The Gray Has Lifted

Fiction

It was almost like being the pawn of an arranged marriage. From the time I was just a boy, I knew what my destiny was to be. But then, is it really destiny if your future is strategically planned without your consent? Destiny may not be the right word. More like a life sentence. No one asked me if I wanted to spend my life without the love of a woman. No one consulted me as to how many, if any, children I wanted to usher into this crazy world. No one! Damn them…

My family is a pious lot. In our modest and humble home Sunday was treated with the pomp and circumstance others reserved for Holidays. The other parishioners of our church knew the front pew was reserved for our family. It had been so for generations and would remain ours unless the church was willing to return a family Nun or two. Our faithful father could hold a genuflect longer than the youngest Priest in the county. It was only natural that with our historical devotion to the church, someone was bound to be “sacrificed,” again. Who would be the family Martyr this time, the chosen one? Was there a future Nun or Priest among the children of our parents? It was the least we could offer to prove our faith was worthy of that front pew. Or so the church would have Mother and Father believe. Our meager 10% tithing eventually paled in comparison to the suggested gift of one of the family’s ten children. The country was in the middle of “The Great Depression,” and 10% less food and clothing would bring needed relief to a small budget that was always stretched to its limits. Ten percent is ten percent, be it flesh or currency, I guess.

So, on a warm summer morning, following a particularly moving fire and brimstone sermon about those who will “burn in hell for not giving their all to the church,” the lottery began. Each one of us children was directed to write their name on a scrap of paper. All ten children’s names were tossed into Father’s fedora and swirled around and around and around. Mother’s trembling hand retrieved a slip of paper with a child’s name printed in juvenile script. Tears streamed down her face as she whispered the name, my name. I was the winner! Another Holy victory for the church and a guaranteed place in heaven for my parents, courtesy of me, the pawn.

I knew this dreaded day would eventually arrive. I was just a boy of thirteen on that warm summer day my name was drawn. Over the course of the next five years I would overhear the plans for my future being decided in hushed tones from the shadows of the church and at family gatherings. So, on this day of my passing from childhood to manhood, I knew what to expect. There will be no parties, no celebration, and no gifts; at least not for me. Today I will be the birthday gift and I’m quite sure Monseigneur Natas is celebrating somewhere cloistered in darkness behind the ancient stone walls of the monastery.

The massive thick wood door doesn’t even vibrate from the banging of my shaking fist. Eventually I need to use both fists on the monastery door to summon a Brother who will let me in. I am reminded how late the hour is by the familiar face of Brother Timothy who is rubbing his sleepy red eyes and yawning repeatedly while trying to pull the door open just enough to allow me in. His gray hooded robe is excessively wrinkled from a disturbed sleep and I wonder if Mother really needed to pack the one pair of pajamas that was shared by the three oldest boys. The lone pair of pajamas will be missed, perhaps even more than me.

Brother Timothy tugs at the thick knotted rope used as his belt and struggles to move the large knot from the back to the front of his robe. I wonder, is there is a rule that I must always display the knot at the front of my robe or is this just an issue of vanity? If not vanity, will I ever be able to sleep on my stomach again? Trivial, silly questions about this new life fill my head as I push a tattered excuse for a suitcase across the threshold. If this is an order dedicated to a vow of poverty, it was lost on Mother. It feels like she managed to pack everything I own and several things that belong to my siblings. Those will be missed also and again, probably more than me.

The hall that I am led down is long, cold and empty. It is dimly lit by candles dripping hot red wax from wrought iron sconces anchored to ornately carved wood panels. The carvings are hard to decipher in the partial darkness, but the gargoyle style images seem to suggest a passage for demons, not saints. Finally, we stop at an open door at the end of the dark hall. The only sound that I have heard since the massive wood door closed behind me is the dragging of a suitcase that can barely be lifted off the ground. It is this one last prized possession that comforts me, reminds me of my home, and I fear it might be confiscated by the morning light. Till then it will remain pushed to the farthest corner under a hard-wooden cot for safe keeping.

