasant village. The wood and hay from the huts built by the village’s forefathers were pilfered for the fires consuming the dead. I heard no sound, except the flames’ whipping behind us, scourging my unknown, deceased brothers and sisters on a windless morn. In those moments, I could even feel their ash drifting on my shoulder. Then, sheltered in an uprooted, mangled hut, a soft weeping penetrated through the foggy ash. My eyes moved through the mist, like a hand moves curtains, revealing a young boy, clutching a lifeless lamb toward his chest. An arrow was lodged in the creature’s heart, yet the boy made no attempt to remove it. Dirt-streaked tears covered the boy’s gaunt cheeks. No air filled his bony chest. He reeked of hunger; and even though the lamb laid lifeless in his arms, he dared not even think of that option. And I could see — as if time moved more rapidly in the uncovered hut — wrinkles form, appearing as coarse as a mighty river underneath his eyes.
Yet, his eyes remained shut, while he rocked in place. He had no reason to open them, and what would he see besides a more horrid darkness illuminated by the day and codified by man. I pitied him, and nearly lobbied my superior to pause our journey. However, he either could not hear or ignored the boy’s soft weeping. His mind was not on this plane, only on our task. I prayed for the boy to find peace. I saw no other person on that stretch of road then as we headed deeper into the woods.
The trees grew thicker and more claustrophobic, as if the branches lunged to snarl travelers into the melancholic wilderness. The sound of rushing water ricocheted like lightning through storm clouds — yet the source was nowhere to be found for the dense fog only made the visibility worse. Regardless, we continued to trudge forward to our destination in silence. At the behest of the emperor, my superior and I aimed to find a monastery where a wise, elder Capuchin lived — or at least I hoped. His name was Lawrence. Neither my superior nor I had known the man except from the tales from elder Capuchins and statesmen. “Perhaps he will be a bygone man of a bygone era,” I thought when given the order. Only foolish men reside their hopes of salvation in other men, ignoring that the will to act lies within themselves. Nonetheless, I obliged our emperor. The preservation of a unified Church compels my heart onward, even to futility — although the Spirit lies dormant.
For hours the cart rattled in the wood. I tried determining how much time had passed, but the trees shrouded the sun and its light. We were in a colorless cocoon. My neck hairs stood from the chill. Nothing and everything felt alive in the wood. Then I saw an insect crawl on my foot, only discovering it after a tingling sensation pricked my nerves. Without hesitation, I shook it away, and curled my toes further into my beaten sandals. Whispers crept, overwhelming my faculties for I began to believe there were not only armies and beasts that lurked behind the mossy barks. There were eyes watching —
“What should we do if there are robbers in the woods?” I asked, my voice trembling. My superior jostled back and forth, but only from the cart’s wooden wheels dipping into divots on the path. His stare remained detached, apathetic to the encompassing natural tomb.
“Why would they rob poor men? It’s not worth the energy,” he coldly replied.
“But hungry and even well-fed men may do wild things, no?” I responded.
My superior did not answer. Instead, he rolled his shoulders. I felt alone in my instinctual suspicions. We pressed onward. Despite the emperor’s wish, advisers thought best to not attract attention — hence the lowly cart, mule and Capuchin monks. Our poverty was advantageous. To be inconspicuous would give us safe passage, or so was their rationale. But I feared we were vulnerable, susceptible to a surprise attack. Personally, I contemplated whether they sent us to our deaths for we were not armed; and though they desired to give us funds, we would not touch the money. I vowed this to God after drowning in a life of sin.
“Why would a wise man hide away in these woods?” I wondered aloud.
Again, my superior was silent. His chapped lips made no effort to open, but the demeaning green eyes judged the inquisitiveness, shunning me into humiliation. I wished he laughed in my face instead.
The mule plodded on. The poor beast was ancient and should have been relegated to lighter work in its twilight years. Yet he soldiered through the muck — as if attempting to convince us it was more youthful than appearance suggested. But it could not hide the strain, the grays, the breath. A farmer sold the mule to our Order. It was either that or the eternal abyss. I could not bear the latter — it deserved another chance. Though, this journey is not what I anticipated for the creature’s fate. As if the humiliation from my superior were not sufficient, the guilt of watching this mule labor to remove its hooves repeatedly from the path belabored my spirit.
A slight wind whisked through the forest, clearing the fog like a traveler removes a cloak after a long day’s journey. But the revelation proved more sinister. A charred body, suspended by a rope swayed overhead. Every creak of the tree branch was haunting. There were no describable features left on the corpse, not even fingers. There was no sign — yet the presence’s warning was communicated clearly. Looking toward my superior, he glanced upward only after the fowl, lingering stench lured his gaze. I thought of the boy holding the lamb. I wonder if this were his father. Or a brother. I prayed for the repose of the nameless shape’s soul.
“Should we cut him down?”
“We have another more pressing duty. That will take time.”
“And what of the final judgment? We cannot leave the body to be consumed by the vultures or the elements corrode him.”
He was silent. He had no reaction, continuing to clutch the reigns as he had been through the whole journey. The bones in his wrinkled hands clawed underneath the stretched, dried skin, exposing themselves like an ancient dock in an evaporated lake. Meanwhile, in the silence of my heart, I blessed the hanging man from my perch. Perhaps this is the best I can offer, I reflected with much anguish. “Though I may not recognize him, God will.”
Then an indescribable phenomenon occurred. It was as though every conceivable sound in the forest instantly muted itself, intensifying the stillness’ sheer loudness. I could only hear the wind weaving between my superior’s nose hairs, and that of my beating heart and blood flowing through my veins. A coldness pierced the base of my neck, shattering any coherent, rationale thought. The animal within me crept upward, as though prying my mouth open to escape. I clenched my teeth forcefully. The moss emitted a moist, thick air that clung as beads to my hair and habit. Even though my superior spoke of movement, the mule and the cart failed to proceed a few yards from the hanging man. The mud kept us from going on.
