Silent

by David Mellon

  “How the hell do you know how to ride a motorcycle?” George said.

  She looked up at him through her lenses. Grabbing the front of his coat she pulled him over and kissed him on the mouth. He kissed her back.

  She took a deep breath, straightened her googles once more, and off she went.

  • • •

  “He what?”

  Brother Christopher was up and stepping into his sandals before Xander could answer. They were out the door and running down the corridor as fast as they could, trying not to make too much of a racket.

  “He said,” whispered Xander, running to keep up, “he thought Adi might still be alive. And he said, he had business with the abbot.”

  “That’s what he said?”

  “Yes. And—he’s got one of the packages.”

  Brother Christopher skidded to a halt. “What?”

  “I saw the address and everything.”

  Brother Christopher shook his head, assessing this new information.

  “Go wake your brother. Meet at the rendezvous.”

  • • •

  Abbot Berno was awake. He’d hardly slept a wink. He was lying on his cot thinking about porridge. How, if everything went as planned, he would never have to see another bowl of it. Never have to hear another dirging canticle, sung by discordant old men.

  And, he thought, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, never again will I have to hear the sound of my son sweeping outside my window.

  • • •

  Halick. The abbot didn’t know him when he first arrived—why would he? He’d never laid eyes on the boy.

  But in the small window of time before the war shut down the news, he’d heard the rumors that the son of the duchess of Alorainn had gone missing. He came upon a photograph of the royal family shortly after and he understood. The young man he’d found standing outside the gates of the abbey was his own child.

  So many questions. Why had Halick gone missing? What had happened to his mind? And most mysterious and important—why had he been left at the abbot’s doorstep?

  The day after he appeared, Abbot Berno had packed his trunk, ready to get the hell out of there. Then the first of the boys’ packages arrived and changed everything.

  • • •

  Twenty-three years earlier, Johanna’s father, a professor of literature at Leiden University, had been pleased to have this charming young seminary student as his secretary. Nicolas Paul was hard-working and bright, and the professor paid him next to nothing. And being as the lad was practically a man of the cloth, the professor didn’t have to be concerned for his daughter, whom he had certainly noticed was ripening into a great beauty.

  Several months later, however, when Johanna began to show, she was sent away, “to look after an ailing aunt in Gloucester.” And for the first time—but certainly not the last—Nicolas Paul would pack his trunk and relocate.

  It was during his time at a Spanish monastery in Cantabria that he heard about Johanna’s advantageous marriage into the Royal Family of Alorainn. How she had managed that, he could hardly guess.

  Years later, after a few more aliases and many more stories to tell, he found himself in this latest incarnation as abbot of the Gentiana Abbey. It was not lost on him that he and Johanna had ended up living only miles apart.

  He’d fantasized about visiting her, but had never acted upon the impulse. Though they might have plenty to talk about after all this time, it would be to no one’s advantage.

  • • •

  When the brothers from the abbey met him at the train station for the first time, he felt like an actor stepping onto the stage. He actually threw up from panic right before the train pulled in.

  He needn’t have worried. He was brilliant. There were a few close calls, the odd slip. But he always talked his way around it.

  Really, it was a shame he didn’t enjoy it more. He wasn’t a bad abbot, better than some of his predecessors. It was chiefly administration. Keep them busy and stop the brothers and the non-clerical staff from squabbling.

  And didn’t they all just love it when he did the upright Christian thing—taking in the poor orphaned twins, for instance. It was enough to make him believe in God. How else to explain this bounty being delivered unto him. After all, the packages did come marked Care of Abbot Berno.

  “God knows I certainly didn’t plan on this charade taking so long,” he muttered. “Those damned boys, and the waiting. The waiting for that one more package!

  “I won’t be cursing them much longer. The first decent meal and expensive bottle of wine I lay hands on, I will raise a glass to them. And their mysterious benefactor.

  “Or”—he laughed—“I’ll be spending the rest of my life in prison. It all depends on the next few hours.”