Left alone within the ten by ten foot cubicle Brother Timothy called “my room,” I pace back and forth, counting the steps it will take before I go mad. I eventually throw myself down onto the old wool stuffed mattress that is to serve as my bed for the rest of my life and close my eyes. “God, the rest of my life, the rest of my life…”

I am startled awake by pressure upon my eyes. When I open them fully there is only blackness? It is fabric that blocks the light, and it falls away from my face as I jump to my feet. Why would this gangly awkward Brother with crocked thick glasses toss a heavy smelly robe across my face as I slept? It felt aggressive, threatening and not the least bit hospitable. I detect no trace of playfulness from this intrusive youth, and resent him entering my room unannounced. Have some respect! Didn’t he know the sacrifice my family had made to send me here? I am the “chosen one,” for God’s sake! The serious youth before me glares and folds his arms as I rub the long night from my eyes.

“I am Brother Anthony. Get dressed. Breakfast is in 10 minutes and we are never to be late,” was all the young up-start said as he brushed past me and disappeared out the door. He couldn’t have been more than 14 years old. There must have been some urgency to his family “lottery.” His too thin body swam in a robe intended for the stature of a mature male, not an emaciated boy. He was both irritating and infuriating, but I couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity for him. This was quickly followed by a wave of relief that Monsieur was willing to wait for me to become a man before he robbed me of my freedom.

I was so caught off guard by the manner in which I was awakened, that I didn’t have time to think of a curt retort for Anthony. Instead I had to hurry and crawl under the bed, struggle to pull the dead weight of my bulging suitcase out from under the cot and try to find a razor.

I was always very proud of the fact that I had to shave well before my older brother Edward. It was two years before his patchy, thin, stubble caught up to mine. I would sneak his special eighteenth birthday razor into the bathroom and shave with it till it was dangerously dull. I flaunted my hairy male prowess every chance I could get, and had planned on donning a full beard just to taunt Ed before I had to leave for this place. Mother said, “God would disapprove of face hair.” So, I had to shave daily to appease her. I assume by the clean-shaven faces of the two brothers I have met so far, Mother might be right. Perhaps the peach fuzz faced boy is just jealous of the Five O’ Clock shadow on my handsome adult face. He is not the first and certainly will not be the last. That is one thing that will probably never change, no matter where I am. Mother always said of all her children, I was “special.”

I shed the wrinkled family pajamas and pick up the faded gray garment left behind by the impertinent intruder. Finding the arm holes in the layers and layers of thread worn fabric are as much of a challenge as tying and adjusting the rough, thick, knotted rope that acts as a crude belt.

As I wander down the hallway, I find it odd that every one of the many doors I try and open are locked. Surly there must be a bathroom. They may be “men of God,” but even “men of God” have divine bodily functions. The first humorous thought since I arrived. Good to chuckle again, even if it is to myself, as I turn the handle to a drafty, barren concrete communal bathroom.

I return to my room after a brief shower, and notice that the door is open. I know I shut the door behind me. Why would I trust these strangers? So far no one here has been very friendly, and you can hide a lot under these ridiculous, tent like garments. Dropping to my knees, frantically reaching under the bed, my greatest fear is realized. All that I had left of my past is gone! Why would they take my suitcase? Why would they take the last few things I own!? There is nothing in the suitcase of value. Just old pictures, a few books, mother’s sugar cookie recipe and those damn pajamas. Jesus, they almost got Ed’s razor! The wet handle of his razor soaks the inside of my pocket, as I press it against my thigh and pat it like it’s my last friend. Laying down on the unmade cot, I pull my knees tightly to my chest, drag the heavy robe over my face and allow myself to cry like a baby. There has been a primal scream living deep in my chest since the day my name was selected, and I fear I will set it free if I don’t get the hell out of here! Everything has been taken from me in this prison! First it was my freedom, then my identity and now I fear it is even my manhood.

I must have drifted off for a few minutes. A loud, clanging bell wakes me and steals a dream of home. This is probably the call to breakfast. The meal I have been advised to attend in a timely manner. I move slowly and cautiously down a hall in the direction that I traveled late last night. I am able to follow the sounds of clanging dishes and silverware all the way to the dining room doorway. Everything in the dining room is drab in color and coated in a thin layer of dust. There is a gray cast to the food, the walls, the floor and even the faces that stare through me from every corner of the room. There are no welcoming gestures, no waves of acknowledgement, not even a smile. All conversation seemed to cease when I entered the room. It un-nerves me and fuels my anger. The loss of my luggage takes a quick backseat to what feels like the loss of my humanity. I pull out a cold steel chair at an unoccupied stone table. By now I am almost too mad to eat despite the rumbling pangs in my stomach. It has been almost twenty-four hours since my last meal and I force down dry toast and bitter black coffee.