“Damn this road!” I yelled, launching myself from the cart. My feet slipped in the mud, caking my habit in a heavy sludge. Pebbles scratched my inner toes, and I heard the flowing blood trickling forth, ever so lightly. With all my energy, I freed the mule’s hooves locked in the mud for it fought against me. It too was afraid. My superior remained undisturbed. His green eyes focused on the road ahead, seeing everything yet seemingly vapid — as one does analyzing the future rather than reacting to the present.
I pushed the mule’s backside, again my feet slipping due to the unstable conditions. It was as though attempting to move a fortress wall. What is holding this creature here, I wondered.
“Sir —” a bodiless, unrecognizable voice coughed into the wind. My neck swiveled alarmedly, back toward the hanging man, as if it spoke. But the corpse had no tongue and not much evidence of an orifice remained. A few silent, tense moments passed. The mule’s aged muscles also tensed, on the verge to dash off into the misty cocoon. I looked at my superior, studying his features, which perked. His brow scrunched, and the forehead’s wrinkles formed deep crevices. He surveyed the trees like an old guard — acting steadily for the young soldier on a night watch. Yet this was in the day, and there was still nothing to see.
The bodiless voice coughed once more. My attention darted toward a thorny thicket several yards beyond a fallen tree covered in moss. Without a word, my superior — still on the cart — latched his hand on my shoulder, silently ordering me not to investigate. We stayed like so for what felt like an age.
“We must go” he soberly stated.
I did not protest, turning to climb back onto the cart. As I positioned to lever myself upward, the creaking cart alerted the voice of our departure who, weakly, pled, “Please.” The plea stumbled toward us, as if limping with arms outstretched, begging for mercy. Within moments, whisked by a charitable spirit, my feet were trudging through the mud and mossy earth toward the thicket. This could be a trap, I suddenly realized, steadily slowing my pace to a crawl. My muscles tensed, prepared to ward off attackers, while my weight gathered in the balls of my feet, ready to dodge. If my superior called me, I could not hear — nor did I want to hear in the moment.
The thicket’s dense branches were more chaotically twisted the closer I approached. No light entered the tangled wood; no form was revealed, but, nevertheless, the voice called from within. Prying a limb back only snapped another thorny branch toward my face, which nearly pricked my eyes had I not blocked it with my forearm. Thorned limbs sprouted in infinite directions, ensnaring everything that moved. Wrapping the habit sleeves around my hands reduced the perforation, but my exposed feet suffered worse. As I proceeded inward, a bird carcass was suspended in the limbs. The creature struggled for it had tattered wings, though every furious flap constricted it further. How could one have weaved their way into this madness, I wondered.
“Please,” the voice said again more lifeless than before, as though sinking into the moss.
An urgency swept through every movement. Disregarding my well-being, my body contorted through every crack within the branches, while sustaining smacks against my shins, chest, and arms. There was no escape of injury. Through every thorn prick, every whipping branch, I clenched my teeth preventing any wail of pain to dishearten the voice, for I feared it already dangled on the verge of despair.
“Where are you?” I shouted, as though my yell would move every limb. But I was no prophet commanding the sea. The call was not returned. My movements quickened, and the branches delivered punishing blows. Hope dwindled. The darkness ahead appeared sentient, curling the limbs inward and pulsing like it drew breath. Whoever it clutched, the thicket longed to hoard — and not relinquish possession. And I had not heard more pleas. Meanwhile, the pain I had been withholding began rushing to every pore, yet I still had to return to the cart, and weave through the path I had just taken. Enclosed around my head was a thorned trap, restricting my visibility and mobility. Regardless, I closed my eyes to prevent further injury from the limbs, and reluctantly decided to return.
With my first step, a wiry, cold tentacle snatched my ankle, preventing any progression. The clasp was rough, burning my skin as I tried unwringing myself from its grasp. The more I fought, the more it pulled me into the mossy bed. At last, the relentless tugging yanked my eyes toward the perpetrator, locking me in this tangled prison — and to my shame, it was a young man, covered in earth. His black marble eyes shrank gazing into mine, as if he were the one to feel ashamed. Soot and mud camouflaged his also lacerated face, while the mouth failed to show any signs of movement, remaining agape while sucking in every breath he could attempt past broken teeth. On further inspection, a horizontal gash sliced across his torso most likely sustained in a conflict. From his clothes’ condition, I could not determine the army he belonged. However, my feeling alone led me to believe this soldier was the only surviving — or abandoned — member of his company. The voice’s weightlessness contradicted his grip.
“Don’t leave me,” he sighed. Tears formed in the marble eyes. I could hear his prayer, to not cross the eternal threshold; my superior would not welcome him, but my heart would not allow me to reject the plea. Crouching to his level, I wiped away the earthly blanket revealing the extent of his wounds. His legs were torn apart, covered in worms and other instincts ready to consume him. While surveying a way out, the young man’s eyes darted in the direction of a dagger a few yards behind. As I reached for it, the limbs inhaled and exhaled once more — as if draining the soldier’s breath, which slowed. Time was limited. The dagger itself was simple, one perhaps from a local, peasant village’s blacksmith. The craftsmanship favored practicality over elaboration. If it can cut our way out, I wondered, it will serve us well.
With limited motion, I commenced excavating a pathway out of the thicket, mostly focusing on the lower limbs — in order to drag the soldier to safety. My own condition was of no concern then. I could not let the young man live long enough to see a failed rescue. “Lord, see us through,” I prayed. Time moved slowly in the thicket, and as branches fell, more seemingly grew in retaliation, but I pressed on gradually dragging the soldier until I came to the suspended bird. It did not need to be removed, yet I cut the limbs anyway. The lifeless creature gently swayed to the mossy bed, which failed to produce a sound. Now to dust it shall return, I thought compassionately. The soldier’s marble eyes turned grey, but also glanced at the bird with an air of fraternity. Yet, that may have been my own impression.
Finally, after laborious cutting, daylight crept through the tangled horde revealing the entrance into the thicket. My superior remained on the cart, though his attention was apprehended by something else. How long have I been in this thicket — hours or only several minutes? His lack of concern made me assume the latter, but it felt the former. Without him noticing, I slipped the dagger into my sleeve — out of sight. As I hauled the wounded man into the foggy forest cocoon, I sensed his fears intensify, not deteriorate as suspected. His eyes widened and slashed torso erratically rose and fell as if I lead him into danger. We had to move fast.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said while propping him onto my back. His weak mouth tried to speak, but nothing came forth.