  Which is why he’d had poor Brother Hilbert waiting all night in the shadows for the past three nights, to see who might appear at the gates.

  Of course he knew about Brother Christopher and the boys and their late-night meanderings. They were amateurs, after all. What he didn’t know for sure was, why?

  “Isn’t it always the simplest explanation, though?” he said

  Brother Christopher was planning to make off with the loot. It was obvious. Maybe he was cutting the boys in? Probably not. Doesn’t matter. “Everything is safe. Safe in my trunk. In the boot of the car. All ready to go.”

  Tucking his hands behind his head, the abbot listened to the rain beginning to come down. The sound of sweeping stopped briefly but then resumed.

  “When does that boy ever sleep?”

  What did concern the abbot, spoiling his sleep for weeks now, was that letter.

  On the train, all those years ago, there had been no mention of a brother, though that was hardly conclusive. All of his quiet inquiries since had revealed an impressive number of sisters, but no proof of a living brother.

  But Abbot Berno, or Nicolas Paul, or whatever he would be calling himself tomorrow, knew all about the lies and half-truths told in families. After his family found out about the woman and the child and the disintegration of his oh-so-promising career in the bishopric, he imagined that all mention of him had ceased, as surely as if he had died at birth.

  It didn’t matter. The real abbot’s real brother. Or a fabricated one. It amounted to the same thing. Someone who could expose him.

  A tap on the door.

  “Father Abbot,” whispered Brother Hilbert poking his head in, out of breath. “There’s a man. A soldier. At the gate. He’s got a package.”

  Chapter 39

  “Where are you, Xander?”

  Standing as close under the meager overhang as he could manage, Thomas shivered and watched his breath rise up through the now heavy rain.

  “Where are you—and what happens now?”

  As much as George, Thomas, and Augustin had discussed Adi’s mad predicament over the years, they’d never had enough information to know what might happen to the twins if the time ran out. When it got to be 6:01 A.M. on November 11th, 1918.

  “It’s not as if they’re going to simply—poof!—disappear,” said Augustin. They all agreed with that.

  But sometimes, Thomas wasn’t so sure. Though school at the abbey had pretty much beaten it out of him, he was raised a good Catholic boy. Magical thinking was part of the package: walking on water, raising the dead, saints carrying their heads around in their hands. There was always a lot of weird business going on.

  “I guess it would be too much to hope,” said Thomas, “that Adi might show up. Wouldn’t that be wonderful.”

  He heard a little rattle behind him and turned to see an eye peering through the peephole in the gate.

  “Xander?” said Thomas. “Is that you?”

  The gate opened with a creak, light shimmering through the rain. There stood a brother, one Thomas didn’t recognize.

  The man held the lantern up to get a better look. “I’m Brother Christopher,” he said.

  “And I am Thomas Hast
. I do apologize for the hour.”

  “And I beg your pardon for keeping you standing out in this. Come in. I understand you have a package for Father Abbot?”

  Thomas considered handing it over, but then thought better of it.

  “Of course,” said Brother Christopher, seeing him hesitate. “If you’ll come with me I’ll take you to his quarters.” He opened the gate wide.

  • • •

  It had been several years since Thomas had lived in the abbey but it took no time at all for him to see that they weren’t going anywhere near the abbot’s little house.

  “Could have moved,” thought Thomas.

  But as they passed through the cloisters and the back garden, down the stairs to the old chapel, that possibility became highly unlikely.

  “I’m pretty certain he’s not sleeping in here,” thought Thomas, looking up at the crumbling stone façade. Brother Christopher let them in and got the door shut just ahead of a powerful gale. The lantern nearly blew out as he shut the great wooden door behind them. Brother Christopher was going on about the fire that had burned a good deal of the structure back when the place was a nunnery.

