Sunday, May 15, 2016

A Taste of "Haunted by the Past" - AMOR VINCIT OMNIA






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."

 

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