Approaching the cart, my superior’s head turned — his eyes were like a judge’s on the cusp of convicting a criminal, filled with violent rage and judicial satisfaction.
“We cannot bring him!” he exclaimed, pointing toward the road ahead. “This mule won’t be able to pull the weight of a dead man.”
“He is not dead,” as I laid him in the cart bed, checking for signs of life. The soldier still breathed, though lightly.
Like a vulture, my superior examined the young man. His brow lifted in shock as his gaze glossed over the torso. From his sight, he focused not on the wound, but the clothing.
“A heretic,” he sharply steamed with a weighted tongue. “You saved an enemy of our emperor and Church. This is a trap.”
Looking down, I still could not determine the man’s colors as I wrapped loose fabric around the open wound on his chest. His legs were beyond my expertise.
“This man needed help. I could not abandon him.”
“You’re a fool. The heart cannot replace the mind — we have lost time, and he is about to meet the judgment he deserves. His presence slowed us down to be attacked by his companions.”
“I….have none,” the soldier sighed while lifting his head for air. My superior’s green eyes sharpened at the dying man, who’s eyes regained some color, though not much. The young man’s head fell back onto the cart bed. He then saw yards away the burned corpse dangling in the breeze. A despondent anger whisked in his veins as his limbs went limp.
“You are…in…danger,” he gasped.
My heart plunged. My superior felt vindicated, emitting an aura of belittlement toward me. Meanwhile, the creaking rope from the hanging man pounded, infecting every thought I tried to produce.
“Was that your companion,” I managed to ask the soldier. He nodded slightly. I was beginning to understand why he crawled into the thicket.
“Who attacked you?”
The solider painfully raised his head. His eyes greyed once more, scanning the forest, trying to see through the mist.
“No…flag…” he managed to utter before passing out. My hand intervened before his head collapsed on the wood cart. After gently placing it down on a bundled blanket, I feared making eye contact with my superior. I could already hear his admonitions, while he twisted his position back toward the mule, flipping the habit’s hood over his head. The wrinkled hands gripped the reins — which I imagined to be a substitute for my own neck. As I sat on the perch, slouched ready for punishment, he said no words, only whipping the reins to spur the mule onward. The cart moved further on the soaked road. Both of us were silent.
My mind, however, was not silent. Encountering a band of raiders, with no loyalty to God or a king, was a force one prayed to avoid, for fortune was their master. Other lives were inconsequential. A means to an end. Every sense of mine was on alert as the soldier’s response echoed like a dripping stalagmite in an eternal cavern. The trees moved like haze on the horizon in the desert, while the dirt churned from the insects and moles underneath the surface. Whoever raided and murdered the soldier’s companions was lurking in the mist — but I could not see. A chilling fear swelled within me. Even though our Order is not militaristic in nature, I longed for a weapon apart from the dagger. Our present condition only reinforced my isolation, and dependency on my superior, throughout the journey. I was chosen not for my knowledge of the area, unlike my superior, but Lawrence and I hailed from the same, formerly vibrant village of Doro. It was reasoned that Lawrence, despite his mastery of several languages, that I — a meek creature — may have influence to enlist his assistance in this war by sheer cultural lineage. However, my superior would be the main envoy.
A man is more than his home. Surely a man with his purported intellect would find my discussions — if allowed to speak — as beneath him. When joining the Capuchin, I sought to escape into a oneness with the Lord I shan’t achieve on this mortal coil. Yet, why was it I who rode in this cart, next to this man, tending to a dying man, if not for something already ordained. Perhaps this is how one thinks in proximity to death. For even though I believe in the eternal, and that it is a good, reflecting on the beyond feels as futile as bottling the ocean.
A limb snapping broke my contemplation, and my mind returned to the present. The road forked, one going towards a mountain, the other down into an open valley. The misty forest dwindled as the jostling cart basked in the afternoon sunlight; however, a looming cloud shrouded the landscape. There was a stench in the air. In the dirt were dried, chaotic steps and hoof marks, as well as shredded bits of fabric. The stench, along with the stopped motion, woke the soldier who still breathed through an agape mouth. Dazed, he briefly looked into the sun, then shielded his eyes. As I turned my attention to him, the soldier’s demeanor melted as if being greeted by a specter, staring beyond me.
“This…is where…they hunted us,” he gasped.
“The bodies are still being burned,” my superior dispassionately noted, as if he experienced the event. The young man restrained the tears, collapsing once again though this time applying pressure to this chest injury. My hand slipped inside the sleeve to the dagger. The coldness stung me.
“They will…kill us…if….we are….seen.”
My superior turned back, optically chastising the heretic, though the look went unrecognized by the soldier. His attention slowly, purposefully spun to me. We locked eyes. The green pupils were aflame, while his thin lips twitched, biting back an eruptive tirade. I perceived his thoughts: if they find this soldier with us, they will kill us. Are our deaths — and failed mission — worth this man’s life? My soul quivered for it had no response, while the stench ignited my nose. I offered nothing in return. In my heart, I knew retrieving him from the thicket was just.
“We must hurry,” was all I could muster. My superior whipped the reins once more, and we started on the path toward the mountain — the path closer to the fire in the distance. My hand clutched the dagger’s handle, feebly attempting to find some security as the stench intensified. The soldier gasped, choking on the air, albeit briefly. Panicked, I removed the blanket underneath his head and threw it over his body, trying to disguise him if a traveler happened to pass. I whispered, “Be still — this is only temporary.” He made no sound.
My intuition was quickly warranted. On the slopes of the mountain, an undistinguishable figure stepped onto the path without making an impression in the dirt. His appearance was cobbled together — a lightly armored man, but with garb of various sizes, pilfered most likely off his conquests. However, no sword or weaponry was sheathed near his waist. The man’s tangled beard was reminiscent of the thicket, with hairs endlessly intertwined. He bore a smirk, of which several teeth were missing, and empty eyes — like busts in the grand halls of palaces. The mule’s anxiety rippled through the reins as my superior continued whipping, trying to maintain our speed; but the man blocked our path.