  The scaffolding on both walls of the long narrow chapel creaked and rattled from the wind flapping through the oilcloths in the unfinished windows above them. As they passed down the center aisle, the circle of light from their lantern lit the remnants of grotesque medieval faces on the frescoed walls.

  “Excuse me, Brother,” Thomas said, “These paintings—might I have the lantern for a moment?”

  With reluctance Brother Christopher handed it over. Thomas placed the lamp upon a creaking shelf.

  And then without warning, he grabbed the front of the brother’s robe and slammed him against one of the scaffold supports. The lantern rocked on the ledge, sending crazy shadows slashing across the walls. From under the brother’s cassock, a tiny derringer clattered to the floor.

  Thomas kicked it away and had his own out and pointed before the man could blink twice.

  “Sorry, Brother,” said Thomas, as the door blew open at the end of the room. “But there’s a few too many odd things going on here. Start by telling me where you’re taking me and why you thought you needed a gun to do it?”

  “You don’t understand,” Brother Christopher said. “I was trying to—”

  Footsteps in the shadows, a hammer cocked right behind Thomas’s head. He looked back to see Brother Hilbert holding a pistol.

  “Trying to, what, Brother?” said Abbot Berno, stepping into the light.

  • • •

  Having a reasonably good idea of how to start the engine, Adi had persuaded George and Samuel (and herself) that she knew what the hell she was doing on this machine.

  She made it out of the carport—and out of their sight—before she went off the cobblestones into the garden. Barely avoiding a fountain, she kept the bike from stalling and made it back up onto the drive just before the gates. She nearly killed herself a half dozen more times in the first mile. All she could think about was how much of her precious fuel she was burning.

  It got better. The brakes on the thing seemed next to useless. And the wind, weaseling its way into any tiny opening in her coat, cut like a knife. But once she figured out how to work the throttle, she realized she was hurtling along like a rocket, sweeping away the miles.

  Ahead on the right—There! The sign for Gentiana Abbey. Five kilometers! She could do this!

  That’s when the mist turned to rain and Samuel’s beautiful orange motorcycle drank its last drop of petrol.

  • • •

  The abbot directed Brother Hilbert to take Thomas’s pistol.

  “Let’s see who we have here,” said the abbot. Taking Thomas’s pistol from Brother Hilbert, he turned Thomas toward the light.

  “I’ll be damned—it’s—what was it? Thomas Hast! I never forget a name. And look at you. All grown up. You’re looking well, Thomas. How’ve you been?”

  “A bit confused at the moment, Father Abbot.”

  “Yes,” said the abbot, his smile fading. “These are confusing times.” He wiped some of the rain from his head. “I understand you have a package for me?”

  Thomas took the package from his pocket. He’d never actually looked at the address. He tilted it toward the lamp.

  “It’s for Xander and Xavier?” he said, staring down at it, incredulous.

  “Why is this news to you?” said the abbot. He snatched the package from Thomas’s hands and dropped it into the pocket of his robe.

  Just then, carried on the wind, there came the sound of people shouting. Abbot Berno cocked his head to listen but it was too faint to make out.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Time for you all to be gone.”

  “Father Abbot?” said Brother Hilbert timorously. “Shouldn’t we wake the brethren and tell them—?”

  “Tell them what?” said the abbot, turning his gun on the man.

  Brother Hilbert emitted a little shriek.

  But it wasn’t because of the gun.

  The upside-down face of Xavier materialized from the darkness, followed in a flash by the crack of a cricket bat to the side of the abbot’s head.

  Down he went, dropping the pistol. He clutched his head in pain. Brother Christopher snatched the gun from Brother Hilbert, provoking another squawk from him. Xavier flipped over and dropped from the scaffolding to the floor, followed immediately by Xander.

  “Good job, boys!” said Brother Christopher, picking up the abbot’s gun.

  “Is this the man?” asked Xavier, pointing to Thomas. “You know Adi?”

  “We’ll get to that,” said Brother Christopher. “Help Father Abbot to his feet. Though maybe we should start calling him by his real name, Nicolas Paul.”

