The Origins of Miller's Crossing

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The Origins of Miller's Crossing Page 8

by David Clark


  As William considered their fate, and Ainslee searched for the source of the water, the coach’s wooden wheels clattered on the cobblestones through the plaza before coming to a stop in front of the stairs. The coach shuddered left and then right, before settling back on its springs with a few smaller bounces. The door opened, and the navy and yellow-clad guard appeared. He stood at attention as Bishop Emmanuel stepped out. He turned to the two remaining passengers and said, “Welcome to Saint Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican, and your home for the next few months.”

  “You mean, we aren’t dead?”, asked William.

  The pinched expression and narrow eyes on Bishop Emmanuel’s face made William feel sheepish. He was not amused as he turned and continued up the stairs.

  William stepped out and then helped his wife down out of the coach. Hand in hand, they followed the bishop up the stairs and through the large golden doors. Inside, they stepped on glossy marble floors. William took a few quick high steps. expecting the floor to be covered in a thin layer of water. With his eyes on the painted ceilings high above his head, this produced a stumble revealing the grace of a foal taking its first steps. Bishop Emmanuel appeared unfazed by their surroundings and continued down the hall.

  They followed him as close as they could, having to jog a few times to catch up after their attention was distracted by a painting on the wall, a vase on a stand, or just the sheer beauty of the illuminated space around them. Their footsteps echoed through the halls like explosions. He turned down a hallway where the lanterns were more spaced out, creating pockets of darkness. In front of them, the bishop disappeared into one of those pockets and then reappeared, only to disappear again. An eerie unsettling feeling overcame William each time he walked through a pocket of darkness. The squeeze on his hand told him Ainslee felt it too. He squeezed back to reassure her.

  It was in one of these pockets of darkness where, if it were not for the blast of light coming from the side, they would have walked right into the bishop. He stood in the center of the hall, in front of an open door, a door he directed both of them through. They entered, he did not.

  The room was quaint, compared to the hallway they’d just left. A large bed sat against the far wall, which was painted white like the others. In front of a large fireplace, with a bronze mesh hanging over the opening, was a table with two chairs. Neither of which were simple wooden chairs like William had at home, both the back and seats had cushions.

  “William. Get some rest. I will send for you in the morning,” Bishop Emmanuel said, just before the door closed behind them.

  When the door closed, Ainslee danced around the room. There was no music, but she didn’t need it. She floated from space to space, looking at everything. The table. The draperies, something neither of them had seen before. William’s tired body and mind were focused on the bed. It looked soft and warm, something neither his back home, nor the one they’d shared on the ship, were. A screech from the attached room sent him running. Inside the white-tiled room was Ainslee, her hands over her mouth, eyes focused on a large tub. Water ran out of a spout into the tub. William walked toward it and passed his hand through the water, his fingers played in the stream falling from the spout. Ainslee stepped forward and turned the silver handle on top of the spout, and the water stopped. She giggled like a little girl chasing a butterfly in the Scottish meadows.

  William walked back out into the main room, mind wandering. His wife followed behind him and finally asked a question she hadn’t asked in the two weeks since they’d left the only home either of them had ever known.

  “William, why are we here?”

  16

  “Please tell me this is some kind of sick joke,” Ainslee begged as she laid back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling above her. It wasn’t a plain flat one, but a beautiful one, a work of art made of moldings and paint. She hadn’t undressed before she laid down. This was not a time for sleep for her, or for William. What her husband had just explained to her had made her feel woozy, and she almost fell in the center of the room. He caught her before she hit the floor and pulled her to the bed. The lightheaded feeling she felt passed as she laid back, but the color had yet to return to her face.

  “I wish it was. I had hoped for years it was, but it isn’t,” William said as he paced at the foot of their bed. Inside, his stomach did backflips. It would have been foolish for him to believe he could keep this hidden from her. At some point he would slip up, or she would become curious and ask about their situation, like she had now. The fact that she hadn’t asked during their two-week long voyage gave him a little hope he would have more time to figure out how.

  “How long has Father Henry known about your… ability?”

  “Only a few weeks, but I believe my father was like me, and he knew about him. I am not sure really.”

  “Bishop Emmanuel is going to train you in what exactly?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure,” said William. He was being truthful. During their one conversation, the bishop had never gone into any great detail in explaining what he would be training him in. He had never asked, either, which in hindsight was a more than a bit foolish. The offer to leave and pursue anything the outside world presented, had hit him in his heart, leaving his mind out of the decision. Looking back on it, the second thoughts were what probably triggered that nightmare he had had. “Something about knowing how to deal with them and to protect the living,” he added.

  “Ok. This must be real,” she said.

  William was preparing to try to explain again, but stopped mid-thought. The pacing stopped, and everything in his mind left, except one question, “What did she just say?”