“A band of raiders stole my horse and left me for dead, would you mind helping me kind sirs,” the man spoke with derision, yet a flare of charm, putting on an air of sophistication. He bent over, gesturing to his sullen appearance — for he was caked in dirt — as evidence for his sorry state. My superior made no motions, while I tried to mask my fear. The man knew fully neither of us believed in him.
“We have no provisions or monies,” my superior coldly said.
The man’s smirk widened, which sent a chill down my back. He began petting the mule, playing with its mane as a cat does toward its prey.
“Surely humble servants of the Lord, in their charity, may at least allow me to accompany them to their destination? Perhaps there will be…provisions…there. If not, then why journey to the foot of this mountain. Mustn’t there be a reason?” He continued stroking the mule’s mane
A moment of silence imprisoned us, and I dared not speak or move, instead, allowing my superior to duel with the suspicious man.
“Our intentions are of no concern to you. They are for our private intentions,” my superior flatly stated, scolding the inquisitive stranger. The man smirked once more — and I could see his deformed yellow teeth, only they appeared covered in ash. He shook his head in disappointment; he raised his eyes toward my superior, yet, instead of a vacant glare, delight gurgled from his soul’s depth, finding enjoyment that the sinister performance could continue.
“You need not fear me. Why would raiders rob…poor men,” he flatly stated, plucking a hair from the mule’s mane. The creature jolted, which tremored through the reins, shaking my superior’s cold gaze into one of disbelief. My heart sank at the realization we had been followed at some point — but was it the whole time? Did he already know about our other, unexpected traveler?
The man’s grin widened — and there was starvation in his eyes, not to curb any hunger, but for sport.
“Have you seen a companion of mine. We seem to have separated during the chaos,” continuing his charade. A rage boiled within my heart from the stranger’s incessant toying, playful sinisterism.
“The only person we have seen was a charred hanging body,” I passionately blurted, stroking the dagger. My words implied the mysterious man was the culprit — and the accusation resonated as such to him. His desolate gaze became more vacant as he locked onto me, probing my mind and heart, clawing for any more information. I buried the dying man in the cart, as well as the child with the lamb into the recesses of my being. But I could not know if my body deceived me. After a minute, the man ceased his strokes, stepping back from the road to allow us passage.
“The war has made godless men, but what do you expect when brother fights brother,” the man finally chuckled, not even attempting to pretend the executed was a fellow traveler. The stench pierced my nose, as smoke drifted over our spot — and only our spot, from what it appeared. My superior, once again, whipped the reins to which the mule obliged, also anxious to move away. My hand receded from the dagger’s handle.
We plodded on, but I saw the man watching us, not even blinking. From this brief interaction, he felt spiritless. A void in the cosmos. He was both alive and not. In that moment, the dying man twitched, on the verge of coughing. Overtaken by another spirit, my arm reached back to cover the soldier’s mouth; meanwhile, the dagger fell onto him, making a slight thud sound on the cart bed. The panic nearly erupted. Surely, we would be discovered, harboring the man’s victim. My eyes looked back, but the man had turned, walking in the opposite direction toward the way we came.
However, relief never came. From then on, every rock and tree along the road I envisioned obscuring raiders in the man’s band.
“What now? They must be following us,” I silently said for I feared that even the rocks were listening. My superior did not respond. His shocked eyes were forward, and his mind stopped, as though a truth he had known his whole life was suddenly shattered. The wrinkled hands were loose on the reins.
My heart was petrified. I did not know the region, unlike my superior; and I dared not reveal the soldier in the cart bed, fearing the rocks were not only listening, but watching. Did he still breathe? Meanwhile, the questions of why I had been chosen by our emperor overwhelmingly flooded every crevice of my mind beyond the point of rational thought.
I knew I should not fear death, but, nevertheless, I did then. I wondered if Lawrence even still lived. But I kept these close to my heart.
II
A cart wheel had broken on the mountain path. My superior, uncharacteristically, failed to see a jagged rock sprouting from the dirt road. However, there was no hope for repairs as the parts scattered in the wind, swallowed by the forest’s dark mouth down the slope.
Looking behind from where we had journeyed, I saw a small dark cloud — most likely the burning corpses; yet, even though our proximity widened, the stench burned in my nostrils. Even further still, on the other side of the forest, a trickle of smoke rose into the misty air. I wondered about the boy, if he ended his hunger by resorting to eating the lamb. The thought nearly made me weep. The day had been long — too long.
The soldier still breathed, though slumped over the mule’s back. He quietly moaned, trying to contain the pain from infecting our spirits, but the climb proved too uncomfortable at times. The young man tried applying pressure to his chest’s gash, albeit unsuccessfully as he rocked. My superior walked slowly, a few paces behind myself, with his eyes to the ground, hunched over. Now I clutched the reins, leading the mule and company up the mountain path; however, I did not know the way to the monastery.
The mist descended over our company, engulfing the way, while a light rain began soaking my habit. My nerves, which previously hung by a thread, were now slightly relieved for the terrain allowed for no noticeable, accessible outlooks. The raiders would have to be more akin to goats scaling the mountain’s façade than man in order to encircle us. However, whoever built this monastery clearly wished to be isolated from any civilized world or weary travelers. Meanwhile, looking out toward the valley, the sun’s halo descended beyond the horizon. The night was fast approaching, and we needed shelter — and a haven for the soldier. And for ourselves. No stars and moonlight would accompany our journey.
While turning, my left foot slipped from the wet path, hovering over an invisible, empty space. My senses jolted toward the mule, who failed to recognize the danger as it was too tired from the climb and extra burden. The muscles in my chest tightened, nearly caving inward; without realizing, my hand was over my heart and I breathed heavily, unsure of where the next step might take me. I turned around toward my superior, whose form I could determine in the shrouded air.
