The Rule of Sebastian
Page 26
They built a healthy sweat under their snow gear, searching for an accompanying wallet and cell phone, until the grinding of a helicopter brought them into a tight cluster by the abbey door. Sebastian concealed the Glock in his parka and stood beside the other brothers with cool expectancy. The whirlybird grew larger against the brilliant blue sky. Snow swept up in a wide gust when the Bell Cobra landed in the parking area. Two uniformed forest rangers and an officer with the San Miguel County Police Department debarked.
Father Paolo greeted them with a compulsory smile and invited them inside. The solemn expressions of the officials gazing upon JC’s body laid out in the pine box after the father relayed their tale corresponded with Sebastian’s intentions. They already thought of JC as a venerated martyr. A saint.
The photograph the county police officer brought with him of Juan Carlos Valesco verified his identity. His family had issued a missing persons report a month before, the county officer mentioned.
And so as the Bell Cobra whisked away JC’s body, a new distaste for Father Paolo soured Sebastian’s tongue. He’d known JC’s family was searching for him, but concealed the facts. He had devised a sneaky plan, and stretched it with all his power. Yet Sebastian’s last words reestablished his Irishman’s stubbornness. He was the primary to the end, regardless of fifteen hundred years of tradition.
A few days later, forest rangers snowmobiling along the road from Monfrere tracked JC’s path and discovered his cell phone, wallet, and some of his clothes lying in a channel. They’d pieced together JC’s moves: he’d taken a bus from Philadelphia to Telluride, left the ski resort in a van-for-hire destined for Monfrere, set out on his trek up the mountain, rested along the way—possibly even slept or passed out—and after awakening set off again on his journey, leaving behind some of his belongings. By then delirium had possibly set in and he’d no longer realized where he was or what he was doing. One ranger had even suggested Juan Carlos had “wanted to experience true austerity” like Jesus would have.
Already Sebastian’s sham had taken root, massaging those who wanted to believe in the best of human nature (rather than the worst). Sebastian and Father Paolo had nodded in acceptance while listening to the rangers recount their findings, biting their tongues to keep from revealing the truth.
The remainder of the week passed, and not a word from anyone except Mrs. Valesco. She’d e-mailed the abbey to thank the brothers for recovering her son’s body. She would rest, knowing he’d come to Mt. Ouray seeking salvation and the consecrated life. So profound was his commitment, “He never once mentioned his intentions to his friends or family,” she’d written.
The Thursday before Easter, Sebastian dressed in his civilian clothes—sneakers, khakis, light blue oxford (the St. Michael medallion visible around his neck)—and stepped outside the abbey with his tote bag clenched in hand. A quiet fell over the abbey grounds. Cocking his head toward Mt. Ouray’s peak, he listened. Did he hear the mountain wishing him farewell?
About a dozen Rocky Mountain sheep had wandered off the higher elevations and grazed near the cottage, where tall grass poked through the remaining snow. Soon they would come in larger numbers and munch on the wild alfalfa that grew along the forest edge, and their droppings would spur the growth of yellow daffodils.
Sebastian still heard the brothers’ chanting in his head from when he’d gathered for the last time with the men he’d called family for nearly four years. Their voices had expressed potent finality.
The seven stations of prayer had provided him solace. A quiet solitude of splendor, where pain and euphoria coalesced to form a sturdy pillar. The monks sought such tangible acceptance of mystery and life. Sebastian needed more. Or was it less?
Brother Eusebius, who had just finished plowing the parking lot for the second time in two days (for it took that many attempts to remove the top layers), approached him on the footpath.
“You are ready to leave, by the look of your suitcase,” the brother said, facing him soberly.
Sebastian nodded. “What about you? After everything that’s happened here, do you still wish to stay?”
“I will die here,” he said unequivocally. “My faith will keep me at the abbey. I feel more dedicated than ever.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“You learned an important lesson,” Brother Eusebius said. “You need to be a detective. That’s your true vocational calling. Mine is a monk. A life of endless prayer and contemplation and to work my fingers to the bone.”
