Season One Historical Note:
The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A."
ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION
by Evan Como
Chapter One
Ago:
The child, holding onto the
pew in front of him, sanded his feet over the limestone floor. The hand
that latched onto his right shoulder at the conclusion of the congregation's
prayer promptly forced him back into his seat.
The throats of his polished
black calf boots had been laced too tightly where they hugged his arch.
Brand new and knotted with a precise bow at their tops, each boot exactly
mirrored its mate -- miniature examples of an expert cobbler's patience
and talent. Their fleeced-stuffed toes would eventually become less compact
as the feet they were custom-made for inched into their lengths.
Right. Left. Right and left.
They were shiny, almost patent-looking; and they weren't hand-me-downs.
The left one actually had a smudge across the toe where he'd kicked at
an uncooperative stone lodged in the church's dirt pathway, but one had
to look really hard to see it. One had to *squint* to even figure out where
such a smudge might be. It definitely wasn't a scratch, although...
It looked like a scratch
when he raised his foot high enough. Compared to the right toe... It *was*
a scratch! Deducing it was best not to keep them both together, he continued
swinging them right, then left; right, right, then left, left. With the
pew's edge rounding precisely under his knees, he didn't shimmy forward
even when his legs swung independently of one another.
Another nudge at his left
side... And he ignored that one just like he'd ignored the others. The
vise-like clamp just above his right kneecap couldn't be denied, though.
And it hurt!
He sheepishly looked up and
into the stern face of the gripping woman. Satisfied that his legs had
been stilled, she raised her cruel fingers to her face. Her silent direction,
reinforced from outside by the howl of an approaching storm, was done with
military precision: EYES FORWARD!
Following orders, he noticed
the processional's smoke still wafting above the congregation, hazing the
view of the high ornate pulpit. The Priest, his robe of finest Irish linen,
his chasuble of royal purple Chinese silk, the large crucifix around his
neck in gold -- heavy and polished to a high sheen, conducted the service
in a monotone pitch.
"... Draconis ... dirum
caput ... ducemque cum rebellibus ... fulminat ... "
A multitude of candles flickered.
Their flames, tossed about by the cathedral's criss-crossing drafts, bobbed
like the many heads attempting to stay awake during the formal Mass. He
looked to distinguish the candle his family had lighted prior to the service,
but there were too many and the distance was too far. That, and every time
he thought he could make out theirs, another bolt of far-off lightning
ignited the stain-glass windows and illuminated all their glorious color,
distracting him.
The Virgin posed in her archway,
her immobile face carved with unrelenting serenity. Under one brown-eye's
scrutiny, she appeared bored
" ... Princeps gloriosissime
... memor nostri ... ubique semper ... precare pro nobis ..."
Very bored.
"In conspectus Angeleorum
psallam tibi, Deus meus:"
"Adorabo ad templum sanctum
tuum, et confitebor nomini tuo," he responded with the congregation,
taking care with his pronunciation.
He hid his self-congratulatory
smile by looking up at the chandelier hanging nearly directly overhead.
The heavy chain that moored it to the ceiling was dark, as black as the
boughs shoring the steepled roof. There were eight, nine, ten, and some
more (because he could only count to ten) tapers mounted evenly around
its wheel shape, some of which smoked. Most of them burned cleanly, though,
the mid-vertical height protecting them from the central draft. He kept
expecting melting wax to drip onto the shoulders of the faithful but, after
checking closely, all shoulders in the vicinity continued to remain drip-free.
He leaned forward and looked
over his knees, scrubbing his chin against the nubby weave of his breeches.
That left toe was definitely scratched but it wasn't his fault. That rock
should've obeyed his will.
Two fingers attacked from
behind and, pinching his neck, painfully plucked him up straight.
"Oremus ... nostis infunde...
passionem eius et crucem... "
While "stay still!" was hoarsely
cautioned into his left ear, he raised his shoulder in protest. The brown
eyes belonging to the issuant returned forward before rolling sideways
and down, giving an appropriate warning all their own. Still, they were
filled with amusement and just a hint of jealousy.