“Brother, we cannot proceed further, lest we slip to our deaths on this treacherous mountain. Do you know how much further we must climb?” My voice seemed powerless, colliding with an impenetrable force or lost in an endless sea, for my superior failed to notice. My vision likewise dwindled, staring into a darkening abyss. From fear, I prayed for God to lead the way — however, a guilt swirled within me, that a prayer resulted from fear rather than confidence. I stopped our party, taking the soldier off the mule and propping him against the mountain’s face. The mule collapsed, resting on the muddy road not concerned about danger for it had no energy left to do so. My superior, still craning his neck toward his chest, lifelessly sat down, crossing his legs. It seemed I was the only member aware of our surroundings. A wind swept along the path, chilling my soaked habit. The cold penetrated my bones. In the hazy evening sun’s last glow, I saw the same effect on the soldier’s worn face. The young man aged resembling more of a decrepit beggar, than a military man. An anxiety grew within him, tangling his spirits and, quite possibly, his final breaths. With the back of my hand, I felt his forehead. The young man’s temperature was plummeting as the chilly rain encased him in a dreary aura.
We had no firewood. I longed to have scavenged, repurposed the broken wheel for this possibility — but reflecting on the possibility only depressed me. I slid over to the solider, who was now wheezing, and wrapped myself around him to provide warmth. My superior remained hunched over, unconcerned. I swear he muttered, “How could I have not seen?” but perhaps I merely misheard or what I, strangely, desired to hear. His once piercing green eyes faded as the sun dipped below the horizon, shrouding us in further darkness.
If this be the end Lord, I thought, please, forgive us our sins.
The soldier’s breathing struggled, irregular as the drizzle morphed into a heavy rainstorm. I huddled him more tightly. The drops fell from my habit’s hood into a newly formed rain pool near my legs. I was forced to squirm several times so the pool would not reduce my body temperature even further, but the path — now soaked in the water — turned my seat into sludge. I closed my eyes, preferring that darkness than when my eyes were opened. Visions of my past life wafted into view. A coast. The sea. My father. A flickering candle. All distant memories of Doro. The experiences and images felt not of my own, but from a former — other — being. Since my vows, that life appeared trivial. Yet, on this mountain path, that is what I saw. I tried to reflect why, but my mind could not withstand the intensifying rain or the wheezing breath.
I cannot recall if I slept; however, my soul leapt in terror, retreating to the mountain’s façade. A hand clung to my shoulder and a lantern dangled in my face. The intense light obstructed my sight — almost as blinding as the darkness. I imagined a raider’s knife at my throat for a beam of light stretched from the lantern toward me, resembling a glistening blade. No voice tried to soothe or frighten me, while I frantically searched for my dagger, but to no avail. I wondered if the others still lived or if I rested next to murdered men.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” I defiantly whispered, although I had not intended to speak.
The lantern obediently moved away from my face, giving me the opportunity to regain my full vision. Surprisingly, an ease settled in the air, with a lightness effusing from the hand clinging to my shoulder. Most would have looked at those who awoke them first, but I glanced at the hand. It was old and firm, yet retained its youthful buoyancy, as though the struggles of the years did not dare erode its luster. My gaze drifted toward my visitor, an elderly man who wore a hooded cloak. He brought the lantern near his face, seeing I attempted to look upon him, revealing a gentle grin. His illuminated eyes bore no signs of age — no clouds or diminishing color — containing, what felt like, human history and wisdom. A joy persisted from the depths of his soul, and I could also detect melancholy etched across the corners of his eyes. But the former outweighed the latter.
“Pardon me, my brother. What brings you here?” Even his voice had a commanding, yet sincere compassion unbecoming of a bandit. I felt assured he did not belong to the raiding party; but I could not indulge him on our mission so freely — though I desired to. I remained silent.
“You and your companions must be cold. I can bring you to shelter.”
Nodding my head, the visitor pulled me upward, his strength more akin to a younger man. As I bent over to raise the soldier and the mule, he tenderly took my superior’s hand, effortlessly raising him to his feet. The visitor led my superior underneath the lantern; meanwhile, I, once again, propped the young man onto the mule’s back, and followed the light through the dark ground.
“Keep to the path,” the visitor said. We obliged. There was a steadiness in his voice, unlike the murky earth we climbed — but I resigned to observe the former. The further our party walked, the more the clouds dissipated, and, once high enough, revealed a structure carved into the mountain side. From how the clouds flowed, the monastery — for in my heart I knew that is what lay ahead — appeared suspended, defying any natural law. I believed the sanctuary not to be made of human hands for the stones providing its shape looked in unison, absorbed by the landscape and not placed according to a design. However, there was design — as a singular candlelight irradiated the several windows, columns, and terrace, the latter which overlooked the valley.
There was no gate, however our guide cautioned the path narrowed, slightly. He asked our eyes remain affixed on his lantern; I had to trust he knew how to traverse the terrain, so I obeyed. Within a few moments, our company passed through the threshold — a weathered, unlocked door, aged by the elements — into a stone, rock room which had a fireplace and a table of similar quality to the front door. A pot hung over the fire, as a smell of vegetables wafted through my nostrils, making me forget about the former stench. Still clutching the lit lantern, our host plodded over to the pot, stirred it a few times so the contents would not boil over.
“Let me see him,” the host stated, motioning his gaze toward the soldier. Without words, I carried the young man, while following the mysterious man into a bedroom. My superior, meanwhile, tentatively approached the fire, warming his wrinkled hands. After placing the injured man down on a straw cot, our host removed my hastily made bandaged and then moved the lantern with familiarity over the body, examining the wounds. His brow, though relatively stagnant, indicated urgent care was necessary, lest the man die in the next few hours.
“Brother,” he said, turning toward me. “There is a cloth in my room down the hall as well as some needle and thread underneath the bed. Bring them here. I will go get water.”
