CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER TWO

What is truth? What is just? What is real and pure? Truth is a lie, just is unjust, and real is a figment of the imagination. We are carried through the hurricane of emotions, of our different characters to whatever end that has been scribbled in the script of our flawed existence. Perfection, hmmm, the different components coexisting as a unit: the good, the bad and the ugly, all in one place acting out their unique role, that is perfection. So, I ask again, what is true? What is just? It's all destinies, which no one can predict or tell, except the God of control, and his name is Time...

The St Paraclete Abbey was a beehive of activity in preparation for the blessing of the new abbot. Every man was involved in some way in the scurry and scramble of the day's events. As opposed to the drone of daily routine, in which everyone walked in slow paces and talked in hushed tones, this day bore great significance and therefore accounted for the merry spirits, excited chatter, and easy show of humor and delight. The oblates, postulants, novices, lay brothers, choir monks, monks, heirodeacons, hieromonks, the subprior, and the prior all formed the orchestra of discordant sounds that filled the air.

The new abbot was Makarios Demas III of Macedonia, a prior recently elevated to the much-desired seat and transferred from the Holy Angels Abbey in Aphidnai, Attika. He was a leader respected by the brotherhood for his authoritarian ways, loved by the masses for his charm and eloquence, and disliked by critics for his no-nonsense way of dealing with issues. As a prior in Aphidnai, he drew a lot of attention to the abbey with the use of his special insight and understanding of human behavior. He was actively involved in conflict resolution, which brought him in contact with many well-known figures. He was known to give sound counsel on most matters brought to him. While still a prior, he became a consultant for the UN on human development in third-world countries. This appointment caused a lot of misunderstandings with his superiors, who insisted he was a holy priest and therefore ought not to meddle with the mundane things of the world. He, on the other hand, maintained that being heavenly-minded did not mean he could be of no earthly use, as we were all called by God to be lights in the world.

Well, they insisted; he maintained, and he prevailed.

Abbé Makarios was the name he would be referred to as from that day onward by everyone in the abbey, his superiors alike. It sounded good, and it felt very good. He sat absent-mindedly as his second-in-command briefed him on the details of the ceremony. This ceremony was an equivalent of the consecration of a bishop, a most important event on the monks' calendar.

Father Adams, the prior of St Paraclete Abbey, was a huge, muscled man with sage like features; he was rather young for his status at the abbey. As he leaned over the desk of his new superior, he rattled out the programme sequence with a hint of frustration in his voice because he could sense his words were not registering in the mind of his audience. There was a lot he had to share with the abbot, but it seemed today was not the day for that. He wondered if he would be someone approachable in whom he could confide the many matters that sometimes bothered the brothers of the Order.

'At this point, you will be presented with the mitre by the chief celebrant … the bishop himself.' The prior's voice boomed; the mitre, a ring, and a crosier were to be presented to him by the bishop as a symbol of office. 'Then it's time for the laying on of hands by the chief celebrant …'

With a wave of the hand, the abbot cut him short. 'Being a prior of a monastery once myself, I suppose I know all the details by now, or wouldn't you think so?' He said this as he raised an arched eyebrow and then sunk into his chair and gave a smile that seemed plastic for all the effort put into it. 'That would be all for now. I think you should be on your way to see to the final preparations and logistics. The event should start in about half an hour.' The abbot covered his face with his hands and let out a shallow breath.

All along, Father Adams had been considering whether to tell his superior of the recent developments and the particular one that bothered him. That was the first sign he had seen of any sort of nerves on the abbot. He didn't seem particularly sensitive or friendly either, and the way he stroked his pectoral cross when he spoke made one feel a bit uncomfortable. Some monks have their habits made of the finest linen in Europe, and the abbot was no exception. His was made of the same rich fabric as that of Father Adams, but he wore his like a cloak of royalty.

'One more thing, Abbé Makarios,' he continued before he lost his voice. 'The Informer picked up a child two days ago. He said that the gatekeepers brought it to his notice when they found an infant crying, abandoned at the main gate of the abbey.'

Unaffected by news of this development, the abbot looked up. 'The child should be sent to an orphanage where he would be cared for as soon as possible. Why is this a problem?'

