saint SEBASTIAN…THE ROSE
BY MICHAEL W. GLOVER
Booktrope Editions
Seattle, WA 2015
COPYRIGHT 2015 MICHAEL W. GLOVER
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Cover Design by Amalia Chitulescu
Edited by Mary Ward Menke
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-5137-0174-5
EPUB ISBN 978-1-5137-0196-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920798
contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
prologue
chapter ONE
chapter TWO
chapter THREE
chapter FOUR
chapter FIVE
chapter SIX
chapter SEVEN
chapter EIGHT
chapter NINE
chapter TEN
chapter ELEVEN
chapter TWELVE
chapter THIRTEEN
chapter FOURTEEN
chapter FIFTEEN
chapter SIXTEEN
chapter SEVENTEEN
chapter EIGHTEEN
chapter NINETEEN
chapter TWENTY
chapter TWENTY-ONE
chapter TWENTY-TWO
chapter TWENTY-THREE
chapter TWENTY-FOUR
chapter TWENTY-FIVE
chapter TWENTY-SIX
chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
chapter TWENTY-NINE
chapter THIRTY
chapter THIRTY-ONE
chapter THIRTY-TWO
chapter THIRTY-THREE
chapter THIRTY-FOUR
chapter THIRTY-FIVE
chapter THIRTY-SIX
chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
chapter THIRTY-NINE
chapter FORTY
chapter FORTY-ONE
chapter FORTY-TWO
chapter FORTY-THREE
epilogue
MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE
To my early readers, who kept me going,
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Amanda, Amy, Andy, Ben, Chris, Cindy, Faith, Heather,
John, Kent, Kira, Mary Ann, Matt, Nancy, Randy, Sue
prologue
I ONCE SAT next to a bed of roses, wondering what the life of a rose must be like. What a beautiful existence it must be! For after all, roses are considered one of the most beautiful of all the flowers in the garden. Something that is so loved must have a wonderful life. Poetry through the ages and many people have taken up the rose as the symbol they hold up high and proclaim, “This is what is great and this is what we aspire to be.” But is it ever so easy to want to be something that you truly cannot understand? For how can we understand the rose? Its beauty draws us in. The fragrance tempts our senses. Its grace beguiles even the very astute. When at last we are completely taken in, it pricks us. For the life of a rose, could it be that its destiny is to be alone? The thorns are but a warning to stay away, and do not attempt to get close to the rose lest you suffer the consequences. Yet to argue the other, some say the rose is something to reach for, suffer though you will; to attain such greatness requires the sacrifice that only a few will ever have the constitution to acquire. To suffer the great beauty is only to understand the life of a rose. The rose does not mean to harm you; it is simply unavoidable. When being the one everyone is reaching for, many will fall by the wayside.
Pain and suffering are the paths we take through this existence, and the choices we make are the weights we carry. A wise man once told me that life is like a hike in the mountains: it is filled with peaks and valleys. I was very young when this bit of wisdom was passed on to me. At the time I had not traveled through many peaks and valleys. Wisdom without experience is like a joke without a punch line. The wise man’s wisdom was told like a story that begins and ends, without the heart of the tale. To get to the peak, one must climb. The climbing is never easy and you must watch the path or else you’ll get lost. Once at the top you look around and take in the wonder of the view. How you would love to stay there, but the storm will come and force you down. The path down is much faster and easier to take. Once down it is easy to get lost in the trees and lose your bearing. The valleys are deep and they wind ceaselessly. This is where you spend most of your time, trying to get out, trying to get back on top, trying to see the view where it is all so clear … trying to be the rose.
Sebastian
chapter ONE
OFTEN SEBASTIAN LOOKED for the places where his solitude would be dulled by beauty or meaning. For a long time he didn’t realize what he was doing, but when he wore down a path he finally saw the direction it was taking him. This was one of his favorite things to do. He walked alone in the middle of the night, just he and his thoughts—the one thing Sebastian could not get away from, though he tried. The only consolation was that he kept himself company; this made him laugh. Was there a bit of insanity that slipped into his solitary conversations? The conversations were not always about himself but sometimes to himself. If somebody were to hear him they would wonder what kind of terrible life this poor soul suffered from. What could have happened to make him feel so alone and tortured? Once they saw Sebastian they would lose all interest and their attitude would change to one of scorn or indifference.
“These are the mere rants of a child in life. What does he know about the struggles of the mind and the soul?” some would say. “One so young is only dealing with the change to adulthood and the struggle with finding oneself and grasping with responsibility.”
Yes, it would seem so. Sebastian didn’t cast disparaging thoughts on these observers, for the wise accept the scars of life, and the knowing accept the truth.
