by Mark Tufo
As soon as I was inside my room, I fell down on my knees. Clasping my fingers together tightly I looked up into the moonlight that shone through the small window and prayed fervently. I wept the words, pleadingly.
“Father, please! Please grant me the strength to do thy bidding. Banish this fear from my weak soul. Give me the wisdom to make the right decisions. Guide me through this. I am but a humble servant, Lord.”
The tears fell from my cheeks and I leaned forward, pressing my face to the cold stone of the floor. I stay that way for hours, letting the salty tears form a puddle under my lips and nose.
I heard nothing. No response to my plea. No comfort to my despair and my fear. It was as though I had been forsaken. I looked around and saw the shadows retreat, hissing and recoiling to the cracks and crevices, alive with some kind of life of their own. I threw myself back and crashed into the side of the bed, breaking the leg and stumbling down onto the mattress. I felt a hand on my shoulder and was about to run when I heard the Lord’s voice.
“Marciel.” He whispered.
“Oh, God!” I spun around and fell to my knees, clutching his robe with my fists.
His eyes stared down at me, soothing me with that warm smile. I could feel him lift me to my feet but I was still sobbing and curling inward like a small child. I felt safe in his arms and did not want to leave the sanctuary that they were. I was shaking, I could feel it. I had never felt so many human emotions all at once. I felt pity for them that they had to endure this.
“Be strong, Angel. The Lord is here with you.” His words fell gently to my ears.
“I have fought many evils Lord but this evil” I stammered, “this evil is overwhelming. Is it because of the human body I hide in? Speak to me, Lord. Please!”
The Lord brushed his hand over my brow like a father to his son, smiling brighter. I suddenly felt like a child afraid of the boogie monster in the closet and the heat of embarrassment filled my face. He led me to my writing table and pulled out the chair with his free hand. His arm that was around me, gently guided me to sit and then he handed me the quill.
“Write, Marciel. That is all you must know. Just, write.” He said.
I was stunned. What about this mortal? What about me? Was this evil strong enough to destroy me? With all the wars I had fought, I now felt like a child fighting off a nightmare. I felt alone and scared. The fear made me feel foolish and now he was guiding me to write? I stared down at the quill and watched as the tip shook in my trembling hand not from fear but from the internal struggle.
How could I sit here and do nothing? Because it’s God’s will. Why was it God’s will to let this mortal be prey to such evil? Just write.
The thoughts mulled around in my mind and I fought to keep control. I kept reminding myself of what the consequences were of testing God’s will. I kept forcing myself to remember what God did to –
I froze. Oh, God, it can’t be.
“It’s Lucifer, isn’t it?!” I spun around to ask but the Lord was gone.
MARCO DULANTE: WORLD IN MY EYES
Marco, sighed at the sound of Isabel’s laughter. Even in her weakened state it was music to his ears; and music was the one thing that mended Marco’s heart when he left Isabel’s family for the boys’ home five hundred miles away. When he arrived there, he and his caretaker were received with peaceful smiles and generous offerings. They showed Marco and his companion for this trip, to a large room with all the comforts he’d grown accustomed to in his former home. He had some hope that life might not be so bad for him.
A week later, when Marco watched his companion leave, he was quickly introduced to the way life would really be. It was still dark on a Thursday morning. His door flung open and the burly man in charge, whom all the children called Monsieur, barked at him.
“Wake up, worthless goat dung!”
Marco blinked a few times, and Monsieur grew angry. It was Marco’s first lesson in the large man’s temper, which he swore from that day on, never to invoke again if he could help it. The crack of his rod brought with it the searing pain and the rise of his skin in a thick, red welt.
Scrambling to get to his feet, Marco stood there in the half-light, wide-eyed and shivering with cold, “Sir, please. What ..what did I do?”
The large man wobbled toward him, waving the rod to emphasize his threatening tone, “Your days of leisure are over! You belong to me and from now on you will earn your keep!”
