AMOR VINCIT OMNIA
by
James S. Austin
The deep melancholy of the evening only disheartened
Father Prichard further. The swollen
clouds laden with heaven's tears erupted as he finished his evening cleaning of
the ruined cathedral. He had no desire
to dash through the sodden cemetery or around its lengthy perimeter to the
small chantry. He slid down the aged
wall, the fatigue from the recent restless nights creeping through his
bones. The rain would eventually cease.
He ran his shivering fingers
along the jagged fracture in the stone wall as his mind wandered. The Father's thoughts cascaded with the
runoff from the roof's eves as glimpses of past memories flashed in unison to the
erratic crescendos of the storm's angered fury.
Months earlier, Father
Pritchard had hoped to escape from the bustle of the church's over-tasked
clergy. With the rise in popularity for
the more oppressive monastic calling, many of the faithful departed with new purpose,
leaving fewer servants of God to tend the daily church workings. So in an effort to continue with his
devotion, the father accepted a position at La Sainteté des Anges to find his peace with
God.
Once the site of a respected
cathedral in West Fracia, all that remained was but a hollowed husk, only a
symbol of its past glory. The infernal
blaze that consumed the small cathedral over a hundred years ago lasted two
days and was said to have been an evil omen, a blasphemous act that brought
ruin to the region. The walls that
remained were but a stone skeleton, without the promise of refuge. Sections of the roof had collapsed, the
heavy beams pulling parts of the walls to the ground. Only the apse, the heralded sanctuary, provided any means of
shelter from a night like this.
* * * * *
The previous caretaker, a
monk by any other name, grinned in glee for his liberation when Father
Pritchard announced his arrival. The
nervous chatter that escaped from the troubled priest held no reserve or
reverence for this place. He spoke of
finding no solace in his stay as a result of the dreaded affliction: the
bewitchment that sat on the north hill.
It was an obsessive theme in the monk's conversations over his last few
days while helping to familiarize Father Pritchard with his duties.
The northernmost point of
the cemetery climbed to a small hillock.
At its crest, once intended as the site of a landed lord's ancestral
resting home for him and his family, sat a single stone edifice to denote a lone
grave. The mausoleum was said to belong
to the man responsible for that infernal blaze. A mangled and corroded iron fence ran along the base of the
mound, which the past caretaker claimed was to signify a boundary between Earth
and hell. A deteriorated statue of Michael
the Archangel stood atop the stone structure.
Michael's empty eyes gazed down upon the sealed entrance with sword held
forward and clasped by both hands.
After a time, as the sun fell behind the horizon every evening, the
Father swore he could feel the strain put forth by all of the archangel's will
to keep the evil from breeching the spiritual bonds of death below his feet.
* * * * *
A
shadow pulling around the apse's edge caught him in mid-breath.
"Good evening, Father.
I have sought shelter among this forgotten sanctuary," the darkness
whispered.
As the shadow approached, it
took the shape of a twisted man. His
head sat within the cradle of his shoulders with a battered hat pulled low on
his brow, clothes drenched from the downpour's tirade beyond. Knotted fists and elbows, like fallen
branches, swung awkwardly with his labored steps.
Father
fought to maintain composure as his nerves twitched into actions of
flight. "All are welcome here, my
lord," was forced through his lips as he regained his faculties. "What brings you out so far on an
evening of such wickedness?" With
what strength remained, Father Pritchard pulled himself erect against the wall. His nights have been plagued with feelings
of loss and despair, and it was taking a toll.
Lifting
the hat away, the stranger's furrowed face trembled in shivers and shakes as
his yellowed eyes, one staring forward as the other gazed off into other
reaches, looked down on the priest. The
man's tattered attire hung like soaked rags, and a satchel was slung over his
shoulder, dripping at all ends.
"My
work. I travel to the city fairs and
offer my services as an engraver and repairer of jewelry." The man clamped down onto the edge of a
block and lowered himself in a great wheeze.