The woods seemed so peaceful in the middle of the night. The blanket of white on the ground made the scene around Sebastian seem almost tranquil, a stark contrast to his inner self. With every step he took, the sound of the snow crunching under his feet against the silence made him feel like a giant even though he knew he was actually very small. There was something about it that let him focus his thoughts against the otherwise noisy world.
“Have you ever been in the woods like this?” Sebastian said to himself. Saying this aloud gave him the feeling that he was enjoying the moment with a friend. A warm sensation poured over his body with that thought. How he would have loved to share these little things with someone who could understand and care about the same.
Sebastian kept walking. Sometimes he would walk all night. He was not missed; they knew he would return. They would be glad and concerned at the same time, an irony that was not lost upon him.
He made it to one of his spots. It was a lesser-known area in the woods because it took a while to reach. There was a small pond surrounded by a little grassy area with a couple of stone benches. The area used to be kept up, but no gardener made it that fa
r anymore. All the better… this was his place. Here Sebastian bore out his sins to the sky and the stars above, his own confessional inside the greater church. Not the ones man built and claimed to be the house of God. When his family would go camping, his mother and father used to call this God’s country. The thoughts brought back memories in a flood. At first he smiled, thinking of the campfire talks, but inevitably he pushed the thoughts back, not wanting to continue down that road. Sebastian came here to be alone. He didn’t want to visit with ghosts from the past.
The air was cool, but he didn’t notice. The sound of the breeze moving through the branches made Sebastian reflexively tense up, then relax. The trees kept him safe. The moon shone through the parting clouds like a scythe cutting through grain. The stone of the nearby bench was weathered; many years it stood a servant of the passerby. The trees circled the area like sentries, watching those within and standing guard from those beyond. They were like old friends. His senses took in the night, yet it was still an escape of the senses, a welcome retreat.
Time flew by while Sebastian sat, his only company being an owl. It functioned like a clock for him, hooting on the hour. He knew his time here had passed. He must head back … back to the fortress that held his bed, his work, and his fears. Sebastian didn’t even look up as he walked; the trail was as familiar to him as the path of his life, embedded in his brain. But it looked different going back. It was the same path, but the difference in direction made him think of how the difference in perspective impacts the decisions one makes in life. How he enjoyed these walks. It was clear to him now why he went out this night. Sebastian felt all the better and justified for the time spent.
As he approached the end of the trail the trees gave way to a vast clearing. Rising up before him, cloaked in darkness, was the old castle, the monastery of the Monks of the Word … the lights all turned out. The grounds around the structure were manicured with care by a proud housekeeper. Indeed, the monks loved their hideaway. As well they should. Few in this world got to live the life that is granted for dedication to something they loved. Sebastian walked into the inner courtyard. He would find the side entrance; he didn’t wish to wake anyone earlier than need be. It had been several days since he had slept, and his mind told him he should rest.
Sebastian entered through one of the many doors leading into the building that had become his home. Home? What a strange idea, that he could live in surroundings with many of the things that people require for a place to be called such. Sebastian had a place to lay his head and friends who were like family, although not a typical family—people that cared about him as family would. The hallways were dark, but he navigated them with familiarity … or something else. He walked as if it were midday. His day had been uneventful, like so many before it. That was what troubled him sometimes so that he couldn’t sleep. When would the road have a pothole in it that would have to be avoided or simply run into? That was Sebastian’s pessimistic side, but he knew life was like that. It was only a matter of time until the pothole arrived. He just had to watch out for it.
“Sebastian!” Father Donovan called out. Surprising Sebastian was a rarity, but he had always been one for surprises. Sebastian must have been deep in thought; he made a mental note to prevent himself from becoming too introspective. Sebastian looked up at Father Donovan, an older man, whose face alluded to something that is hard to put a finger on—a type of serenity and thoughtfulness that is comforting. He was a friend, a mentor, and sometimes a psychologist.
“Good morning, Father Donovan,” Sebastian said, trying to avoid his penetrating stare.
“Are you just now coming in for the night?”
“I was stretching my legs a bit,” Sebastian lied. He should have known if anyone could sniff out a lie, it was Father Donovan, who gave him a funny look and smiled.
“The night air calls you out, I think. Something always has,” he said, beginning to walk, knowing the destination. “Is there anything you want to talk about? You know I have an ear for all who sleep under this roof. Some use it more than others, of course.”