He was bellowing so loudly that his face transformed to a beet red color. His jowls wiggled like gelatin and his eyes grew bloodshot with each shout and frantic wave of his arm. Marco continued to back up until he felt the cool, stone wall behind him. Monsieur finally stopped yelling and pointed out the doorway.
“You sleep with the other fodder.” He sneered with contempt, and when Marco didn’t respond fast enough, he began shouting again, “Go! Go now, boy!”
Marco ran past him, crouched low and fearful of the rod’s sting reaching him again. Once he was all the way out of the room and half way down the hall at a safe distance, he turned. The staff were removing all of his things by the box full. He was dumbfounded. Everything he’d ever had, had been lost or stolen from him. Curling within himself, he turned back around and headed toward the communal bunks with the rest of the boys.
The morning had just broke light and began to filter in by the time he was awakened for the second time. The bustle and commotion of the other boys got him set into motion. Getting dressed in the plain grey uniform tunic and robes, they were all given, he followed the rest down to the breakfast room.
There were boys that were taller much older than he was who reminded him of Edward, and he cringed subconsciously. They pushed past him and the smaller boys roughly, ensuring they’d get the larger, better portions of what little food was served. The smaller boys did not protest. Instead, they all backed up and gave the older boys more room.
Marco fell into a state of despair. He went through the motions slowly, hoping to fit in well enough that he would blend in with the walls and avoid attention all together. One of the friars entered and began ringing a large bell. Clanging it loudly, he shouted over the calamity.
“Let’s go! Clean up! Time for lessons!” Each shout was followed by another, hard clang of the large bell.
Marco followed the boys until they came to another room. They all began filing in, once more brushing past Marco as he stood there watching. A tall, slender man who almost looked like a woman stood in the center of the room. The boys surrounded him and stepped onto the risers: shorter ones up top, taller ones staying on the floor. When the man turned around, Marco took a visible step back. His dark eyes were made even darker by the paint that he wore on the lids. If that weren’t frightening enough, he had a gaze that would go right through you like a spear. Slowly, he let that gaze fall onto Marco.
“You are new.” He said, staring down his angled nose at him.
Marco hated the weight of this man’s stare. It was heavy and judgmental, and felt as cold as a winter’s day on him.
“Yes, my Lord.” Marco responded in barely a whisper.
“I am Maestro Arasorio.” He said, and straightened up his long, twisted spine with vanity and pride.
As if he wasn’t frightening enough, he extended a waif-like hand and pointed off to the side, “Stand over there and listen.”
“When you feel like you understand your place, find your way to proper riser.” He instructed, and then continued.
“If you take too long I will assume you do not wish to praise our glorious Father, and I will send you off to Monsieur…” He paused then and lifted is pencil thin brows before leaning in closer “For adjustment.”
Marco decided right then and there that he had no idea what that meant, and he had no intentions of finding out, either.
“Yes, my Lord.”
The man took an extra-long moment to pull his gaze away from Marco and re-focused on the crowd in front of him. Raising his hands upward, his spindly b
ody poised awkwardly frozen in that moment while every one of the boys’ eyes locked on him. Maestro Arasorio swayed with a sudden lurch to the side, sending his curly hair thrashing about but what he commanded and pulled from that seemingly flamboyant and ungraceful movement was a singular rise of voices. The boys’ voices fell into unison and created such a heavenly sound that Marco released a sudden, small gasp.
The voices were light and angelic. The sound made keeping his eyes open any longer impossible. Lulled into a trance, Marco’s eyelids fell shut and he was lost in blissful rapture. Each one of those boys alone, were nothing more than he was. All of them were the discarded trash, abandoned by the rest of the world. Together however, their voices commanded the soul, and brought the voices of angels down to earth.
From that day onward, Marco dedicated his life to music and to God. It was only God who could’ve known what his heart needed. Music spoke to him straight from the Father’s lips to his ears, and he knew it was the only thing that could replace the hole left there by Isabel’s absence. He threw everything he was into learning the hymns and the music. Eventually, he even earned favor with Maestro and Monsieur. When people heard Marco sing, they requested the boys’ choir more often and the word spread from each house of nobility to the very halls of the Vatican.