Again, without any reservation, I obliged, briskly rushing to the other barely furnished room, grabbing a white cloth on the bed, and retrieving the needle and thread from where he had told me. However, I noticed a table, and on it, piles of paper, though I did not investigate them — there was no time. Only a few seconds passed between my leaving and return to the room, yet, within that span, our host already had a bucket of water, as though he summoned it out of thin air, and was cleaning out the wounds. After dabbing the wounds, he extended his hand for the needle and thread, which I unconsciously presented to him. He held the needle over the lantern flame. The metal brightened like embers in a fire, and he moved more as a blacksmith than a hermit. When the needle was hot enough to his liking, our host sutured the wounds, first the chest gash, then those on the soldier’s legs. Shockingly, the soldier remained calm — his eyes hinted at a disassociation from his current predicament. I wonder what he pondered in those moments, perhaps a past, more peaceful life. After the wounds were sealed, the host ripped the cloth with ease, and tightly wrapped the stitched areas. He left the room for only a moment, returning with a bowl of soup. He propped the young man’s head, feeding him small portions — of which the solider readily ate. I watched, seeing strength return to the soldier’s face, or maybe the lantern light tricked me in believing so.
The host lowered the young man’s head on a feathery pillow once the meal was completed, then covered him in a blanket. Without delay, the soldier fell asleep and soundlessly remained in that state. As our host left the room, I followed him into the main entrance, near the fire. My superior backed away, allowing space for the three of us to gather around. Soon, there was a filled bowl in my hand; and sooner still, it was empty — I had never wanted sustenance more in my life than in that moment. The heat warmed my whole being, rejuvenating my spirit, confident our party would be safe for at least the evening.
Our host leaned back in a chair tenderly studying my superior’s face and mine. He allowed us a moment to enjoy the nourishment; however, I knew his mind formed questions on our purpose here while crafting responses to our own. Yet he wished to approach the subject with the same care he administered to the injured soldier, for he saw in us similar, injured spirits.
“There is plenty more if you need it,” he said, reaching out to accept our bowls. I noticed he did not eat, nor had a bowl of his own; I hesitated to give him mine, feeling guilty we deprived the man of his own food. But his eyes were reassuring, insistent I take another portion, as if he spoke, “You need it.”
“Are you Lawrence?” The question unconsciously slipped from my mouth, and I forced it shut wondering if my superior would reprimand me. But he did nothing. He continued eating. The green was returning to his eyes. Meanwhile, our host chuckled at the question, as though that were the one question he failed to anticipate — though he was quick to respond.
“So that’s why you were on the road. Why are you searching for me?”
“The emperor seeks your counsel, brother,” my superior spoke authoritatively; however, his voice emphasized the counsel was an order, rather than an invitation. “Did you not lead an army into battle against a mightier force? Did you not advise on victories that threatened Christendom? Are you not the man who escaped torment? These are the tales we know of you — are you not that man?”
Our host leaned back on his stool, the fire basking him in a red light.
“If he seeks a warrior, he has other advisors, does he not? That does not answer the question: why are you searching for me?”
My superior stumbled mentally, assuming his regaling of Lawrence’s accomplishments would suffice. He had still not fully recovered since the interaction with bandit. His lower lip quivered, as his eyes became lost in the flames.
“Don’t be troubled, brother,” the host responded, offering an olive branch. My superior nodded, returning to eat another spoonful of soup. I decided to interject.
“They believe you have knowledge from your prior experience — during the invasion several decades ago.”
“And what relevancy does my past life, before my seclusion in this monastery, have in a conflict between Christian against Christian? Much time has moved on. The weaponry more efficient. The tactics more diabolical. If they seek a wizard to crush their foes, I am not of that ilk, nor should I be lofted onto that pedestal. My advice is this: pray to God and peace will reign. Save young men souls like that boy.”
If spoken by another, the words would have sounded vindictive, even spiteful — but, to my heart, the melancholy surfaced, brewing underneath his gentle eyes like a fish trapped beneath a frozen lake.
“I apologize my brothers. The emperor wants a legend, and I am not such. And I am not threatening, which is why the raiders you certainly encountered have not risked trekking up here. What would they find? In actuality, my body is evaporating, stricken by some unknown disease,” at this he painfully motioned to his lower torso, indicating an affliction of the bowels. “The truth which sustained the Church has been scuttled, sealed into a cave and barred with iron rods so that no creature — no being — could escape. And the leaders did so on their own accord. Meanwhile, the apostatized appear to have unconquerable minds tethered wholeheartedly to untruths. They feel liberated and wish to remain as such. This is not a war of immediacy, but now a war to last centuries. If he believes swords alone will win the day, then he is misguided.”
My heart sank, believing our mission had already failed. The bowl weighed heavy in my hands as I lowered it to the stone floor. The sound echoed, amplifying the sorrow creeping in between the present company. Lawrence, like my superior, gazed into the fire, seeing something I cannot and will never know. His face receded, while its crevices darkened from shadows. A force within me wondered if he reflected on his childhood — to a time before war, before his pain. This inclination was only reinforced the longer the silence lingered amongst us.
“You are from Doro, right, Brother Lawrence?”
The darkened crevices shaped into a slight, yet indisputable, smile as the muscles relaxed around his face, particularly underneath the eyes. The flame’s reflection within them no longer raged as a destructive force, but danced gaily like a ribbon captivated by a breeze. However, the levity was fleeting, as a tinge of sadness resurfaced. In my youth, Doro had been a town tormented by a past elder residents longed to forget, starving for rebirth, yet clung to their victimhood as their sole identity. They pined for the port city’s former relevancy, vibrancy and wealth — ghosts from a time no longer present — when it had modestly elevated into a center for commerce and art. However, in one night, all prosperity was swept into the Adriatic Sea by a wave, so powerful, it reduced the landscape to rubble. Born into that eve’s legacy, my childhood experiences most likely differed from our host’s, who was born prior to this fall. It was though Doro were Troy — lost to time, but devoid of mythical heroes. I scraped for food and became a thief, devoid of hope. Only when the Capuchins found me did I view life differently than being brutal. God opened my heart and mind then.
Our host refused to give his testimony yet I could see the words dangling on his tongue, even though his mouth clenched. As the flame whipped underneath the soup pot, Lawrence scratched an eyebrow, distressed by a memory he hoped to suppress.
“I am. That was another time my brother,” he quietly sighed.
“Before the fall?”