Sebastian knew he was referring to two of the monks living there, Father Jacques and Father Andrew. Father Jacques, or Jacks for those who made fun of him, was an old monk who appeared to be an even older monk, a monk who was never wrong. Father Andrew, who was very young, was also never wrong. For some reason, these two always found themselves debating everything under the sun and refusing to agree with each other even when they were debating the same side. What a spectacle this was, a source of both joy and irritation to all who watched. They were usually complaining to Father Donovan about each other. Sebastian gave a little smile as he thought about them. Father Donovan smiled also, amused at the thought. How Sebastian enjoyed the time he spent with this man. He was much like a father, a father who was also one’s best friend. What a powerful combination.
“No,” Sebastian said emphatically as a teenager says to his dad, expecting him not to possibly understand what is going on in his life or what he is going through, but it was a silly response. “I just love wandering the grounds at night. It looks very different then; I like to see it as the morning approaches. Reminds me of when I first saw the monastery.”
“Yes, what a marvelous sight! Most do not see it at those times of the day and would not understand what you are talking about. But then again, most do not have the memories that you have, do they?”
Father Donovan stopped and looked at him. Once again his psychologist was at work, and Sebastian was not even on the couch. As Sebastian looked around, he noticed they were at the door leading to his quarters. His mind had wandered so that he hadn’t even noticed their approach. Exhaustion came over him again.
“I think I will be resting today. I’m afraid my exuberance over the last several days has taken its toll. Why are you up so early today?”
“We are expecting some visitors this afternoon,” Father Donovan replied. “Remember the yearly visit from our friends in the church? They like to see what we are up to. Mr. Ridgeway will be here for a while, until the summer, I would think. He is also bringing his family with him. They will be our guests, and I want to make sure their accommodations are in order.” Father Donovan’s eyes searched him. “Will you be ready for them?”
“Yes, I will be fine. Would you apologize for my absence on the day of their arrival?”
“You get your rest. They will undoubtedly spend the first day getting acquainted with their surroundings,” he said, walking away, but it was like he was still there. He had this ability to mesmerize anyone when he was talking. Sebastian never understood it. As Father Donovan disappeared down the dark hallway Sebastian pushed open the door that really only belonged to him. This was his part of the monastery.
New thoughts were running around in Sebastian’s head. Winter was still upon them, yet the harbingers of spring were around—visitors, a change of routine, something new. Through the door he went, back to his thoughts, even though he had trouble making sense of them.
This end of the monastery was less traveled, which was why Sebastian chose it. He made his way down the stairs and to the first of his rooms, his workplace—his second favorite place in the castle. It was more of a private library. There were no windows because it was in the basement of the castle. The room’s air was dry but comfortable. The walls were lined with books—not just any books but books with history—some of the most beautiful books one would ever see. How lucky Sebastian felt to be able to surround himself with these treasures. There were some comfortable chairs with tables next to them and a fireplace that was in almost constant use.
There were two desks facing each other with their own lights, when needed. These were Sebastian’s workstations, where the words of the past came back to life when he wrote. He spent many hours here reproducing important works and making a few of his own. His work was masterful and closely guarded.
The next door, the one no one else passed through, was Sebastian’s room. Nobody but Sebastian h
ad been in there for some time. The contents were simple: a bed that rarely saw much of him anymore and one solitary bookcase … an incredible piece. Meticulous carving graced its façade, and the wood was dark and old, a broad piece with Sebastian’s personal collection. In the center of the carving was a simple but beautiful single rose that very subtly blended in. The viewer had to pay close attention, as though the rose were saying something, something that had to be listened for carefully.
Before Sebastian knew it, he was lying down and was soon off to a sleep that would end one day and begin another. Although he was so tired he felt as though he could sleep forever, he knew he would wake after a good rest. His time had not yet come. It’s funny how one truly knows when that time is near. They may not consciously know it, but it is a feeling nonetheless. Though he thought he had lived many lifetimes, without the scars of time showing on his face, Sebastian was marked by youth to the passerby. Sebastian knew everyone had a private self, one that is never shared. His story was his own. None who looked upon him could guess at the complexities of his life. And so they should not, for his life was not for the sharing.
chapter TWO
THE MORNING CAME as all the ones before it, the sun lighting up the sky over the trees touching the blanket of snow. The monks were up and starting their morning rituals. Their existence was filled with regimens, making their days simple.
While Sebastian slept, Father Donovan was making sure the rest of the monks were finishing preparations. Guest rooms were cleaned and supplied with everything necessary for the comfort of the inhabitants. These rooms were only used when visitors were there, and that was rare.
The monastery was tucked away in the quiet hills of England far from everything. Like something out of the past, the structure had changed little and the modern age seemed to have never arrived. Seldom did anyone stumble upon it by accident.
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