  Xavier leaned over to help the big man up. In that instant it occurred to Thomas that the derringer was unaccounted for.

  “Call me whatever you like, Brother,” said the abbot. Derringer in hand, he grabbed Xavier and held the gun to his ear. “Ah, ah!” he said to Thomas and Brother Christopher. “Your guns. Down there.” He pointed his chin to the far end of the hall.

  “That derringer’s only got one bullet,” said Brother Christopher, still holding his gun on the abbot.

  “It will be a comfort, then, that you have another twin to replace this one,” said the abbot, tapping the barrel on Xavier’s head.

  Thomas and Brother Christopher looked to one another and Xavier. No one could argue with the abbot’s logic. They tossed the pistols away.

  “Walk me to the door, Xavier,” said the abbot. They moved away up the aisle but then stopped. The abbot looked back at Brother Christopher.

  “How did you know?”

  “Seven years ago,” said Brother Christopher. “When you were met by the monks at the train station. You didn’t know I was there, looking on. I hadn’t seen my older brother in years. I was going to surprise him. Imagine my . . . bewilderment, at seeing you introduce yourself.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said the abbot.

  “No doubt,” said Brother Christopher.

  Holding tight to Xavier’s collar, Abbot Berno marched the lad along till they reached the door, wide open, rain blowing in with the tempest.

  “Listen,” Thomas said.

  They could make out the shouting now.

  “Fire! Abbot’s house, on fire!”

  • • •

  The abbot slammed the doors behind them and casting about, pointed at a piece of lumber on a pile of rubble to the right of the entrance. Xavier hesitated.

  “Don’t cross me, boy,” he said, his customary avuncular tone gone.

  Xavier picked up the board. The abbot grabbed it from him and jammed it into the door handles.

  “Now come on,” he barked.

  Up the stairs they ran, the abbot pushing Xavier whenever he slowed.

  As they came out from the cloisters, brothers were staggering out of the dormitory, rubbing their eyes, pulling on robes.<
br />
  A brother turned and spotted them. “Father Abbot!” he yelled.

  The abbot wrapped his finger around the trigger of the tiny derringer hidden just beneath his sleeve.

  “Thank God, Father! You’re all right! We thought—” He ran off shouting, “Abbot’s safe! He’s not inside!”

  Coming around the library, they saw bright flames pouring from the back of the abbot’s little two-room house. Several of the brothers were attempting to organize a bucket brigade from the well in the courtyard.

  “Perfect,” muttered the abbot. “I’ll get to the car. And away I’ll go.”

  Several more brothers came running up to them. Xavier broke away from the abbot and ran, circling back to the chapel. Short of firing at the boy, there was nothing the abbot could do to stop him. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, pocketing the derringer.

  Standing with his back to the great yew tree in the center of the courtyard, the abbot took one last look at his home of seven years and heard an unfamiliar voice.

  “It’s not in the car.”

  He turned to find Halick, broom in hand, shadowed by the branches of the great tree.

  “What?” said the abbot.

  “Your trunk,” said Halick, quietly. “It’s not in the boot anymore.” He closed his eyes and turned his face to the rain. “I put it back safe. In the closet.”

  Nicolas Paul stared at his son, searching for some sign of misunderstanding, some indication that his defective brain was getting the words wrong. The boy lowered his head, tears of rain running down his cheeks. He turned to his father and smiled.

  • • •

  They came around past the library: Thomas, Brother Christopher, and the boys. Xander spotted the abbot first amidst the chaos. “There!” he shouted.

  The abbot had thrown open the door of the little house, and was standing looking in at the smoke and flame. Halick, dancing wildly about, laughed and brandished his broom at any of the brothers who got too close. Finally with a hoot, he threw the broom high into the air. Shoving his father into the house before him, he followed and slammed shut the door.

  • • •

  Coal listened to the screams. Everyone around him, crying and shouting.