The wood crackling spat out tiny sparks over the stone floor. Instead of immediately stamping them out, Lawrence watched the embers fizzle on the cold surface, which evaporated seemingly from existence.
“You are a young man. You must have heard the stories,” Lawrence stated, his eyes watching the last light of an ember disappear. Suddenly, the young boy holding the lamb washed over me. His silent tears rang more loudly than a cathedral bell, striking every chord of my heart. His world was destroyed within minutes — a desolation that would echo in the cities and hills of the country for all time. What story would he tell his next of kin?
“Those of despair you mean? The same state infecting our continent’s soul now?” My voice trembled, but felt defiant, as if I lashed out against our host. No rationality formed my words. They spewed forth volcanically, from the depths of the unknown earth. The lacerations from the thicket burned. “Are we to doom the next generation to spiritual destruction?”
I fell silent. My eyes were in tears. Even in my brief outburst, I refused to look at our host — and more so after my emotions receded, engulfed by guilt. I had no right to yell at this man. My body slunk in the stool, and I wished my superior threw furniture at my head. I longed for an immediate reprimand for that is what I deserved. This man rescued us from the elements, yet, now, I dared shame him into acting according to our will.
“I apologize brother,” I meekly uttered, humbling myself before the man.
Hunching over, my tears soundlessly dropped to the floor, sprinkling over the remaining embers spat from the firewood. The neck muscles tensed, which I attempted to ease by rubbing them, but to no avail. My hand felt empty, purposelessly moving to avoid the consequences of thought. Refusing to look at Lawrence, I gazed at my superior, who had been wiping the tears off the floor with his habit sleeve, slide back to peering into the flickering flames.
Then, there was the hand again on my shoulder. It bore no weight, no judgement, no conviction. Sheepishly turning to our host, my eyes caught his own — which immediately captured me. No matter how I moved my head, somehow our sights were interlocked. There was no reprimand, only compassion. A gentleness swept across Lawrence’s face, as if I had spoken my entire history and fears of a generation lost to the cosmos, rather than a few desperate pleas. A peace emitted from his hand, into my shoulder, calming the tears.
“Will you pray with me?” He spoke with soft sincerity. Without hesitation or reflex, I rose, walking alongside him to the back of the structure — passed the room housing the young soldier, who silently slept — into a carved alcove with one window, which I imagined overlooked the valley; however, the mist still clung to the mountainside, so my view was obscured. There was a small wooden altar, draped in a repurposed cloth that appeared shredded and worn, for the ornamentation seemed too elaborate for this chapel. In fact, there may have been a coat of arms; but the design was faded by age and sunlight.
On the altar stood a crucifix, too large for the setting. The cross was made from sturdy wood, as though from a scuttled ship, for the width and length were thick, but peeling from the moisture. Our Lord’s nose, meanwhile, was chipped, his eyes — once looking up toward heaven — disappeared, while a brown, reddish residue covered the rest of the figure. The uncleaned man looked like a time capsule for Lawrence, for that is how he gazed upon it — evoking more memories than the fire.
Though pained, Lawrence knelt down, prostrating himself before the Lord. I knelt, observing his motions; I worried about the pain he endured, as my hands were ready to raise him from the stone floor. No time had seemingly passed, but, from the corner of my eye — outside the window — the whispery mist gently floated down the mountainside with several pebbles following suit. The rain pooled on the window ledge, some of which trickled down into a crevice where the wall met the floor. Outside, on the terrace, I saw stalks from a garden limply obliging to the wind’s beckon call. This life was remote. Almost too simple for a man who was spoken of so highly — a vast mind who had experienced much, only to die isolated. Then again, from his steadiness in prayer, he was not isolated from the ultimate companion.
My mind, however, wandered, despite my sight directed toward the worn crucifix. There are days when God’s voice is clear; others, not so. That evening was the latter. The hope dwindled within me: Lawrence would not journey with us and offer his advice to combat the apostacy plaguing Christendom. I feared he would not leave the chapel alive. Who would care for his body — like the hanging soldier, I wondered painfully. His memory would be cast into nothingness, leaving nothing for us to contemplate besides fragments. But how do fragments reflect the character of a man’s life? Within me, I understood he had more to tell. He performed great deeds and pondered beyond this fallen earth. Meanwhile, as I stared into Christ’s faded eyes, I felt I made no conscious prayer — unable to string a coherent plea for Our Lord.
He spent most of the evening in the same position, and I in mine. From behind, I could hear my superior finally move, with heavy steps, from the fire into the chapel. He aguishly knelt only for a few minutes — or at least, that is how I perceived his attendance — and proceeded to shuffle away. From the sound of the pitter-pattered movement, he most likely entered the soldier’s bedroom. Then there was silence. Even the misty wind died.
Lawrence raised his head toward the crucifix. His face was reddened with new crevices and indents on his cheeks, sore from imprinting his being into the stone. Also revealed was a small pool of water cupped by the stone, presumably from tears, yet — from my perception — the man’s eyes were clear and pure white. There was no sign of intense sorrow as I had witnessed. However, the misty water collected in the crevices in the chapel remained where it was — dammed and running toward the terrace garden. As he motioned to stand up, my arm impulsively reached out to grab the man’s arm to lift him to his feet, but he did so on his own.
Turning to me, our host smiled — a smile filled with pure conviction and trust, and concurrently otherworldly. My heart was shuttered compared to this man, for even after all the trials of that day — the young child, the hanging man, the dying soldier, the bandit — this smile proved more haunting. Though I believe and preach so, there was an unknown reservation lurking within. His smile flooded every light in existence onto that fact. I have more miles to walk.
“It’s a wonderful story, isn’t it?” he asked me. The question confused me. I must have physically contorted my face because Lawrence’s smile widened assuredly as though I were a befuddled child. His eyes motioned toward the crucifix. “We call God the author of life — for that is what he is, no?”
I slightly nodded my head in agreement, though I failed to understand what he was trying to convey entirely. The man placed his hand on my shoulder both lightly and authoritatively.
