No fear of beheadings now. Not in the twenty-first century. Not in his secure abbey, nestled in the San Juan Mountains, surrounded by mile after mile of unrefined beauty. Serenity swept over him. Luxurious comfort in the old-fashioned environs, saturated with gifts, large and small, bestowed on him—and on the abbey—by the Mrs. Dalakises of the world. Medical supplies, food, wine, tools, furniture. A ceaseless parade of largess by patrons, far and wide.
Father Paolo found opulence in all of it. In the simplest piece of wood carved by local Monfrere craftsmen, or the slow flow of melted wax down a long-stemmed candle handmade by bored retirees, or the tiniest glint in a glass full of ruby wine presented to him by the ladies’ auxiliary. All of God’s goodies reeked of perfume and shined like jewels.
If his grandfather could see him now. His pobrezinho. Abbot of an entire monastery, all three hundred fifty-three acres of it.
Avô would be proud, indeed.
Thank God for guilt-ridden, middle-aged women.
The monumental blizzard from the past few days continued to hurl snow at the window. He favored winters the most. The harsh weather kept the eyes of the Church away. Mt. Ouray was his domain in winter, and he need not share it with anyone. His to rule as he deemed fit. The snow, like the great walls that once barricaded Jerusalem and Jericho, prevented unwanted visits. No interfering cardinals or bishops or nearby parish priests.
No one could advance past the snowy fortress.
But somehow their mysterious visitor, JC, had.
Father Paolo hadn’t stopped thinking about the stranger since he’d first heard of his discovery. Once he had seen him lying in the infirmary, he knew. The Lord had sent him. How his heart had skipped a beat when he’d seen JC curled on the floor of the pantry. A frightened animal, naked save for a scanty chef’s smock covering him. And his eyes. Simulating the most elegant, rich coffee or the gracefully carved ebony mantelpiece of his chapter house, gifted to him by the Colorado Carpenters Union. The young man had nearly pulled the floor out from under Father Paolo. He had stared, wordless and without breath.
He could persuade the stranger to stay. He was sure of it. He hadn’t earned his doctorate of divinity from Loyola University in Chicago for nothing. He had the mind, the intelligence, to convince people to genuflect to his will. Brothers Sebastian and Jerome had no power against him.
Only twelve monks! He needed more, or else the Church would relegate Mt. Ouray to priory status, with less standing among the hierarchy than abbeys enjoyed. Church officials would quit courting him for favors. Money from benefactors would dwindle to a pittance. Three more young men would guarantee the official “abbey” designation.
If he were to join their order, the young stranger would help Father Paolo with his goal to lower the average age of the brothers from forty-five to at least thirty-eight. The abbey website proclaimed the need for the accession of younger men. “Come, young men. Come and stand with the Lord!”
He’d instructed Brother Casey to write young retreatants and those considering discernment to find a home at Mt. Ouray. E-mail after e-mail. Press them—that was the goal. Utilize the twelve-step sales pitch to the hilt. He’d learned the technique from a Mormon missionary in Chicago. They sometimes even employed a private service that specialized in hunting down discerning Catholics.
Too many of the younger postulants and novices failed to preserve. Those who professed lasted, on average, seven years. He believed young Brother Casey might linger much longer than the others had. He’d come to Mt. Ouray seeking love and acceptance. No doubt he’d found that. Brother Sebastian should keep his interest. And short-statured Brother Rodel? A mere year with them and he’d already declared an interest in lying prostrate at the abbot’s feet. How nice if JC joined their tight brotherhood, the way the inane Brother Giles had foreshadowed.
Of course, the older novices always brought larger purses to the abbey. Lucien himself, when he’d professed at thirty-two, had dropped nearly one million dollars into the abbey’s treasury. But money wasn’t everything.
Sweet Lucien squirmed by his feet. Guttural sighs issued from his mouth. For the moment, Lucien’s veneration took Father Paolo’s mind away from JC. Lucien hugged the father’s lower legs. Father Paolo glanced at his thinning hair and the shadows that filled the deepening lines along his neck. He was aging, yes, but he was all his.