Father Adams stated gently but firmly, 'I intend to keep the child … for myself, I mean.' He paused as he saw the look on his superior's face. It was an incredulous look, at first, which dawned into understanding in his eyes. 'It is something I really can't explain … maybe it's a divine leading as regards the destiny of the boy. I am uncertain why, but I am as sure that I want him as I was when I knew I would be a monk in my childhood. I do hope you understand.'

The spiritual leader sat a bit straighter in his high-backed seat. His face was inscrutable, but his next words showed that he would not be an obstacle. 'Okay, if that is the way it is, then that is the way it shall be.'

Light leaped into the younger man's eyes. 'Thank you, my father,' he gasped. But before Father Adams could savor the success of his feat, the abbot added, 'The feeling of doing a righteous deed is as strong as the feeling of evil. Pray about your decisions, my son.' The abbot's words were clothed in mystery, too deep to comprehend, yet profound in meaning. Unshaken in his heart, Father Adams responded politely, 'I will, Father.' He took a bow and left immediately to ensure the ceremony would start at exactly ten as scheduled.

******************************** **********************************

Father Adams looked at the envelopes stacked on his study desk in his quarters, shrugged, and sank slowly into his seat, wondering which to read first. He was in dire need of sleep, and good news because he was nearing his wit's end. Since he had taken up the child almost four years ago, he had lived with much fulfillment, more than he had ever had in his thirty-eight years before the boy. Fatherhood, however, came with its own responsibilities, workload, and challenges, but they were a welcome burden. He remembered the way he had smiled when he looked at the tape around the tiny arms of the infant that read, 'His name is Seth.' He had adopted the boy and assumed fatherly duties immediately, hiring a male nurse who saw to Seth's upkeep. Now the boy was four, one of the finest boys in all Greece if he could say so himself.

He randomly recalled stopping by at a mall a year ago to do some shopping for his son; he did not realize how fast children grew. 'Father Adams!' exclaimed an excited voice behind him. He turned around to vaguely familiar features staring at him. She was a stunning feminine specimen in a sleeveless blue, knee-length dress that was primarily made of cotton and trimmed with fur.

'I am not quite sure … you are …?' he replied, trying to recollect where he had seen that face. 'Please, may I have the honor of being reintroduced, as I really cannot recall?'

'You always were a fine gentleman,' she said almost to herself. 'Well, it has been about twenty-two long years. I hear you are doing quite well for yourself, a professed monk at the St Paraclete Abbey, no doubt.' She stopped short when she realized she was drawing attention from other shoppers, especially as they noticed she was talking to a priest. 'Please forgive my manners; I am Victoria of Thessaloniki. You may remember me as your childhood admirer. You had made it very clear that there was no changing your mind on your decision to be a priest, and here you are now, the priest you always imagined yourself to be.' 

He did remember her, and they exchanged pleasantries; it was not often he met anyone from that far back in his life. He continued his shopping after she had left and wondered what some of these people thought of the irony of a monk buying baby supplies. He paid for his shopping and made his way out. He had given up his dream of being a father for the dream of joining the order, and God had blessed him with his almost-forgotten dream. He smiled; he intended to enjoy every bit of being a dad.

There had been some things bothering him the last year that concerned his son. He often worried about the child's future and hoped he was making the right decisions for him. He loved the boy very much and did not want his future colored by his inappropriate choices for his God-given purpose. What if he was not supposed to be a priest but became one because he knew nothing else? He shook his head to clear it; that was not the only thing that had given him cause for worry. Quite recently, he had been receiving letters from a woman who claimed she knew Seth's real mother. How could she have abandoned her child to a life she knew nothing about only to return now? The letters kept coming and always asked about the welfare of the child.

As he sat staring at his pile of mail and the stack of papers on his table, he suspected that more of her letters would be there, and he was determined not to as much as open any that bore her handwriting. He loved the boy as much as he would have loved any child who came from his loins, and he was not about to lose him to the whims of a woman who had let him go once. He had to attend to his mail.As he foraged through the heap, he stumbled on one with a postmark that drew his attention. He opened and read it, and he almost cried with relief. Thank you, Lord. It was a gift from heaven that would take care of all these worries.