Eye to eye, they shared a gentle smile, and Brother Eusebius wrapped his exquisite and powerful hands around Sebastian’s. “Good-bye, my brother,” he said, after which he stomped the snow from his boots and disappeared inside the abbey. Sebastian envisioned someday the brothers electing Brother Eusebius as their next abbot. He’d follow in the footsteps of his pioneering ancestor, and carry on tradition to make his father proud as the first black abbot.
Sebastian looked toward the cells and saw Brother Hubert sitting by his window, looking at him. A tender smile curled his lips. The middle-aged brother would maintain the monastic life for the remainder of his days too. He’d atone for his actions, and for that brief moment in time when a lapse in judgment had ignited their bittersweet tragedy.
And Brother Augustine, the man who had on some level solved the mystery for them (or had it been the Virgin Mary?), would die at Mt. Ouray with the diligent Brother George looking after him until he’d require caring for himself. Brother Rodel also had stated his intentions to stay put. Brother Micah (who’d avoided Sebastian after realizing he’d found out his scam) would likely remain. As would the aged Brothers Giles and Jerome. Brother Lucien and Father Paolo’s joint reign over the abbey would continue unfazed, as if nothing had upset the status quo. Perhaps the abbot might move about his abbey more quietly during the upcoming summer tourist season.
No supernatural power had descended upon them. Although, in a way, good versus evil had taken place inside their abbey. But it had been of the manmade kind. Ignorant “evil” waged by those with power. People with dirty thoughts and dirty minds who see only dirtiness in their eyes. He’d been the victim of it in Philadelphia. That had been the Satan he’d battled inside Mt. Ouray. It had followed him two thousand miles, tracked him into the Rockies. In the end, he’d slain his dragon.
The crunch of hard-packed snow yanked his attention away from the abbey and the men inside. The van-for-hire was pulling into the parking lot to take Sebastian to the Telluride airport. He waved a final good-bye to Brother Hubert in the window and grinned when Casey, wearing dark jeans, a red oxford shirt, and a brown down jacket (the same clothes he’d worn when he’d first arrived at Mt. Ouray six months ago) strolled down the front steps, his single bag and flute case by his sides. Sebastian’s grin widened, which seemed to stretch wider than Mt. Ouray’s peak.
“All ready for Vegas?”
“I think so,” Casey said.
“Let’s go, then.” Sebastian carried his and Casey’s bags to the waiting van.
Barking forced the two of them around. Delores trotted from the barn and stuck her wet, cold nose against Sebastian’s hand. She wanted to say her good-bye too. “See you, old girl,” Sebastian said, patting her head. “Keep those mice in check.” Delores licked his and Casey’s faces and dashed for the front steps where she barked and reared up on her hind legs. She would remain at Mt. Ouray the rest of her life also, Sebastian mused, where she belonged. Chasing mice and nibbling crumbs off Brother Micah’s kitchen floor and Brother Giles’s meal tray.
“I’m going to miss her,” Casey said.
“She’ll do fine here. The summer crowd will keep her happy and well fed.”
They greeted the driver, who took their suitcases and stored them in the back. No one else was in the van, and Sebastian took the opportunity to hunker down closer to Casey.
“It’s a crazy world out there,” Casey said, interlocking his fingers with Sebastian’s, “but with the two of us, it’ll
come easier.”
Sebastian squeezed his hand back, almost instinctively, as if their fingers had meant to be fused. Joined in communal prayer.
“Yes,” Sebastian said, nudging closer to Casey as the van driver conveyed them out of the parking lot and along the recently cleared forest service road into the valley, where the world with all its ambiguity opened to them. “It’ll come easier.”
About the Author
SHELTER SOMERSET enjoys writing about the lives of people who live off the land, whether they be the Amish, nineteenth-century pioneers, or modern-day idealists seeking to live apart from the crowd. Shelter’s fascination with the rustic, aesthetic lifestyle began as a child with family camping trips into the Blue Ridge Mountains. When not back home in Illinois writing, Shelter continues to explore America’s expansive backcountry and rural communities. Shelter’s philosophy is best summed up by the actor John Wayne: “Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.”
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