The
sudden silence between them was filled with the wind howling around the outer
walls. Father Pritchard watched as the
stranger sat there attempting to compose himself from the strain of his
journey.
The
yellowed eyes glanced to the side.
"Back in the darkness, behind the crooked beam, I saw a bird. It appeared to be injured."
Curious
of such finds, Father Pritchard found the energy to raise himself and make his
way into the dark, to find a raven cowering behind the beam.
"Why, yes. Alas, it seems we are not the only ones in
need tonight. Our Lord's fury has
brought naught to the innocent."
The bird shook out its feathers and extended itself, plucking into its
left wing. "He appears to be
bothered, having something wrong with his wing maybe. Shame." The raven
danced about before disappearing into the edge of night.
The stranger let out a
rasping cough. "Yes, this place
has fallen from its previous splendor."
"What…oh the
church. Yes, consumed in a vengeful
flame from what I have been told. Used
to be a landmark among these lonely hills of our Lord. Now, the hills have truly lost their way and
the people only pass to see the crumbled walls. I stay here now to watch over the memory."
He could imagine the
spiritual disease that must have led to the locals abandoning such a serene
place. The deteriorating church stood
as an edifice of symbolism within Father Pritchard's own thoughts, an
almost-validation to return to the people rather than be centered on one's own
salvation. The foundation and structure
built of stone and wood formed the traditions of the church and its past. With the Benedictine Laws crushing the wills
of the monasteries and the church interludes into the secular realm, he found
his world changing.
As lightning struck, he
caught his eyes gazing at the north hill.
"Do you believe in
ghosts, Father?"
Father
Pritchard was startled to the core at the thought. "That is a hard question to answer, and there may not be
one. I personally do not think there
are." The quiver in his voice may
have said otherwise. Searching for a
diversion, the Father noticed that the traveler held tightly to something in
his lap.
"So
what is that you twist in your hands?
Some of your work?"
"Yes,
I suppose it is."
"May
I have a look?"
Once
in hand, Father Pritchard held the item up to the irregular light. It was a golden necklace strung through an
egg-shaped medallion. The profile of a
comely woman was etched on the surface with an inscription along the lower
border that read AMOR VINCIT OMNIA.
"This
is quite beautiful."
"She
was my wife, good Father. I made this
for her. She wore it till the day she
died." The old man's gray eyes
turned to the Father's. "She finds
me at night. I don't get much rest
anymore."
"Really,
how do you know it is her?"
"She
is my wife. She died of the Red Fever
long ago. I watched her as the boils
grew and her eyes slowly dimmed."
"That
is an unpleasant thing to experience."
"I
always see her at a distance in the shadows or as a wisp of breath on my neck speaking
my name." After a slight pause,
"Why won't she go to heaven?"
"I'm sorry, I'm not sure how to answer
that."
"The
lack of sleep clouds my mind. What
makes it so hard to forget? I can still
feel her gentle hand that leads me through the church gardens. I remember her sweet giggle every time I
complained about the weather. I get
frustrated just thinking of this, knowing that I cannot forget or move
past."
"You
resist so hard, maybe you are meant to think of her. That is what God may have intended. She is as much a part of your life now as she was then. If you let go, and embrace your past love,
your torment may end. Amor vincit
omnia. Love does conquer
all."
A
slight smile cracked the old man's features.
"You might be right, Father.
Thank you for your wisdom. It
seems this night may have a reprieve, the rain has slowed." Father Pritchard watched as the hunchbacked
stranger climbed to his feet and disappeared into the darknes
The
following morning, during his stroll of the grounds, the Father found himself
at the rusted gate to the mound.
Looking to the peak, he noticed that Michael stood vigilant no
more. With the sudden urge to provide
the Lord's faith to a forsaken soul, he climbed to the top to find all that
remained of the statue was a pair of sandaled feet affixed to the roof. At the point where the angel's eyes would
fall, an inscription read: "Let
those who read this know that forgiveness and faith quench all burning souls,
may they be joined. In loving memory of
a gracious husband. Amor Vincit
Omnia."