The letter had come from the table of the cardinal in charge of the church in Europe.It was a long-awaited transfer letter. It stated that he was to head a large monastery in Italy as the new abbot. He did not care about the size of the monastery; it was the distance that pleased him. He was very excited about the prospects but managed to keep himself calm.He had learned the importance of that as prior in this place. Even though he had experience as prior, being spiritual head as abbot was very different, and he realized the responsibilities this conferred on him would be immense.

His prayers had been answered, but the answer came with a new set of challenges he and his son would have to surmount, but they could do it. Seth would grow up strong in the comfort of the brotherhood, and he would teach him the tenets of the faith and the path he should walk. He would be the joy of any father's heart.

Seth was very excited at the prospect of a new place, new friends, and new experiences. He was so young, but from all his lessons, he was so eager to see the world he had only imagined from the globe in his father's study. He kept up a steady stream of questions, many of which made his father laugh, but Father Adams answered all as patiently and creatively as he could to appease the mind of the four-year-old.

********** **************** ************

Seth was busy with his new hobby, running through the many open fields that surrounded his new home. The fields were filled with wildflowers and birdsong, and the nurse here was not as strict as his old nurse—although he missed him—and he was allowed to run free on the grounds around the abbey.

They had been in Italy for all of three weeks, and the boy had had no difficulty settling in.To be fair, life was pretty much the same routine as it had been, except for the building and the people. He lay on the ground and listened to the sound of the choir in the distance.He often told his father the music made 'holy air,' and it always filled his spirit to bursting.

In the mind of the little boy, Italy was near perfect. He enjoyed the food, even though it was not the exact fare he was used to, and most of all, he loved the painted windows and doors that told of the Bible stories he had often heard. The drawings and sculptures were exquisite with great masters jostling for eminence—Michelangelo, Tintoretto, Leonardo da Vinci, Leon Battista—and all of them winning. It was a wonder to behold. Italy was a world of sculpture, paintings, music, and history of unexplainable beauty, and the boy drank in all the wonder.

His father was the spiritual head of the huge monastery, and he knew this new appointment made him happy. When his papa led Mass, he always did it with so much joy, and you could tell he enjoyed prayer time and looking after the brothers. He was especially good when he had to help the young novices solve any problems they were having. Seth was proud of his father; he thought him the finest man in all the world.

Seth was now friends with the cantor, who had become a strong confidante, and he was enjoying the singing lessons more and more. He had been practicing on-time signatures all week long, and to his surprise, the cantor said he was a natural and could join the choir soon.

Seth wandered off from his lessons, drawn away by the endless carvings and paintings on the walls that led to a brightly lit room. He imagined the beads of sweat on Nino Pisano's brow as he chiseled the female statue standing to the far end of the room just before a turn to the left; he took another aisle by the right and found a winding stairway.He had not seen this place yet.

He found himself standing in front of a huge door with large carvings laced with gold. It read: La Capella Degli Angeli—The Chapel of Angels.

He entered.

Awestruck, the boy marveled at the towering wonders of human creation in the large hall. It was an endless array of sculpted beings, fearful and majestic in every sense. They were in all different postures; some stared past him, and others looked heavenward with their flawless features and eyes alight with an ethereal glow. The rays from the gaily-colored windows mixed and splashed unearthly colors and hues all over the room, making it seem as though they floated around in this magical world.

Something moved, and the hair on the back of Seth's neck seemed to stand, but somehow, he was too excited with what he saw to be afraid.

'Is anyone in here?' he called out, a bit surprised at the tremor in his voice. Silence. Seth could hear his heart beating wildly in his chest, but he still did not leave the room. He looked up at the sculpture in front of him and saw a mighty angel wielding a sword with wings spread over twenty feet wide. Underneath his bronze feet was the horned head of a great scaly creature with batlike wings; his face was contorted as though in great pain.

'That's Michael,' claimed a silky-smooth male voice. Seth half-thought that the voice had come from his head, but he did not know this Michael, so it could not be. He must have heard someone. In between reason and reaction, he spun around to a grand-looking figure.He had never seen or imagined anyone like him, not even from the fairy tales his old nurse told him. The man he saw seemed to be made of light, a rather strange sort of light that looked like it could be touched. He wore a trench coat that looked more like a cape, and as he walked, it seemed to billow around him. He looked like he belonged there, for he was as beautiful as the sculptures in that place.

