by Mark Tufo
Rebecca’s husband on the other hand, was a good man. He tried to buy Marco time but Rebecca was insistent on sending the boy away. She grew more distant and cold with each passing day until Edward’s funeral. The day they lay him in the ground Rebecca went into a fit of hysterics, calling Marco a murderer and claiming that she could no longer stand the sight of him. There was nothing more that could be done and Marco’s uncle arranged for him to be sent to an orphanage.
When Isabel heard, she burst into her parents’ chambers and protested but there was nothing they could do except to ensure that Marco went to a good orphanage and that he was taken care of. Rebecca would not concede to any plea to reconsider, and even left the service of Isabel’s family, claiming that the ghost of her son haunted the home.
On the night before Marco was to leave, he sent a gift to Isabel. She watched out the window as his meager, worldly possessions were loaded into the carriage and he stood there with his uncle and her brother Louis. Her eyes filled with tears as she clung to the small locket that he made her. It dangled freely from the braided cord of horse hair that she recognized immediately as Marigold’s. The letter attached was penned in his hand:
“Lady Isabel,
Thank you for saving my life. Your family has been like my own, even though I am undeserving of your generosity. God brought me to your door, but briefly. I pray that he shows me the way again, one day. May he love you and keep you in his everlasting light.
Always remember me,
Marco Dulante”
Marco’s uncle helped him into the carriage and tousled his hair before stepping back. The boy looked over at his aunt, longingly, one last time but she had already turned and gone inside. He kept a strong face but Isabel could see his shoulders round forward before he turned and sat down. The driver gave a snap of his whip to the horses and the carriage lurched forward.
Isabel ran from the window and threw open her bedroom door. She ran down the stairway and nearly knocked over half the staff as she bolted toward the back the door. Her feet hit the ground and she chased the carriage, running as fast as her legs would carry her. It was no use. The carriage was growing smaller and smaller as it slipped out of sight, and with it, Marco.
Now, twenty years later, Father Dulante held back the tears of regret. Isabel treated him as if they barely knew one another. It was probably for the best. That day in the stable was a day he did not want to remember either. Edward’s eyes still haunted him in his sleep, but most of all he longed to be near her. It was becoming all-consuming. There were days he struggled with it, trying to distinguish whether his faith called him here or if it was some cruel twist of fate that led the way.
Marco realized he’d been staring at the same page for more than just a few minutes and decided to turn to the next. He felt an odd prickling sensation on the back of his neck as if he was being watched. There was plenty of movement in the courtyard that morning but a shadow caught his attention in the distance beyond the crowd. Looking past them, he jumped out of his seat and stumbled back, almost falling over. Between two of the buildings he saw the pale face of Edward peering out at him from under a crimson cowl.
Just as he took a step toward him, he felt a hand on his shoulder and cried out in surprise.
“Father Dulante?” I smiled, even though he could see my confusion. “Are you alright?”
My concern was evident as I gently pulled my hand back.
“Yes.” He said, and then looked back in the direction of the buildings for a moment and then seemed to let the thought go. He turned back toward me with a smile. “I thought I saw someone I used to know.”
I looked in the direction he did and saw nothing, but I felt it. I knew that whatever he saw was real to him but I did not want to raise alarm, so I smiled and met his gaze again. “It is time for prayers. Shall we?”
I extended my arm forward, motioning toward the chapel and offered him the lead. He seemed grateful at the distraction and nodded, stepping forward with another glance toward Isabel who disappeared into the opposite entrance with the other nuns. His heart was so transparent to me that I felt guilty for knowing what was inside its secret chambers. That guilt was amplified as I met with the deep azure stained glass gaze of the Lord who looked down upon us all as we filed into the chapel. The light that surrounded him warmed my skin as if to reassure me, but the crowd parted and Father Raphael stood alone at the front, replacing Heaven’s gaze with his steely, dark eyes.
I made it through prayers even with all the distraction, clutching to the beads of the rosary between my fingers as I prayed for strength and guidance on this mortal plane. I would do all that I could to see through my job as the Lord saw fit. I would record all that I saw, heard, and experienced. No act or moment would slip by without being penned to parchment.
I would soon find out though, that my determination to do God’s will would be tested repeatedly. There was darkness afoot. Father Raphael would see to it that things kept me from my duties. I would also find that being a mortal would come with the heavy burden of being tested as one. With mortal flesh came mortal emotions and weaknesses. Prayer was the only weapon I had left to wage war. I was not only gaining more of the mortal emotions and weaknesses, I was losing the memories of my angelic form and home. I could no longer see God’s face in my mind. My only connection to the Lord was prayer and his visits.
I was becoming weary and tired. I was aging. I even fell to bouts of sickness. I had no friends, save Father Dulante. I was failing. I needed to do something but I didn’t know what that something was.