I am startled out of my self-pity and isolation by a jarring pat on the back. As I turn around in my chair I am greeted by a broad and warm smile. Monseigneur Natas has graced my table with his “holier than thou” holiness. God, what do I do? Do I look for a gaudy ring on his right hand to kiss? Do I do an exaggerated bow or just throw myself down prone for him to step over. Putting my lingering anger and cynicism aside, I smile back. I remember being advised by Mother to just bow my head and greet him as his “Holiness.” Losing sight of the “Holiness” advice, I hear myself loudly accusing him and his “cohorts” of theft and invasion of privacy. By the gasps and murmurs throughout the room, I realize I’ve made a big mistake. But I don’t much care and glare back at all my fellow hostages. What can he do to me? I have nothing. I am nothing…

Surprisingly, he continues to smile through my litany of accusations and at one point even tries to hide a few chuckles at my expense. He reassures me my things will be returned, either in my pathetic little suitcase as I walk down the stone path away from my faith or at my funeral. My choice, but “they will be returned.” What nerve, who does he think he is, God? Perhaps here he is. At this point in my life, I have no choice but to stay around and find out...

After several harsh lessons learned over many long years in this God forsaken place, I have come to realize outrage gets you nothing. So rather than fight Monseigneur Natas, I have found favor with him. It was our first encounter twenty years ago in the dining room that would give me the key to his confidence and friendship. It is very simple. Monseigneur loves a good “snitch!” Bring him a juicy story or tattle on a Brother and you have his ear and gratitude. Had I known that when we first met, I would have given him Brother Anthony’s head on a platter for stealing my luggage that first day. At least, I think it was Anthony…

It would have been a waste of my cunning talent however. It resolved itself. Even though I hated the arrogant young Brother, his shortcomings were great fodder for my regular meetings with the Father. But unlike the others, I did not have to embellish the details. Anthony was as weak as he was awkward. I would watch him in Chapel and at leisure. With a little help, Brother Anthony would screw up while preparing the Eucharist plates and even doing laundry duty. Switching labels on the bleach bottles was one prank I never tired of. The frustration of failing as a worthy Brother all those years seemed to take its toll on the mental stability of my target. He would wander the halls at night and mumble to himself. He even started calling Monsignor by his first name! The other Brothers coddled and protected him from his mistakes. Our mishaps eventually became endearing and I grew weary of his attempts to gain the praise and affection of Monsignor.

Our order was shocked and sadden the morning I found him. But even the beloved Brother Anthony knew his demons could only be purged at the end of his rope belt. I even had the pleasure of cutting him down. It takes a long time for a man to die. After all these years, I still have rope burn scars on my hands. He struggled so…

I have had a lengthy career as “the sentinel” for all things inappropriate at the monastery. With Anthony resting in Hell, I have more time to concentrate on the other Brothers and their questionable behaviors. And the devoted snitch’s stories are always received with great appreciation. Sitting at the “right hand” of Monseigneur Natas has its benefits to say the least. I dine on better food than the other Brothers. My hard-wooden cot is a thing of the past. Now I sleep in a comfortable suite next to “his Holiness.” The other Brothers cower and cross the hall as I approach so as not to gain my attention. Yes, I am watching, always watching for anything that might amuse and outrage my ally, the Holy Father. The gray has truly lifted. But not for them.

There is one however, who does not fear me. It is the weary face that greeted me that first night, Brother Timothy. He dismisses my very existence with cold indifference when we pass one another. He cannot mask his disdain for me during the blessings at meal time and he seems to have the ear of the Holy Father much more than the other Brothers. I have plotted for years to ruin him, but he does no wrong. I came to realize his tired eyes and demeanor that first night were the result of his endless hours spent caring for others and their needs. He is the “servant” of the Order.

I refuse to outright lie and “bear false witness,” even against this “goody two shoes.” I can justify my information sharing sessions with Monseigneur because it is the truth that I tell. Sure, I add my own dialogue and grow the details. But it is just dressing up the truth. So, the good Brother remains un-scathed by my tongue, for now.