Father Paolo spread his legs apart, relishing the quiet and solitude with his English underling by his feet. The smell of pheromones emanating from under his tunic aroused him. Lucien took notice. He reached up the father’s skirt. Pleasure pushed back Father Paolo’s head. He moaned.
Lucien moved to his knees and positioned himself fully before the abbot. His bottom protruded toward the fireplace, so that Father Paolo could only imagine the delight of times past. They hadn’t engaged in such intimacy in many months. Lucien’s submissions had come in other ways.
With a languishing, dreamy posture, Lucien placed his head under the father’s tunic and took his arousal into his warm mouth. Father Paolo closed his eyes, let his head rove against the headrest. He gripped the armrests, massaged the firm leather. Lucien’s looks might have faded over time, but his oral skills had improved with age.
In place of Lucien, the father imagined the darker and younger JC. He had dreamed of it since that first afternoon when he’d gazed upon his unconscious form. The hot desire had ignited sensations more intense than that ludicrous spark that had shimmered in the eyes of the other monks. Brother Rodel, Brother George, Brother Hubert. They each desired the stranger. But in his abbey, JC belonged to Father Paolo.
One brother, he knew, might suspect his feelings. He always looked apprehensive around Father Paolo, as if he held a moral divining rod before him. Brother Sebastian. Astute. Too astute. Useful in keeping the brothers in line, but he often fretted about his possible sedition. Oh, he had no doubts Brother Sebastian’s entering the abbey derived from sincere intentions. At times, however, his presence was worse than pouring salt into wine.
An uncomfortable alliance had to be forged between them. Father Paolo had understood that reality the first few days of the tall postulant’s stay at Mt. Ouray. He needed him not so much as a henchman, but to keep him close to his hip to gauge his movements.
They often exchanged disagreements, but of the kind that came from Brother Sebastian’s insinuation: “Are you sure, Father?” Or his reluctant yielding: “Whatever you wish.” Of course whatever he wished. He was the abbot. Brother Sebastian’s implications bordered on insults.
Yet he harbored no dislike for Brother Sebastian. Hatred never came to Father Paolo’s soul. He overflowed with love. Adoring everything and everyone. Even as a boy, he knew only happiness and joy, and sought to spread it. He’d spent countless hours dancing and singing in Vila de Seda’s lively square, existing for everyone’s smiling faces, not the coins the onlookers tossed at him (even if he and his grandfather had needed the extra escudo).
His desire for power had no price tag. He wanted only to give love, to bring to his bosom those who demanded affection and understanding, like so many of those who sought solace behind the abbey’s walls.
Selfishness did not guide his motives.
If only more of the world understood his tender intentions, and willingly submitted to him and his wants.
He allowed the sensation of warmth and love to flow through his middle-aged muscles as Lucien worked on him deeper. The spasms came slower and slower with age. But when they escalated to the point of finality, the sensation had no more diminished than when he’d been a fledgling adolescent, hiding behind the arbustos, which smelled of citrus, to spy on the older boys swimming nude in the Catholic youth center’s outdoor pool while he’d pleasured himself.
Tightening his throat, a heated sense of pure euphoria, accented by a rush of triumph, shot through him. He released into Lucien’s mouth for what must’ve been the hundredth time since Lucien’s arrival at the abbey nine years ago. They had been lovers almost f
rom the first day.
Father Paolo shuddered, grunted. Lucien removed his head from under Father Paolo’s tunic and grinned at him. Exhaling, Father Paolo patted Lucien’s balding head.
“Thank you, my love,” he uttered. “As always, you pleased me greatly.”
Keep the underlings contented with compliments, he urged himself. Always make them feel wanted.
Father Paolo flicked the skirt of his tunic over his legs and stood.
His forever-churning mind bypassed his English minion as he straightened his garments. After twenty-four hours of minimal sleep, waiting, pacing, wondering, hoping, he knew.