One summer afternoon, word from Rome came. The pope requested the presence of the boys’ choir and specifically, Marco. Monsieur’s eyes lit up with gold coins. It was Maestro who brought the subject up of what they would wear.
“Monsieur! You cannot go before the Holy See with the boys in such condition!” He exclaimed, his eyes stretched wide at such a ridiculous notion.
“You expect me to spend all my earnings on these goat fodders?!” He yelled back.
“I cannot work this way.” Maestro threw his hands up and sauntered away and then rushed back again in a fit.
“You expect too much, Monsieur! It is a performance before the Pope. Head of the Catholic Church! He can take the boys away from you as easily as scratching his nose!” Maestro’s voice had hit a glass-shattering soprano pitched shriek.
Monsieur scoffed and pushed the Maestro away, throwing his frail body against the doorway, “Not one pence more than what is needed, or I’ll shove my dagger so far into your arse you’ll speak of shit for weeks!”
Maestro cried out at the threat then maneuvered past the large man, scurrying like a rat along the stone to make the arrangements.
When the boys woke up the next morning, they went into the music hall and were greeted with miles of fabric. Velvet and damask, golds, and reds at every turn. Women were already working to cut patterns and pulling the boys off to the side for measurements. In one corner they measured for jackets, in another for pantaloons and still another for slippers.
When the storm was finally over, the boys looked at one another and burst into laughter. There was pushing and rough housing as they teased each other before the sound of Monsieur’s rod snapped them into order.
“If any of you little bastards rips or soils these outfits I shall rip your young testicles from between your legs and feed them to the swine in the yard!” He hissed from between his rotted teeth.
Jabbing the end of the rod into each of the older boys’ faces, then swinging it around to encompass them all, he assaulted them with the foulest threats Marco had ever heard. And they knew, he’d follow through with each one if their outfits did not come back just as pristine as when the boys left.
The boys were undressed and washed. Even Marco didn’t recognize his own reflection when he gazed into the mirror. Not only did he look and feel human again, he smelled human. He couldn’t help but smile. He was sixteen now, nearly a man. His jaw was starting to square off and his body was lean and strong from manual labor. He managed to take in enough nourishment to not look sickly, but not too much that he would be noticed for gluttony. Looking down at his hands, his smile grew more. Even his nails were clean.
The older maids came in to dress them and do final touches to the outfits before their first performance. The travel to get here was long and arduous but the beds and linens that the Pope arranged for them to sleep in the night before felt like he was sleeping in the clouds. There was a knock on the door and Maestro snapped his fingers, commanding his troops’ attention.
“Shh! Shhh!” He sounded like a snake.
The boy at the door spoke in a soft, gentle tone. “The Pope calls for you and Marco Dulante. He wishes to have a private audience with you before your performance during mass.”
Spinning dramatically, Maestro’s long fingers beckoned Marco toward him. When Marco looked surprised and faltered, Maestro snapped his fingers, again. His face twisted into a contorted mask.
“Move quickly, boy!” He whispered loudly.
Marco rushed toward him and lowered his head, obediently. Dark curls fell to his brow but he peered from under them to look past the boy at the door. The Vatican was adorned in every luxury imaginable and it made Marco’s jaw go slack. With a pinch from Maestro, Marco flinched but submitted without another sound.
“Please boy, lead the way.”
Then Maestro’s grip on Marco’s elbow tightened and he pulled the boy closer, whispering into his ear, “If you mess up, I’ll feed you to Monsieur and his seedy men back home. You’ll know the meaning of fodder by the time they are through with you. Do you understand? Just nod if you do.”