Since it is truth I seek, it will be the truth I expose. I am tired of telling the same tedious stories to Monseigneur. I sense he too is getting bored by the same tidbits of gossip and the minor infractions of the other Brothers. After a while the less than appropriate behaviors of my fellow Brothers become mundane and predictable. I need to bring something big to the table. Who better to expose than the benevolent Brother Timothy? In all his good and charitable works there must be an incident he would be ashamed to have spread throughout the Monastery. He’s just human. Like the rest of them.

I have noticed Brother Timothy stays up much later than his fellow Brothers, much later. I hear him shuffling down the hall to the kitchen almost every night. He explains away his restlessness as a repeated case of insomnia. I have thought of following him but risk waking Monseigneur now that we are almost roommates. Monseigneur gets angry if I am not at his beck and call. I would never want to keep him waiting for his favorite Brother but I am growing impatient for a juicy story to share. Tonight, I plan to stay awake all night if that’s what it takes to catch him in the act. Monseigneur drank his usual warm milk before bed. But tonight, it contained more than just vitamin D. He will sleep through anything. I hope…

Bare feet will make very little sound on the smooth wooden floors. I best not wear my flowing robe. The sound of the fabric swishing back and forth will draw attention to me as I hide in the shadows. I don’t want to risk turning and sending the knots of my rope belt slamming against the walls. Several of the Brothers are light sleepers. No one must know of my plans, as it may take several nights watching from the shadows before I know the truth behind Brother Timothy’s clandestine activities.

It has been three nights since I started to watch the nocturnal activities of the good Brother. I follow his every move crouched behind a tall antique wooden bookcase tucked in the farthest corner of the basement. The chill of the cold crumbling cement floor on my feet and the dust coated books under my nose cause me to stifle more than one thunderous sneeze. The only light in the room emanates from a small scarlet tinted glass candle holder anchored above a long wooden bench on the other side of the room. Fortunately, Timothy blocks most of the light, as he hovers over the work bench and concocts God knows what. I’m positive he pilfered the sconce from an alter in the chapel. That will be the first thing I mention to the Monsieur. I’m pretty sure “Thou Shalt Not Steal” applies to even the holiest.

I carefully part the books that hide my presence. Brother Timothy is bent over a large volume whose title is un-recognizable from this distance. The book looks very old, stained and badly worn on every corner. It has never been upstairs since I have been here. How odd.

It’s no wonder he always looks like Hell. He spends the entire night reading, frantically scribbling secrets onto paper and filling clay jars with a gray powder he has crushed with a mortar and pestle. Various sizes of rocks are pulled from a purple velvet bag that bears the crest of the Monastery. Carefully he sorts and lines them up by size. Glass vials and measuring spoons cover most of the bench surface. Thick smoke swirls above the beakers filled with effervescent bubbling fluid. Slowly Timothy raises a vial, one at a time, to the candlelight before corking the top and wrapping them in cloth strips. My God, he looks more like a modern-day Wizard than a Priest. What is this book he hovers over and traces its words with his long thin finger? Black Magic, spells and potions? I will tell, for they have no place in a house of God!

I can’t keep watching. I’m exhausted! I can’t risk dozing off and being discovered. If I go back to bed now, I can get a few hours of sleep, so I can return tomorrow in the daylight and read what he has written. Well Timothy, my un-touchable friend, this just may be the rope I need to hang you too!

“Personal Reflection Time” is just code for mid-day nap. Muffled sounds of snoring from under the doors of the sleepy Brothers drifts down the hall. This gives me the time and freedom to retreat to the basement and find the Wizard’s bible. No one even notices my passage through the kitchen to the basement door. It is just assumed everyone will be resting in their rooms for the next hour. Brother Timothy is nowhere to be found. He must certainly be one of the slumbering fools. I went to bed at 4:30 am, and he was still up to his elbows in powder and vials with no sign of stopping.