Once their guest gained more strength and they’d moved him to his own cell, he’d summon him to his private office.
Chapter Six
THREE days had passed since the stranger the monks now called “Brother JC” had regained full consciousness. In that time, his strength improved. Underneath his white tunic and black scapular (worn as awkwardly as a hippopotamus in lingerie, Casey noted), he carried a firmer physique. His appetite increased to the point Brother Micah bellyached that they’d run out of food before the spring thaw.
Healthy enough to take dinner with them, he’d peer through the steam from his meal and, like an eight-year-old boy, absorb every grain of wood, every fluttering strand of hair poking from the older brothers’ balding scalps. Casey and the others had no idea how long he’d stay on, but the abbot seemed eager to keep him. The continuing snowstorms rolling over the San Juan Range gave neither any choice.
When they’d moved him into his own cell, he’d acted as if they’d shown him a room at the Hyatt Regency in downtown Wichita. The fresh sheets, laundered by Brother Hubert with the custom-crafted detergents gifted to the abbey and typically reserved for paying guests, had filled the tiny room with the scent of sandalwood. With his knapsack clenched in both hands, he gazed around, delight watermarked on his face. Wide-eyed alertness had replaced his furrowed brow.
Only when the brothers engaged in Mass and the seven prayer stations did JC show dissatisfaction. His eyes remained sleepy, and his cheeks a tincture of ochre. When entering or leaving the chapel, he never bothered to cross himself with the holy water. He might as well have been placed in the middle of a cattle roundup, Casey quipped to himself whenever watching him.
Now that he could move about unaided, Father Paolo assigned him to work with Brother Micah in the kitchen. He barely had time, the way the brothers spoiled him. Each seemed determined to make an impression on the newcomer by teaching him Latin or escorting him around the abbey during siesta to show him the grounds.
Casey’s resentment had intensified after spying Sebastian slink into JC’s newly appointed cell during siesta, twice thus far in as many days, at least. What took place behind the door, ajar so that Casey must twist his neck like a contortionist if he attempted to peer inside? So often Casey had fantasized being the one alone in a cell with Sebastian, the door closed to keep out prying eyes. The only eavesdropper the statuette of the Virgin Mary the abbot had gifted to each monk and the new postulants, including JC—which had set the brothers talking.
Casey stayed clear of Brother Sebastian and wore his hood up more often. Right when he’d begun to believe the older brother was enjoying his closeness, Brother Sebastian had transformed his fondness for Casey into infatuation with the dark stranger, Casey was sure.
He evaded eye contact with him, and when Sebastian took his breakfast to his usual nest by the cloister garden, Casey no longer followed him. Instead of lingering inside the showers, he waited in his cell until he saw Sebastian—russet hair wet and shiny and smelling of Ivory soap—pass his room in his bathrobe before he grabbed his toiletry bag and headed for the showers.
Surly as a rabid squirrel, Casey took scant pains to conceal his displeasure with the new arrival. He wanted to be kinder. He’d look heavenward, mumble a few psalms, reach for God’s assistance. I trust in your unfailing mercy; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me.
Lucky theirs was a silent order. Something told Casey he and JC wouldn’t speak to one another even if they stood face to face at a party. The times JC worked in the kitchen alongside Brother Micah and him, Casey found himself averting his eyes from both.
JC would lurch about the kitchen, following whatever orders Brother Micah pummeled him with. From the corners of his eyes, he’d watch JC haul boxes out of the walk-in freezer, or fumble about with a rag and bucket of soapy water, leaving a wet trail on the terracotta tiles, to the mortification of Brother Micah.
The worst of it came one day when JC and Brother Micah, elbow to elbow, chopped vegetables for soup. JC had cut hard into the uncooked potatoes without first placing them on the chopping block. “Watch what you’re doing,” Brother Micah finally exclaimed, breaking the silent custom. “You can’t use my good knives on the bare countertop. You’ll ruin them.”
