* * *
Purple and red hues of dawn sheepishly tried to blossom far away, the earth still wet and napping, the chill humid breeze unusually refreshing. Nicole’s gaze wandered around the monastery’s rock and mud walls for a moment, before it focused on the bell towers. One was set facing the east, the other towards the Vatican; from the weary look on her face, both directions looked equally distant in any measureable way, whether it were space or time.
Ethan approached her casually without any hint of their former quarrelsome chat. He offered her a cigarette which she silently accepted. He lit it up, and they both sat on a stone bench near the wall, letting the morning wind carry away all the weight of the night before.
Helping Nicole with her rounds had mellowed her somewhat to the point where she no longer considered him a vulture. Not only had she admitted being too quick to judge, but she had also been openly impressed by Ethan’s quick-and-dirty first-aid knowledge, turning any simple item into a tourniquet or a splinter. It struck her as odd but Ethan had managed to explain that any journalist that wanted to get alive out of a war zone had to be a medic as well. She had smiled at that and said with just a hint of mischief: “My, my; and you can type as well”.
But nothing on her face that morning came close to that austere, quirky nurse with the outspoken dislike of journalists and other vermin that seemed to feed on human misery: As she sat there smoking, she struck Ethan as a very familiar face, someone close but yet so distant in memory. Like a long lost friend or perhaps, a lover. He kept trying to remember and was soon enthralled by the warmth of her face, lost in his own little box of memories.
As she took another puff from her cigarette, she casually looked around and caught Ethan with his gaze fixated on her, his eyes out of focus. She asked him then, with just the right amount of disapproval in her soft voice:
“Anything you particularly like, Mr. Owls?” to which no answer came. She asked again, this time less pretentiously:
“Richard? Lost somewhere?” she said, and broke the spell.
“Hmm? Sorry.” he finally managed to answer before he himself asked in earnest: “I must’ve been woolgathering, what were you saying?”
Nicole shrugged and said, “Nothing. You just stood there and kept looking at me,” before she added all high-browed yet smiling slightly, “Looking for something in particular?”
Ethan smiled with a corner of his lip in a bitter fashion before exhaling, the smoke swiftly vanishing away in little curls and twists. He sounded somewhat reticent and weighed-down when he said:
“That’s a funny thing to ask; you could say I am, but it’s not you. Though you do remind me of someone. I just can’t put a name to it; it’s a slippery thing.”
The bells started to chime then; it was time for the morning prayer. A few sisters could be seen around the courtyard, hurriedly but quietly moving about for the mass. It struck Ethan as odd then how similar it all looked to a roll call: quiet, practiced, efficient. “Unto God’s own image,” he said then half to himself while he pointed to the shuffling silhouettes of the nuns.
Nicole turned around to look and through a small window the first cautious rays of sunlight caused her to squint even though she sat in the shadow of the walls. She shook her head and said, “Such a waste,” before she put out her cigarette and folded her arms.
Ethan frowned and asked her:
“You mean, the nuns?”
She half-turned around to look at him, while warm sunlight made her hair glow as if from within and said: “I mean God.”
Ethan let out a small laugh before he replied:
“That’s a funny thing to say for someone working in a monastery. It’s almost a joke, actually.”
Her eyes suddenly took on that earlier piercing glint that conveyed her annoyance instantly. She retorted:
“’He’ is the joke. It’s just that people don’t seem to get it, more often than not. In a sense, it’s better that way. Imagine if these nuns were used as forced labor, sold and exchanged like cattle. At least the lie they live in doesn’t make things any worse.”
“I’ve always wondered. Don’t you people believe in anything?”
She frowned, cocked her head sideways and asked him: “What do you mean, ’you people’?”
“Atheists,” he said and put out his own cigarette, stamping it on the red soil.
She laughed heartily despite herself and said with a grin:
“For a moment there, I thought you would’ve said ’communists’.”
“I try not to mix politics and religion.”
“Aren’t they the same?”
“Not quite. I mean, no one actually believes politicians, right? At least I hope not.”
“I wish it was a laughing matter, but it’s really not.”
“So you place all your trust in man then? Look around you. We’re not exactly doing a bang up job, are we?”
“I have faith in man. The sisters here have faith in God. And I do not consider myself an atheist; I just have a grudge against people who think God has anything to do with this life,” she said and brushed a lock of her hair away from her cheek.
Ethan looked at her in a pensive mood. What an interesting woman, he thought. He lowered his gaze to his feet and said:
“I’m not a church-going fellow myself, not by a long-shot. But sometimes, some things just make you wish for something to grab and hold on.”
“Like a woman?” she said, her grin almost meant to tease. He laughed and waved `no' with his hands.
“Heaven forbid, no. In any case, I meant something. Not someone. Like an idea, a symbol, a flag. Maybe a flag. You know, something to-”
“Idolize,” she filled in on cue and made him nod.
“Yeah, you might call it like that.”
“Look around you, it’s everywhere. What the sisters hold on to.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about nuns.”