  “Look at the efforts they went through to bring you here, and look at where we are. We are in the Vatican, the center of everything that is spiritual.” Ainslee was sitting up now, propped on her elbows, her color was returning, but not quite back yet. She patted the bed next to her and said, “He said you start in the morning. You’d better get your sleep, ghost warrior.”

  The wry smile on her face made William leery. It was one he had seen one too many times. That look always ended with him either being pushed off the wall, slugged in the arm, or the butt of her own joke. She and John had always found those jokes hilarious, William, not so much. Her sense of humor was one of the traits he loved about her, but it also cut sharp and deep. Once, when they were barely ten years old, she led him out, away from the farmland he was familiar with, and into the adjacent forest. They had gone in deep, turning here and there. William felt lost, but he wasn’t overly concerned. It was obvious that Ainslee knew where she was going.

  They slowed as they had reached a tree with a trunk that twisted around. She told him that the tree was magical, if you kissed someone under it, your dreams would come true. William was told right where to stand and he did, eyes closed, and lips puckered, then he heard giggling. When he opened his eyes, he saw Ainslee’s hair blowing in the wind behind her as she ran away from him. He tried to follow, but his feet were stuck. Where she had him stand was a patch of moor mud. Stuff so thick and strong it could trap a horse. Being only ten, he was nowhere close to the strength of a horse.

  William screamed and screamed. First for her to come back, then for anyone within ear shot. The combination of the cold damp air and his screaming had caused his voice to go raw and raspy. When it was nothing more than a whisper, she came back. Tears rolled down his cheeks. That devious wry smile was on her face then, too. He expected her to make fun of him, or to take off running again, now in the other direction. Perhaps she would leave him out there all night and only come back when forced to lead his parents to where she had left him. In truth, he hadn’t known what to expect. What had happened next, wouldn’t have made it on the list if he had made one. She leaned in and kissed him. Softly and warmly, her hand dangling next to his and, for just the briefest of moments, she grabbed it. When she let go of his hand, and his lips, she helped him ease his legs out of the moor mud and walked him
home, soggy boots and all. There had been no apology, he didn’t need one. From that point on, things had changed. Maybe that legend was true, look where they are now.

  There was no further conversation for the night. Ainslee’s eyes drew heavy and closed. Her breathing slowed to a restful rhythm. The sound of that soothed William and sent him off to sleep, as well. The next sound he heard was a knock on the door. At first, William laid there and didn’t move. When he heard the knock for a third time, he sat up. Pools of sunlight splashed across the room, through the gaps in the draperies. It was a good thing too, the light helped him see a few things, limiting what he bumped into on his way to the door. He just missed bumping into a chair at a bureau, and a footstool at the end of the bed. As he opened it, a young girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing an all-white habit, stood at the door, her head looking straight down at the golden tray she held.

  Before William could say, “Morning”, or ask what she needed, the girl walked in through the tiny space between the doorframe and William, and proceeded to the table in the center of the sitting section of the room. She placed her tray down, and then hurried out, never looking up from the floor. He walked out behind her and watched her walk at a brisk pace down the hall, her head never coming up, her feet never making an audible sound in the cavernous hall.

  He walked back in and shut the door behind him. Then looked at the tray she had placed on the table. By now Ainslee was awake and sitting up in bed. Her eyes followed her husband as he tended to the door and inspected the tray. It had an assortment of bread and poached eggs, on a plate. Two cups held a brown liquid that William thought was coffee, based on the color and consistency. When he took a sniff of the steam that rose up from it, it was tea. Strong tea. He looked back at Ainslee and said, “Breakfast.”

  She sprang up off the bed and rushed over to the table. They were both famished. The coach had stopped twice to water and feed the horses. The driver, guard, and occupants had taken that opportunity to stop and have a bite to eat, as well, but the excitement and nerves of the day had burned off all their energy, they needed to resupply. They sat and ate, and afterwards took turns in the large porcelain tub with the fountain running into it. For the first time in days, they felt clean. They were only able to sponge off while on the ship. There was no proper bath, just a basin with some water. Ainslee found it better for washing their clothes than washing themselves.

  Cleaned and dressed, they barely had a moment to wonder what was next for the day when there was another, much firmer, knock at the door. William opened it, and found Bishop Emmanuel standing on the other side, hands held near his waist, palms pressed together. There were no pleasantries. No “Good morning” or “How did you sleep?”, just a firm “Come, William. We need to start your lessons.”

  William started out the door, but stopped as the bishop took a step inside. He turned toward where Ainslee stood looking out the window. “Ainslee, my dear. Sister Francine will be back shortly to take the tray and show you around. For the next several weeks, this is to feel like your home. Our city has a lot to offer.” He turned and walked out the door beckoning, “Come, William.”

  Feeling more himself than he had over the last several days, William let a bit of his unsophisticated humor show through. “When is my tour of the city?”

  Bishop Emmanuel retorted, “Oh, you will have plenty of opportunities to see the city. Most of them at night, when you will be most useful.”

  William didn’t know if he was trying to answer humor with humor, or if he was serious.