Recording as much as I could about Isabel was getting harder these days. She had become more of a recluse as time went on. I worried that she might be growing ill from her exposure to the sick, and seeing her today confirmed some of my anxiety. Feeling the need for support, I decided to go watch the boys’ choir again. Their voices, so light and innocent, reminded me of Home. It was the best place to be right now. Walking out into the garden courtyard, I caught sight of Isabel wandering through a labyrinth of trees. Smiling at the unforeseen opportunity to observe, I followed her.
The beauty of the garden was that it was a common area. Men and women were allowed to be in the same company. Though speaking for lengths of time would be frowned upon, I could easily sit quietly and feed the birds while keeping vigil over her. I must’ve been lost in my thoughts and missed a turn she made because I lost sight of her. Turning in circles for a moment, instinct would guide me to the right. It was a more tranquil section of the garden. The foliage was thicker, making the path even narrower. I dipped my hand into the pouch at my waist grabbing some stale bread crumbs from the morning’s walk and began to spread them on the grass. Birds were already flocking close to me and the free meal.
Each step I took, I could hear the gravel crunch beneath my weight. The cowl of my robes enveloped my features which made hiding my eyes easier. I could scour the area for Isabel without drawing attention to myself. Pausing for a moment, I listened for any clues of her. The sound of trickling water was close by. Perhaps there was a water fountain? Then the sound of a few crunching footfalls off to my left could be heard before going silent again. I turned in that direction and was about to take a step when a flock of doves fluttered quickly into the sky; a few of them circling the area as if protecting something before flying off again.
Curiosity got the better of me. Isabel could be over there. I proceeded cautiously with my guise at the ready, leaving behind me the trail of bread crumbs. So as to not startle whoever was there, I began to hum softly a song Father Dulante’s choir.
As if on cue, a woman’s voice chimed in and I smiled, continuing toward it and rounding the corner until I saw her. My smile began to fade when my eyes settled on the woman before me. Isabel was standing there in a strange trance-like state. Her head was tilted back and cocked unnaturally to the side. Staring straight ahead, it appeared that she was captivated by the statue before her. I followed her gaze and saw it. A large angel that was
caught mid-flight, his spear aimed at the serpent below him and coiled defensively on the rock. His wings were outstretched in a glorious display, shadowing the sun from the enemy both literally and symbolically. Beneath the rock was the source of the trickling water; it cascaded down into the fountain that I assume, the birds were bathing in prior to her arriving.
As breath-taking as the statue was, I could not understand what held her as transfixed as she was and so before I began to speak, I stood waiting in silence. Other than the sound of the water there was no other sound. No birds singing. No insects buzzing. No breeze rustling through trees. It was completely still. I looked around unnerved by the silence and caught sight of Father Raphael just past the statue in the doorway of a chapel fifty yards away.
In his hand was an apple of which he was carving into with a small, sharp knife. He smiled at me just as he turned, slipping the flesh of the fruit between his lips. Even at that distance the sound of the door to the chapel slamming shut caused me to jump.
The abrupt break in silence shook me to the core until Isabel’s voice started to come through, “Marciel?”
It still didn’t register, so she repeated my name until I responded.
“Marciel? Can I help you?” She asked.
Blinking, I tried to make sense of everything, “I – No, Milady. I thought I heard someone” I said finally.
She watched me for a moment. I think she was expecting some explanation other than what I had given but whatever I could possibly say would sound mad. It would do me no good to have her against me, especially if I was trying to help her. She looked around as if she were confused on how she got there.
“I don’t recall this fountain being here.”
“Neither do I, sister” I said.
“Tis very beautiful, is it not?” She mused in a faraway voice.
“Yes, mum. It is.” I agreed. And it was. The craftsmanship took on a life of its own. It looked as if the angel might land at any moment.
Isabel’s eyes watched me with curiosity for a moment. Something more was behind her gaze but I could not place it. Was it awareness, maybe? Whatever she saw in me, it made me feel self-conscious.
“Are you alright, Milady?” I asked in genuine concern.
She did not seem well at all. Her face had grown pale and slightly gaunt, and a darkness crept around her eyes that I had never seen before. She forced a smile and looked away at the fountain again, remaining silent for a moment before she responded, “I am.”
I nodded and gave a slight bow to her, turning to make my way back to my room when she broke in again, “How is your book coming?”
A chill rose up my spine and I could not move. It was Isabel’s voice, but it was dark and cold as if it was produced by something or someone else. I turned toward her again, my hands clenching around each forearm beneath the bell sleeves of my robes, “Milady?”
That far away stare was there again. Her eyes were cold and grey for a moment and I awaited her response but one did not come. I was about to repeat myself when her eyes shone with life more and she spoke. It was like having two separate conversations; one she was privy to and one she was not.
“I was just coming out to cut fresh flowers and found myself here” she said. “It’s getting late; I should head back inside before prayers.”
I was speechless for a moment, my jaw hanging loose before I nodded and bowed again, keeping my head low until she passed. It took all my strength of will to remain there and not flee once she had disappeared from sight. If I ran, it would draw attention to myself and attention brought with it questions. I was alone in the garden with Isabel. It could, if someone wanted to portray it in such a way, look less than innocent. I needed help and sound advice.
