by V. Cobe
CHAPTER 16
Mourning
He woke up lying in a ward bed, full of pain. A worried face stared at him from above.
“Are you feeling well?”
Alem nodded.
“Great. Then rest, and don’t say anything.”
The nun then left the bedside.
He tried to straighten himself in the bed.
The ward was long and had high ceilings. Everything was in shades of white, the walls, the floor, the furniture and the sheets on the iron beds. The other beds were empty.
The nun stirred in a cabinet at the back of the room and came back with a glass in one hand.
“Take this to clear your throat,” she said, handing him the glass filled with a white liquid. “Drink slowly.”
His head hurt in several places, but otherwise he was fine. Better, at least. He felt clean.
When he grabbed the cup, he saw that he had a catheter in his arm, connected to a bag hanging over his head on the right side of the bed.
“That’s serum. You were so weak when we found you that—”
“Where’s my mother?”
The nun looked away. She got up and tinkered with the serum bag.
“I’ve told Bishop Zalmon Costa you’re awake. He’s on his way here to talk to you.”
“What about my mother? Have you told her?”
The nun didn’t answer immediately. She kept herself busy with the drip bag and then replied, “I’ll see what’s taking him so long.”
And she left the ward.
Something was wrong.
The door opened, and Zalmon entered with a heavy air, followed by the nun.
He pulled up a chair and sat down at the right side of the bed.
“How are you, boy?”
“I’m fine. I want to see my mother.”
The bishop got a bit closer and took his arm, looking him tenderly in the face.
“What happened to you? Do you remember anything?”
“What day is it?”
“You’ve been gone for two months, my son.”
Alem swallowed dry but said nothing.
“What do you remember?” asked Zalmon.
“I remember leaving my room to go to the bathroom and then someone grabbing me from behind. They covered my mouth. I don’t remember anything else. I woke up in a dark cave.” His voice trembled. “Bishop, I saw something in the forest….”
The bishop looked at the nun.
“You’ll tell me all about it in a moment.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Something happened, my son.” He glanced down. “Your mother… your mother is no longer with us. She is with God our Lord. I’m sorry.”
The two months of horror in the dungeons were infinitely less horrifying than those five seconds of words. Sob after sob, a convulsive cry emerged from his chest. He covered his face with his skinny and wounded hands.
The bishop and the nurse looked at the floor.
“That’s not true, is it?”
No one answered.
“Tell me it isn’t….”
“It looks like it was an accident. But we don’t have all the details yet—”
“What are you telling me? No, tell me this is some mistake….”
“It was a burglary….”
Between sobs, Alem shouted for them to go away and leave him alone. A request that was granted.
Alone, he cried about his mother’s death. His mother, his partner of always, his only companion. The longing he already felt hurt him in the heart, a pain he had never felt before. He didn’t sleep that night but pretended to so nobody would disturb him.
A new day was born. He rose from the bed, pulled the needle from his arm, left the infirmary and walked barefoot through the halls, dragging the white coat behind him.
The nurse noticed his absence after a few minutes. Alem ran as fast as he could, trying to dodge her as she screamed for him, waking up the whole monastery.
He entered the great church. He didn’t know why but he felt he had to. Had there been a funeral? Not for him anyway.
The two large stained glass windows, one on each side of the organ, revealed a sunny day. The sunlight penetrated strongly through the glass that reflected painfully on the black lacquered wood of the imposing organ, flaunted in the center.
He sat in front of the keyboards, with his back to the aisle, and looked up to the wood and metal giant. Seven tubing sets climbed straight up to the ceiling, adorned by hundreds of angelic and religious figures engraved in gold in the black wood.
Behind Alem, the pews were empty.
The nurse came in from the back door, panting.
He wanted to be alone but didn’t care that someone was there watching. In the end, it was insignificant. He put his hands on the organ keys and took a deep breath.
“Alem!” cried out the nurse. “What are you doing? You have to get back to the infirmary!”
Gently, Alem pressed a grave key. The sound echoed, vibrant, throughout the church.
He missed his mother, that was mostly it. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to the person he loved most in the world and who loved him the most. He was alone.
He counted the time and then dropped his fingers over the black and white keys.
Several nuns, cloistered during that time of the year, showed up with prying and sleepy eyes.
The notes were formed and left the organ softly, gathering in the air in a sad but beautiful melody that filled the church.
Alem played, silhouetted against the imposing black organ framed by giant stained glass windows. Brown leaves passed close by, on the outside, pushed by the wind.
A tear glazed his eyes and then ran down his cheek. But a faint smile appeared too. He was finally safe. There was no danger anymore. He was no longer afraid.
Then something extraordinary happened. At first it was hardly noticeable, but gradually became indubitable. On stage, as Alem played, the red of his hair gave way to another color. A very gentle and gradual dance between red and orange began on his head, in which orange was dominating until it settled fully, while the bewildered moans of the nuns were muffled by a chilling sound that exploded.
BOOK ORANGE