“What happened to a journalist’s keen senses?” she said, and pointed with an index finger to the church bell tower. On top of it stood a plain iron cross. Ethan smiled thinly and shook his head.
“Ah. Well, I guess that was blatantly obvious. Perhaps I should think about a career change.”
“Maybe. Sometimes I think like that myself.”
“Really? It gets to you, doesn’t it?”
“I try to think of the larger picture. That I’m helping save lives. But it doesn’t always work. That’s why sometimes I need this,” she said and showed Ethan a chain around her neck, a simple unadorned St. Andrews cross on it. It looked familiar. He felt the urge to take a closer look.
“A cross? May I?”
She nodded and took it off. Ethan took it in his hand and it immediately felt more than familiar - he turned it around and he saw the letters `A.N.W.’ etched on the backside. Andy Nathaniel Whittmore. This was Andy’s cross.
Thoughts and wishes mingled in one as they raced to take control of his mouth. He tried but he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually been at a loss. His face was motionless, unable to look anything other than utterly confounded.
Nicole saw that and couldn’t help asking:
“What is it? What’s bothering you?”
“That cross. That’s Andy’s cross. My brother’s.”
“Your brother’s? That’s ridiculous,” she said and looked scornfully away, unabashedly dismissive in her expression.
He didn’t give it a second thought. All the constructed facade he had went to some considerable effort to create suddenly felt completely worthless and immaterial.
“It’s not,” he said and took off his own twin cross and showed it to her. It wasn’t as polished and there was a silver-grey patina all over it, but the initials ’E.R.W.’ stood out clearly.
“That’s for Ethan Roiel Whittmore. And that cross of yours has Andy Nathaniel Whittmore carved on its back. That’s my brother’s cross.”
“But… You said your name is Richard Owls. What’s this all about?”
“Where did you get that cross?”
“That’s my husband’s cross.”
The connotation made Ethan blink twice. He almost stuttered when he asked:
“Andy? Andy got married? You’re his wife? Where is he, what happened?”
Ethan’s face became a mask of anxiety, contorted and flushed. His breathing became shallower, as if he was about to jump into an ice cold ocean of fear and doubt. Nicole’s stare was fixed on the cross as she traced its edges. She spoke then with a low, uneven voice, as if she was telling a story better left unsaid:
“Our camp was attacked. Tribal lords. Little more than feral men, they came one day and wanted to loot everything. Including the women. Some of us tried to put up a fight. Perhaps it was a mistake. During the shooting, a few had the chance to run away. Andy with some of the guides stayed behind to buy us time. He was bleeding when… He… He gave me this cross. He was a believer, you see. Funny, no?”
Tears welled in her eyes but she did not cry, even though it seemed like she should. Ethan saw how easily her facade of a strict, haughty nurse had crumbled away when she mentioned her husband. Thoughts about that camp ran around Ethan’s head. A strange forlorn feeling of an idea formed up in his mind. He told her then in his most steady, thoughtful voice:
“I’m looking for Andy. All this, it’s just a cover. I need you to tell me everything that happened that day.”
Her face suddenly became a bit pale. She looked disturbed, stricken with sudden anxiety.
“But Andy… He has barely mentioned you. What is this? Some kind of sick joke?”
“I’m being dead serious. I’m risking my hide for this. I just want to find my brother, don’t you? You can’t give up on him. We just can’t.”
“But Andy’s… He was bleeding from his leg, looking all pale when we… No, he’s just as good as dead. Those men wouldn’t just… Animals, not men. You don’t know what it was like!”
“Have you given up on him already? He’s a doctor for Christ’s sake, they’d need him alive, too useful to be killed outright. There’s a really good chance he still lives, Nicole.”
“I can’t believe that right now. I just can’t. I saw his eyes, Richard. I saw nothing but emptiness…”
“Please, call me Ethan. Whatever you saw, it’s just the grief and the pain talking right now. If he wasn’t dead when you left, he was alive and that’s what I’m counting on.”
“I want to believe you, I really do. But, what can we do? I mean… Those people… Even if…”
“You said you had faith. Have faith in me, please. Did he ever talk to you about Father Mulcahey?”
She rubbed her eyes with both hands. There was a deep frown on her face when she said:
“The name sounds familiar. Why?”
“Those crosses. We were ten. Well, I was twelve and Andy was ten. I’d sneaked in Father Mulcahey’s office. I’d made a bet I could get my mates a bottle of sacramental wine. When Father Mulcahey got wind off the missing bottle, he roused us out of bed. He asked nicely which one of lads us did it. I was about to accept the punishment and the Hail Mary's that went along with it, when Andy steps out front, says he was the culprit. Everyone else goes back to sleep, and then the father calls us both into his office. I was thinking we were going to get a beating either way. Instead, he opens up this little box and offers us a set of crosses. Makes us wear them and take a vow. Next month during the holidays, we had our initials etched. Been on me every day since then.”
“What was the vow?”
“Never leave your brother behind. That’s what I’m doing. I’m not leaving Andy behind.”
On The Riverside Of Promise Page 9