  17

  William’s parents made sure their son could read and write. Even with the plans of him taking over the family farm, they both saw those skills as necessary to conduct business, as well as to be a contributing member of society, so bookwork didn’t concern him much. What was concerning during his first meeting with Bishop Emmanuel, was the volume and the content. They had set up a makeshift classroom at a table in a large library. All day long, the bishop gave instructions to monks and scribes, in Latin, who scurried away, up and down every aisle, searching the bookcases for what he had requested. William only caught a few names here and there.

  One of the scribes was named Roberto, or that is what the bishop had called him once when he had retrieved the wrong text from the shelves, and he sent the short rotund balding figure back to search again. Another was Cristobal. He was different. Unlike the others, that would go off and search for what was requested. Cristobal not only returned with what he was sent for, but always had one or two more items in hand that he and the bishop took a few moments to review before adding them to the stack. A stack that grew by the moment, and was now totaling ten books, in all. When the eleventh was put on top of it, and the twelfth, one of Cristobal’s recommendations, was put down to the side of the stack, the search was done. Much to the pleasure of the old priests in the opposite corner from them, who had grown rather irritated at all the moving around and interruptions to their silence.

  Pulling two books from the stack, Bishop Emmanuel asked, “I am going to guess you don’t read Latin?”

  “I don’t.”

  This news seemed to upset Roberto and the two other men, whose names William had not yet caught. Each appeared to be in their early thirties, and wore simple white smocks over black gowns. Cristobal responded by saying, “Riformatore.” The others seemed to understand what he said and nodded in agreement. William had no clue and sat there with a blank expression on his face as the conversation occurred above his head. At least until Cristobal explained it to William.

  “Pre-reformation, everyone knew Latin. It was the language of education, law, medicine, and the church. Where you are from, they separated the church, and everything,” he stopped himself to correct the statement, “well, everything you would have been exposed to is now in your common language. There is nothing to worry about. I can translate for you.”

  His tone was warmer, friendlier, than the others’. Everyone else had what his father would call the ‘cold business tone’. They were here to do a job, and that was all. Cristobal gave the impression of someone who wanted to help, which helped William breathe a huge sigh of relief. There was also something different, his accent was richer than the others’. William wondered where he was from. That would be something he would have to ask him at some point.

  Bishop Emmanuel seemed pleased, as much as the man ever showed outwardly, that the young scribe had volunteered to help. So much so, he assigned him to be responsible for his academic training. That was a responsibility he didn’t bat an eye about, as he slid his chair over next to William, dragging two books with him. The others left without a word. No indication of how long this would go on, or when they would be back. William watched as they left, as his teacher began the lesson.

  “William, what do you know about life and death?”

  The question was a seemingly simple one, which to William meant it deserved a similar answer. “Well, you are born and live, then you get old and die.”

  “Okay, in its crudest terms, yes, but what happens after you die?”

  William thought about this for a second and considered where he was. In the Catholic Church there could only be one answer, and it was the same as the Anglican Church. “Your soul is welcomed into the ever after.”

  “Heaven, is that what you speak of?”, asked Cristobal.

  William nodded.

  “Yes and no. Well… “ he paused and gave an educated giggle, like a sleuth who had caught someone in a ruse, “that is what the Church wants you to think. It is the simplest and easiest view to accept. The truth is, we don’t have a clue.”

  The surprise of such an admission, sitting here inside the holiest of holy buildings in the world, must have been written all over William’s face, because Cristobal asked, “I take it that hearing that surprises you?”

  Before William could answer, he continued to explain, “What you are going to learn, for as long as you are here, is not Church doctrine, belie
fs, indoctrination, or anything else you might get as part of a sermon back home, or from the Holy Father, himself. You are going to learn the truth, or the truth as we know it or believe it to be. Some will be conjecture; some is what we have learned simply by doing. Some you are going to learn right alongside us. There are no set instructions on how to do what we are asking you to do. You have to figure out what works, and apply it. So, back to life and death. If it were as simple as you live, and then you die and go to heaven or hell, then why are there spirits that are still bound to this world?”

  The question was not one Cristobal expected William to answer. He ended the question by opening a book to a page with a disturbing image on it. William didn’t understand what he was looking at, but he knew it was evil. “In 1320, Italian poet Dante Alighieri completed a work that contained a view of the nine circles of hell. Each circle is a level you must pass through on your way into the underworld.” His finger traced the page from the top down, each image more disturbing than the last. “Now, you may be thinking he was just a poet, and this was just a poem, but this work reflected a critical belief that was growing in the Church at that time.” He flipped several pages to a similar diagram, that was less disturbing. “In addition to describing what you just saw in Inferno, he also wrote of the nine levels you must travel through to reach heaven, Paradiso.” His finger now traveled from the bottom of the page, up through the images, to the top. “In between both is his second part, Purgatorio, or as you know it, Purgatory. Have you heard that term before?”

 

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