As I cross the basement, heading toward the work bench, I notice the sconce is still lit. Timothy must have just finished his work. What force drives him to work endlessly for no reward. I am the only one who knows his mysterious routine and he will be exposed soon enough. Gently turning the pages of the ancient text, I squint to decipher the small handprinted script. Even with better lighting I could not read this book. What language is this? No recognizable words and all punctuation is missing. There are patterns to the sentences and they resemble recipes, formulas or perhaps even potions! The only graphics are upside down crosses that complete every grouping of the mysterious words. Even without being able to understand the symbols on the pages I am convinced our dear Brother is indeed dabbling in the Dark Arts! It will be tricky to get the book back to my room un-detected, but it is worth the risk. Tonight, is my last night of surveillance, and the reveal will be just that much more damning with his book of spells in my possession!

It is night four as I prepare to crouch down again on the dirty, hard floor behind the bookcase. It amuses me, and I try not to laugh out loud as I watch the sorcerer frantically searching for his missing book. I’m sure he will eventually give up the search, so I retreat to the kitchen at the top of the stairs and wait for him in the dark. The element of surprise is best served with the truth …

Who in the world is tapping at the kitchen door this late at night? Do they honestly think we would be up, and cooking no less? At the speed with which Brother Timothy bolted up the stairs, I can only assume this is an agreed upon visit! The shadows hide me from their view, so they are un-aware I have just witnessed the exchange of one of the powdered filled glass vials for a basket of garden vegetables. It would be touching, if I wasn’t convinced that the contents of the vial are indeed, vile! The recipient of the un-holy Alchemist’s gift leans in for an embrace. My God! My God! “Edward! Why are you here!? Wait, come back! Stop, Edward!” I push past the startled Brother and race after my biological brother, but the trail of produce from the basket ends at the road. I can see the image of a figure stumbling in the distant moonlight…

I return to the kitchen door outraged, with thoughts of ending Timothy’s sorcery and perhaps even his life. I may not have seen my sibling in twenty years, but I love him none the less. This is the last straw! God knows how many souls from town have visited the powder pushing Monk, but this was my brother! How dare you!?

I will let Monsieur deal with this! My punishment would be swift, but Monsieur’s could last a lifetime. The door adjoining our rooms is ajar. Natas, is comforted by the thought I am always close by. It feels strange to finally refer to him on a first name basis, but I’m pretty sure that after I expose the evil under his roof, we will be even closer. I can hear the soft hum of his labored snoring. I am willing to wait a few hours till Monsieur rises. I want him awake and alert. This is a story worthy his full attention, not to be shared during the usual eye rubbing and repeated yawning that laces our other sharing times.

On tip toes, I cross his parlor, and position myself in his favorite chair. It is massive, by comparison to the other chairs in the room. The fabric on the overstuffed seat is a deep red crushed velvet and fastened to the Gothic style carved wood frame with 14 karat gold tacks. It is rumored, no one, but no one, has ever sat in this chair but the Monsieur. That almost gives it the status of being a “throne.” Well, your Royal Highness, I am sitting in “your” chair. After this sharing session, I might just demand one for myself!

After my long night in the basement, I dozed off on the “throne!” It’s the hot, morning breath of Natas on my face that startles me awake. He is two inched from my nose, and seems less than pleased I have come for our sharing time. He sprays a hiss to “get up, NOW!” I quickly slither out of the chair as if I had no spine. But if ever I had a spine, it is today! Snitching on the “good” Brother is one of my finest, if not my finest hours!

Or so I thought it would be. Within seconds of finishing my tale and catching my breath, Holy Father is on his feet pacing with clenched fists. I have never seen him react like this during any of our “sharing times.” He seems almost “crazed,” as he pauses to speak, yet utters not a word. When he finally speaks, the words flow quickly from his Holy lips and fill every corner of the room. His voice is loud, his words are cruel. They pierce me like a cold knife to the heart and I am mortally wounded forever…

As I step outside the front door of the Monastery the morning sun wraps me in golden warmth. The distant sound of morning birds is drowned out by the reverberating bang of the massive wooden doors as they close behind me. They have been pulled tightly shut and locked by my Brothers on the other side. There at my feet rests the old tattered suitcase: hidden all these years, still bulging with my past. I am reminded of the morning it disappeared. I remember an indignant, pompous youth squaring off with Monsieur and being reassured of its return. I was told I would get my suitcase back “when I walked down the path away from my faith or at my funeral.”