He snatched the chef’s knife from him and wielded it in his left hand as if he wanted to plunge it in JC’s chest. With a lighter tone, he added, “Be more careful next time, why don’t you?”
Brother Micah, the forty-six-year-old who’d resided at the Abbey for seven years and venerated Sebastian more openly than Casey, expressed contempt for JC for perhaps the identical reason Casey did.
Yet Casey never felt likewise toward Brother Micah. Nearing middle age, Brother Micah lacked the looks of the youthful JC.
When Brother Micah left the kitchen to begin his siesta after his uncomfortable outburst, Casey, scrubbing the lunch dishes, nearly fell into the sink full of sudsy water upon hearing JC’s sharp voice behind him.
“That one doesn’t seem to want me around much,” JC said from where he swept the floor.
Casey, unused to casual chitchat during the work period, collected himself before responding. “Brother Micah?”
“Yeah, he never looks at me and always grunts.”
Had he noticed Casey’s own displeasure? With his billowy sleeves cinched to the elbows, he sunk his arms deeper into the soapy liquid, hoping to cleanse his sins. “He’s that way,” he said. “He’s like that with all of us.” But not with Brother Sebastian, he wanted to add. He scrubbed a food bin extra hard with the scouring brush. “Don’t worry. He has a grumpy nature.”
“You’re a lot like me,” JC said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“I’m twenty-one. You’re the only one I can relate to here. Unlike that other guy our age. He’s kinda loco.”
“You mean Brother Rodel?”
“That’s the guy.”
Shy and retiring, Brother Rodel did come across aloof, but Casey knew he was a harmless man. He carried around the same lost look Casey figured stained his own countenance now and then. Wonder, intrigue, and embarrassment resided in his eyes, browner than Casey’s. The two were peers, yet they had failed to establish a firmer connection. They had a lot in common too. At least physically. Same black hair, same pursing lips. Perhaps Brother Rodel’s bashful nature made it difficult to get any closer.
All of the brothers had found a close friend among each other, pairing off the same as in any social group. Brother George had connected with the old and decrepit Brother Augustine, whom he cared for like a baby. Brothers Hubert and Micah had established a bond in which they shared secrets, or so Casey had heard. Brother Lucien and Father Paolo’s relationship was known to everyone. And Casey had Brother Sebastian…. He hoped they shared something special, anyhow.
Casey wanted to splash water on his face to temper the heat burning his cheeks. “Brother Rodel is a nice guy,” he said.
“I can figure out why a loco like that would come to a place like this, but why you?” JC asked him. “Must be kinda weird to give up so much.”
Casey held back a chuckle. “I guess it is kind of different here. But I have strong faith.”
“Faith in what?”
“God, of course.”
“Oh, sure.”
&nb
sp; Despite his lapse in memory, JC didn’t seem thickheaded or intentionally crass. Casey tried to gauge if he might slip up. He still worried he might be tricking them, hoping for a means to stay at the abbey without giving away his sordid past.
“What brought you here?” he asked.
“I can’t remember. Remember? Or is amnesia catchy?” JC sniggered. “Who knows? It’s weird, not remembering anything. I still can’t figure out where I came from, much less why I came here. Maybe I’m from Philadelphia like Sebastian thinks. I just don’t know.”
Hearing JC refer to Sebastian by his first name, Casey cringed. “Are you glad you’re here?”
The sound of JC’s sweeping stopped. Casey, with his back to him, detected JC was resting. Casey gave him credit. JC had kept up with Brother Micah’s harsh demands and he deserved a break.
“Life here’s a lot different,” he answered. “It’s like being in the military.”
Casey felt a sneer stretch his lips. “How would you know, if you don’t remember your past?”
“That’s what makes it all so weird. I don’t. I can feel it. I don’t go for the cold, that’s for sure. I guess I can remember hating it. I wish I could janguio in someplace like Puerto Rico.”
“Why there?”
“I don’t know. Warmer there this time of year. I can remember things like that. I can still read and write. I haven’t forgotten how to breathe, you know.”
The Rule of Sebastian Page 6