“We are descendants of sharing that story, you and me. The same story the disciples proclaimed in various tongues to the people of Jerusalem — to those who called for the Lord’s death. Yet, even then, they walked past that threshold of their hiding place, embarking on a new pilgrimage, not knowing where God would send them. That is trust. That is the life God calls us to do. And it is that story that shapes our own. Do not let your heart be troubled brother.”
The hand fell from my shoulder. Every fiber of my being wished to surrender, but I did not fully know how. I stood in place, while Lawrence proceeded to the window studying the clouds descending the mountain. Suddenly, the moonlight began flooding the chapel and, as the mist dispersed, I saw the valley stretching out. It looked so peaceful from this perch — but the feeling scattered with the clouds as armies of soldiers, once brothers, clashed in violent destruction, churning the field into a muddy, blood-soaked pit. But those visions were mere fantasy.
“You need rest,” the words shattered my imagination. The words sounded distinct from Lawrence, but they were his own. He peacefully grinned while looking out toward the valley, shrouded in moonlight. “Feel free to rest in my bed. I do not sleep much anyway.”
“You do not sleep?”
“Old habit,” he said retaining the smile. The few words harbored an immense testimony, and though he peacefully surveyed the landscape, somehow, I believed he saw the same clash my mind conjured. My tongue nearly cried to him to share his witness, but I refrained. The dagger, still on me, knocked against my leg. The hour was late and, as he prescribed, I needed rest.
Leaving his presence, I walked toward his room; but first, I peeked where the soldier lay. The young man still breathed rhythmically, as if he had not endured his arduous trials. However, surprisingly, my superior was kneeling by his bedside and in deep contemplation. His eyes were tightly shut and his hands were folded, as if bound by an unknown will. I had not seen him like so in many years. I dared not disturb him, instead creeping into Lawrence’s room. As I turned, gazing back toward the terrace, the man still steadily stood basking in the moonlight, as if comforted by the glow’s encasing illumination. The light transfigured him into a considerably youthful spirit. I wondered if I ever stood as such or looked as such to my fellow brothers.
I fully entered the room and sat upright on the straw bed, scanning the piled papers, which were uniformly yet unorderly organized on the desk. The contradictory assembly piqued my interest. Meanwhile, the single candle illuminating the space dripped over several of the pages, its wax forming a crusty layer on the fragile pages. An urgency swelled within me to preserve the documents; and curiosity drove me to begin reading the contents — though not fully. At least, not at first. I did not want to intrude on private musings from our host, but, again, a voice assured me he would not protest. So I read. The works were filled with theological wonder and contemplation beyond what I had been capable of understanding, extracting instrumental truths from Scripture. One continues to rest in my heart and mind, that being on the Virgin as revealed in Revelations — ‘a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon was under her feet.’ My host contemplated the significance of both the sun and moon, writing, ‘If the sun signifies God, what does the moon signify if not everything under God? If the moon symbolizes everything under God, what is the significance of the moon under Mary’s feet? There is mystery and rich truth contained in this passage: the moon is an emblem of imperfection, thus beneath Mary, Queen of Peace. She alone exemplifies the true fiat, the truest surrender and faith in God, the Father and therefore to God, the Son, and God, the Holy Spirit. Yet, through the centuries, the moon has also symbolized human reason. To have the moon under one’s feet signifies to hold one’s intellect captive in submission to Christ. This submission should be the basis of all human action on Earth before we cross into eternity. For that leads to true wonder, enlightenment, and discovery, which only resides in God.”
The words softly echoed in my soul, as though the writings were like waves calmly petting Doro’s shores — which was the only tranquility I found in my homeland. Somehow, within my heart, reading this essay was not coincidental. Peering out of the room, he had finished shuffling along the terrace, proceeding toward the room. He dragged the moonlight with him though he was inside. Illuminated by both the moon and candle, every feature in the man’s face shone. Simultaneously, I saw an old shell and a young man stand before me, straightening his back. Every move, though painful from his affliction, he endured with grace. The melancholy once again receded below the surface of his eyes — and a cheek curled into a soft smile.
“What do you think?”
I knew he meant his writings, but, somehow, a fear swelled within me, like a child caught in the act of sin. Gently, I placed the paper down on the bed, out of sight from its author, and lowered my eyes. How could one respond to such kindness without feeling lowly — that is how I felt in that moment: a worm squirming, writhing in the dirt to dig itself toward safety, as though the rock I laid under was removed from the earth and revealed my true nature.
“It was moving,” I shamefully stated, the words pouring through my mouth like water through a beaver’s dam. Again, the host remained compassionate — yet this was not conveyed through word or even action.
“Though not accessible to everyone, would you say,” he asked. He stood in the threshold, embalmed by the moon and candlelight. I did not answer, nor did he need a response. “I have been here reflecting, hiding, trying to make peace within my own spirit. In some instances, I’ve wondered if I have forgotten how to speak well. Do you believe that?”
Again, I did not answer, instead my eyes were raised, watching him intently. He moved like a condemned man, nervous, but lurking within there was a confidence — a trust. Slowly, the light faded, perhaps a mist shrouded the moon once more. He stepped into the room not as a transfigured man in the higher echelons of eternity, but as a man with all mankind’s fallibilities. The creases on his face imprinted from the stones returned.
“My brother, I cannot accompany you to the emperor’s halls and physically throw myself once more in the throes of battle. That is not my call. Nor do I believe these writings will suffice our people — they will fall away, and become lost to time. But our savior understood that testimony can do more in the salvation of another soul — opening his or her heart to Christ — than words alone.”
He wrung his hands, and I could see him as a young boy wistfully contemplating his place in the world on the same shores I stood watching the waves stroll in, only to recede into the horizon.
“Is He not the Word?” I retorted. My question was not argumentative or even to spur discussion; in fact, to this day, I cannot recall what compelled me to ask such to Lawrence. Nevertheless, he smiled in recognition — as if he knew a life within me I failed to understand myself. As if his entire pilgrimage on earth had led to this moment and I — a stranger he met only a few hours before on a darkened mountain path — were preordained to carry his witness. An honorable, yet frightening feeling swelled within me for the responsibility that knocked at my heart’s door.
“Will you hear my confession, brother?”
Without hesitation, I obliged.
Continued in Part Two