He was wrong! He was wrong on both points! I still have my faith. It is a faith no longer built on secrets and cruelty. No longer a faith shared by gray faces in gray hallways. My faith will have to find a new beginning. He was wrong about my funeral too. It is not my funeral I will attend, but Edwards. I did not know he came to visit the Monastery several times a week for “the cure.”

No one told me it was Brother Timothy keeping him alive all those months he came to the back door in the shadow of night. It wasn’t just Edward that Brother Timothy helped. Many of the town’s poor came to our door as well. Monsieur said he blessed the work, the efforts of Brother Timothy and had even helped to procure the herbs and chemicals needed to make the potions. When there were no longer resources available, they would crush up remnants of the concrete from the basement floor to fill the vials. He reminded me that it is faith that is the “true healer.” The sick and dying needed to believe in something. We gave them faith and the belief that a blessing and a glass vial had the power to heal their bodies and their souls. Even the very rich had come to believe in the healing power of the gray powder and they could be very grateful.

He was right. Who am I to rob his lost, sick sheep of their last shred of hope? They were already so ill, what did it matter at that point? Herbs, concrete or faith. How could I tell the truth? I love Edward. He must continue to believe, just like the others.

His next confession continues to roar in my head as I prepare to walk down the path away from the Monastery. Natas proceeded to tell me in an almost mocking tone, that he knew from our first meeting I would be trouble; that I might expose their work, their business, as it were. That is why he made me his confidant, his court jester, his fool! Our “sharing time,” our visits together were just a way to “keep an eye on me.” He laughed at me behind my back and said several of the Brothers set me up. They would act out outrageous scenarios that would send me running back to him with tales that were choreographed by the Brothers. It was an “amusing pastime” for them all! Except for the death of Brother Anthony, I was just an ineffectual pawn! And if Anthony had kept his nose out of my business, we would have been in on the joke too!

The crunch of fallen acorns and dried leaves whisper up from under my sandaled feet to mock me. I move down the dirt path I traveled so many years ago. Gray clouds roll across the tree tops and steal the warmth of the sun from my face. I pause for a moment to catch my breath. The weight of the little suitcase slows my pace as I try to return home to my dying brother. I prepare to abandon it on the path. I no longer have the strength of the arrogant boy who carried the suitcase up to the wooden Monastery doors years ago. I decide to open the case and see if there is anything of value from my past packed away in the little satchel before it gets left behind. With a click of the rusted latch the lid springs open to reveal a razor nestled on top of clothing that was never worn. Not just any razor, but Edwards’s special razor. The one I secretly used as he waited to grow his own pubescent facial hair. With a reverence I have never experienced before, I slowly place his razor in a pocket under my open gray robe. I pat the pocket and proceed down the path.

As the wind picks up and my robe flaps around me, I realize I have left something even more special than an old razor behind! I must go back! The rope belt is laying on my cot. No one must have it! It is special, very special. I have worn his rope around my waist since I cut the foolish boy down! It has been a reminder, a trophy of a time when I had power, or believed I had power over them all.

Running has winded me, a sharp pain sears through my chest. Before I knock on the door, I must rest my head against the wood panel. The crack between the doors allows sound to escape and I hear them as clearly as if I too were still part of their inner circle. They are laughing at me! Imitating and mocking me! With anger, humiliation and courage, I prepare to knock on the door and face the devil’s faithful familiars. I stop my fist in mid-air as the booming voice of Natas shouts over their cheering, “Brothers, we are down two! Go forth and let the lotteries begin!!!”

I decide to leave the belt behind. It will probably be needed for the next winners exit. My stride is quicker as I turn and run down the steps. I am retreating as fast as the pain in my chest will allow. Without my rope belt the faded gray robe slips effortlessly off my shoulders, almost as if it wanted to escape the person who wears it. I step out of one sandal and kick off the other, leaving me to traverse the rocky dirt path on tender fleshy feet. I am going home; I am going to the place where my brother lays dying. I will tell him the truth…

I have walked all day. I am so cold and tired. It is growing dark. There is no moonlight. I am lost and alone. I must rest. Laying still among fragrant dry leaves on the moist earth I call out to Edward. My eyes slowly close and the pain leaves my body. It is warm, and I feel safe. Edward beckons me from above the place where I have landed. Light fills the sky and illuminates a path. I know I can find my way home, for the gray has lifted…