'That's Michael,' he repeated as he reached the statue. He turned to face the boy and smiled, and the child was mesmerized by his beauty. He looked at the grotesque figure beneath the sword-wielding angel and smiled ruefully. 'He's the tough one, and, believe me, the sculpture is not true to his actual form, for he is not so unpleasant to look upon.' He shook his head, amused, as though the famous sculpting were a ridiculous caricature of the real person.

Seth stood still. He was unable to loosen his thoughts enough to address the majestic figure before him. He wondered wildly if one of the sculptures had come to life, but surely that was impossible. Looking at him, he almost surpassed every sculpture in the room in beauty and perfection. Seth had never seen anyone like him before, and he mustered the courage to ask, 'Who are you, sir?'

'I am an angel of light. I was formed from light and precious stones were taken from the heart of the living springs. When I was a young angel, many ages ago, I taught the hosts their music daily, and I filled heaven with joy.' As he said this, there was a burst of light that filled the whole chapel, and he transfigured into an angel like the other statues, spilling a blinding sensation of light and a spectrum of colors. He was magnificent, a hybrid creature created by the mating of the rainbow and lightning. The light he emitted couldn't last for a whole minute. It began to flicker, but he didn't panic, as Seth was just a kid and didn't know any better.

'Wow,' the boy gasped. 'You really are an angel. Are you here too? Which one of them are you?' he asked.

Seth could not believe it.This was something he had only ever dreamed possible, and here he was talking to a real-life angel! Papa would like this.He was filled with amazement and excitement void of fear as only a child that age could be at such an encounter. The angel did the most wonderful thing with his wings. As he spread them out, the undulating movement brought a wind that released the most soulful music into the air.

This must be the angel with the sword. 'You must be Michael.' The boy walked towards the angel, his boyhood courage taking the better part of him. 'Now, tell me I'm wrong.'

'You can't afford to be wrong nor do wrong,' the angel said almost in caution. 'I will tell you my name. It is as old as the world you inhabit, young human, and must not be breathed too loudly. Even in the silent air within these walls may you speak of me or the things I will speak to you of in the days ahead. Humans will fight what they do not understand, and therefore, you must protect our little secret.' He paused. 'I am Lucifer, son of the dawn, and I have been sent to guide you through to the greatness to which you have been appointed.'

Seth was not so sure he understood everything that the angel just said, but it sounded cool, and, of course, he knew the adults always thought he made up stories to entertain them. He understood, however, that he was not to tell anyone of his new friend or the world he had just discovered.

'There you are, little one!' the cantor exclaimed. He walked right through Lucifer's standing form as he said this to the boy, who stood with dreamy eyes. 'Your papa has been worried because it's long past dinner time.' A slender young man with rather handsome features, Father Mark was a cantor any monastery would do everything to keep. He had a very soft voice that sounded heavenly when he sang and a manner with the brothers that brought out the best in their singing. Even though he was very young and still turned the heads of parishioners when he went into the town, Father Mark was a very fine gentleman who had a fatherly heart for the ones he tutored. He and Seth had become fast friends.

'Father Mark, the angel,' he said, almost breathless as he pointed in the direction where Lucifer still stood with a broad smile, arms folded across his chest and back in his initial human form.

'What angel?' he looked around and smiled. 'Of course, tesoruccio; they're everywhere. You should come with me now.'

As the cantor led him to the door, Lucifer said from behind him, 'I told you, son. He can't see or hear me. Only you can.'

Lucifer walked behind them as Father Mark led him to the door. 'He doesn't have to know. You can keep a secret, can't you? No one has to know, dear boy; it's our secret.'

Father Mark shut the door slowly, unknowingly allowing the boy and the angel a chance to wink their goodbyes to each other.

'Those sculptures are so realistic that even I from the corner of my eyes sometimes think that I see the shapes move. It's only ever my imagination giving life to the shapes around me,' the young monk counseled.

Seth smiled and nodded; he knew better.