With a final glance to the chapel I narrowed my eyes searching for signs of Father Raphael then made a quick retreat to the choir room. I needed to be in the company of my Maker, but he was not here. Second to him, Father Dulante was my only hope.
Father Dulante stood before the children of the boys’ choir. His frustration was mounting but he always managed to keep level-headed. He was known for his gentle demeanor and ability to mediate tense situations. A handsome man, he was tall for the time standing at six foot three inches. He had a soft, olive complexion and deep brown eyes.
Tapping the podium once more, Father Dulante was calling the attention of the young boys ranging in age from nine to thirteen. Being naturally lean and of good muscle structure, the quiet man often commanded attention from those around him. The boys quieted down and faced the priest who was now brushing back the loose brown bangs that continually fell to his brow when he bent to read the music before him.
Father Dulante was the new young assistant to Father Raphael. His passion was music so the senior priest gave him the task of training the young orphan boys that they often had charge of. He had complained many times before that it was much too cold for the boys to practice in this room. Even with the blazing hearth on the far wall, it was often damp and affected the boys’ performance in the early morning. If he was to take his work seriously, he would have to impress upon Father Raphael that it was imperative they get another room.
Despite Father Raphael’s cool exterior, he would often come to watch the boys’ practice which pleased Father Dulante at first until he noticed a few of the boys seemed on edge at his presence. His lead soprano would often get distracted and his voice would crack or just be off key. He chalked it up to nerves then scheduled a couple more practices with a small audience this upcoming week so that the boy could get used to singing in public.
Isabel overheard the young priest and Father Raphael in a heated discussion as she passed the room one afternoon. Father Dulante was desperately trying to convince his senior that the boys’ voices were too strained in the morning and that their teeth were chattering making the scales close to impossible. She made a mental note to personally see that they received a new room the next day. The children were of a special interest to Isabel. She always made sure they had only the best portions of meals and bedding. A young girl herself when she was led to her calling, she had an affinity for those at such a tender age.
Isabel was not only a child from a noble family, she was also very intelligent. Excelling in education, Latin and easily managed the writings of the Fathers of the Church. She never overlooked more feminine interests such as embroidery but her true delight came from her work with priestly vestments and working for the poor or the sickly.
A devoted daughter and sister, Isabel and her brother, Louis remained close. When Isabel’s mother died she founded the Franciscan Monastery of the Humility of the Blessed Virgin. She turned down the abbess, preferring instead to be a humble subject of the Lord. This monastery has been around for nearly nine years since.
Tonight, the women sat around the fire of the small, modest room. The sun was beginning to sink behind the horizon, and the sisters who were already seated watched as Miriam lit the last candle. She turned around, welcoming the last of the congregation inside with a small smile.
The shuffling of shoes and skirts finally died down as Miriam waited to begin her lesson. It was standard practice for each of them to lead one lesson per month. Father Raphael and the Abbess had collaborated on this decision in order to relieve some of the burden from the Abbess. They said that in doing this, it left her more time to focus on other things while giving the nuns more responsibility and keeping their hearts and minds on God.
Isabel looked forward to these lessons, especially when it was Miriam’s turn. Miriam was very good at giving lessons and the other women agreed, which made them quiet down and settle even faster, in anticipation. With her bible in one hand and her notes lying gently on her lap, she began with her topic of virtue.
“Our Holy Mother is the standard of our virtue.” Glancing toward the statue of Mary, Miriam paused as if engaged in a silent conversation before turning back toward her audience.
“God called upon our Mother and the apostles to t
each us Holy Love, which leads to a virtuous heart.” Miriam leaned forward, setting the book in her lap before letting her eyes sweep over every sister in the front row.
“Each one of them maintained that love and solemn faith through every trial, through every threat, through every danger.” She stopped again, allowing her words to weigh on them then waved her hand flippantly in the air before it found its home on her heart.
“All of them..except Judas.” Miriam stood up, suddenly, consumed by the emotion of her message. “Judas allowed the most perfect love and virtue to be corrupted by fear of Mankind. Men who were set upon murder! Who wished harm upon the Lamb of God..Our Mother’s immaculate conception!”
Every sister now stirred with equal emotion, engaged and entranced with her and shaking their heads. Whispers of disdain filled the room before Miriam straightened up again and turned. Her fingers stretched out widely as she paced like a lawyer pleading his case to the jury. Isabel watched her closest friend but kept her hand pressed against her side to subdue the cramping pain that had begun to plague her since this morning. She would suffer through it in silence out of respect for Miriam. Afterwards, she would make a trip back to the infirmary.
Usually the most quiet and meek of the convent, these lessons brought out Miriam’s passion for Christ. Like Isabel, Miriam’s decision to join the convent came at a very young age. When most mothers were making deals or contracts, Isabel and Miriam had their eyes lifted to God. A marriage of faith was much more desirable to them than a marriage of convenience. From those early years on, these two girls were nearly inseparable in their service to the convent and the Holy Father.
Turning her attention on Miriam, Isabel watched as the woman became more animated.