Marco nodded quickly and Maestro plastered his fake, jester-like smile onto his face greeting everyone they were introduced to before a clergy of men in white and crimson robes marched forward, the Holy See in the middle of them all. The papal group moved past them all as they lowered beneath the shortest one, reverently. The Pope stopped before his chair and turned. The others followed his movements. When he sat, they did, too.
In an old, gravelly voice, the Pope beckoned for Maestro who made an like exaggerated boy and leaned in to kiss the holy ring.
“So this is your apprentice, Antonio?”
Marco watched intently, brows rising at the familiarity between the Pope and the Maestro. The Maestro only bowed further before speaking.
“Since my infraction upon you, I have crawled into the deepest, foulest bowels of the Devil’s cesspool to find a thing of beauty…” Maestro said, then looked up at the old man from beneath hooded, painted lids, “For you.”
Lifting his twisted spine so that he was erect again, he stepped back and let his hand present the boy who’d nearly died at Isabel’s home, now dressed and elevated to the privilege of meeting the Pope.
Marco bowed low seeing that the Holy Father had let his eyes move from Maestro to himself. The priest was about to speak to the boy when another man stepped up and leaned in to whisper against the Pope’s ear. Marco could see from the corner of his eye, the gnashing of teeth from Antonio Arasorio, the discarded Maestro of the Pope.
The gravel-torn voice of the Father reached them, once more, “Maestro, I don’t doubt that he’s every bit as beautiful as you declare him to be. Will you both wait for me here, I have a small matter to attend to.”
Maestro was about to protest but the quick shot of the Pope’s eye put him into place without another word. The Priest lifted his hand then and waved the small audience at the door to come in. What Marco saw next nearly stopped his heart. Isabel was being escorted by her mother and father, along with another boy around his age and what appeared to be his parents. His heart was growing heavy like lead with each step she made toward them. She seemed sullen and morose, nothing like the girl he remembered playing with. It all came flooding back. Edward had stolen their innocence in every way, that day.
He could bear no more and turned to look away, tightening his jaw in anger and hurt. He understood now. She was about to be betrothed and they were seeking the blessing of the Holy See.
“Isabel, Louis!” The Pope’s graveled voice turned softer, almost grandfatherly.
Isabel and Louis bowed, both taking turns kissing the Pope’s ring. Her parents mad
e their greeting, and so did the other young man and his.
“George.” He said, finally. “I haven’t seen you since you were born, at your christening.”
Marco felt the eyes on him and he tried with all his might not to look but he could not stand it anymore. Turning his head, his eyes met Isabel’s and she looked as shocked to see him as he was when she walked in. The conversation turned in her direction again and she drug her gaze away to participate. As he feared, they were discussing the conditions of Isabel’s engagement.
“However, your grace…” Isabel’s mother said, turning to look at her daughter. “Our Isabel feels it is her duty to serve God, before man. She prays that you grant her to be excused from her betrothal to commit to the duties that God has called her to.”
Marco’s heart skipped a beat and looked up from the floor toward the two women, then over at George who seemed to want no part in any of the arrangements. He did not love her! He could care less if they were betrothed or not. For a split second, he had hope but it was drowned out by the conversation of Isabel’s servitude and vow to chastity and servitude. She’d rather be a nun than to marry this boy.
After hearing the arguments, the Pope deliberated before asking to speak to the two alone, without either set of parents. Taking the two into another room, it was nearly an hour before he emerged again.
“Rarely, have I ever seen a commitment so embedded in a soul as I have seen with Isabel. She truly has the calling of God. God’s command speaks above men in all things.” He gazed at both parents in strict warning of contesting his decision before turning to Isabel. “I grant you pardon from your betrothal, under the condition that you be handed over to the care of Abbey of your parent’s choice.”
George’s parents were seething with anger but acquiesced all the same. Giving a curt bow, they turned and stormed out of the court. With a bemused smile, the Pope watched them before turning to Isabel and her family.
“You must stay for mass. This is Maestro Antonio Arasario and his apprentice, Marco Dulante. They will be accompanying the sermon with their music.”