Simultaneously, the five
and eight year-old boys blinked at each other.
He enthusiastically clutched
his older brother's arm a little tighter and turned into it. His nose rutted
the sleeve's center cable, sniffing at the pleasant mélange of wool
and adolescent perspiration.
The aroma surrounding them
-- the layers of incense, stale perfume and rank body odors -- was thick.
A briny scent waved from the pew behind and he twisted to find it almost
visibly haloing a row of dark-complected foreigners, their sea-worn faces
raised attentively. Turning from them he caught sight -- just beyond the
woman with the unforgiving clamp for a hand -- of the man seated next to
her, his handsome features pious and his lustrous dark hair tied at his
nape with a fine red ribbon.
That red ribbon was tied
into a bow identical to the one on his boots. It was a sturdy bow and didn't
give way to his best tug. He looked forward to the day he would be able
to tie such a fine lace; which reminded him, if he kicked at a rock with
his right toe, he could make his boots match again.
"Liam!"
At the name hushed into his
neck, the child giggled maniacally. It wasn't his fault! He couldn't help
it if he was so ticklish right there...
...
"Are you awake?" she asked
after his vain attempt to hunker into a blanket that wouldn't budge more
than a fraction of an inch nearer his chin.
The early morning assaulted
his senses and, in his first awareness, he inwardly cursed at the commotion
in an attempt to return to the blissful void that offered some respite
from his daily existence. The scents around him -- his own sweetly ripe
body among them -- gathered in the back of his throat and he winced. Numbness
needled the nerves along the bridge of his nose in instant cognizance that
he hadn't burrowed deeply enough to ward off his surrogate lair's crisp
temperature.
After he pretended not to
hear her she resettled, the weight of her head defined by a chin-point
depression upon the center of his chest. She sighed and clenched his torso
a little tighter in resignation.
Lifting his eyelids ever
so slightly, through the mesh of his dark lashes he judged his surroundings
and calculated the degree of light since his arrival. He hadn't been there
long and she'd probably crept in shortly thereafter, waiting for him to
fall asleep before she joined him.
The high round of his angular
cheeks slightly obstructed his study of her patience while he wondered
what could possibly go on in her mind that would cause her eyes to roll
so furiously in one direction, so humorously in the opposite. Spindly dark-brown
curls framed the heart-shaped face that was a study of moods -- brooding
then relaxed, concerned then amused.
He squinted away a gathered
pool; forced his heart to still.
And then he pounced.
Startled, she squealed. Peals
of her laughter resounded throughout the rafters as joy burbled from the
depths of her being. Thrashing wildly, she pretended to fight back, mock-beating
him about his shoulders. He mouthed his affectionate growls into her neck
until her resistance, as it had every morning since their ritual had begun,
concluded with her lips planting a sloppy kiss on the side of his head.
Her arms encircled his neck.
He spilled her onto his mat
and she carefreely rolled from his arms. Looping one of her brunette ringlets
from her cheek and onto his finger, he gazed down on her, captivated by
the upturned corners of her lips. He responded in kind when she reached
to play with his eyebrow, delighted. An enthusiastic shrug of her shoulders
accompanied an even wider smile.
The smile did little to comfort
him, however, once the penalty for the burst of activity seized him. He
dove aside in one swift movement.
Bile singed the back of his
throat and his chill body became bathed in the contradictory warmth of
his own foul perspiration. Shaking, he managed to smear off a strand of
blood-tinged saliva with the back of his hand before plummeting onto his
back, his arms spread wide in concession.
A moan clearing his chattering
teeth threatened to evoke another retching fit. When she motioned to wipe
his mouth with the edge of her apron he pushed her hand away, unable to
ignore the sallow tinge of his flesh in comparison to hers.
"You're getting worse," she
stated simply, tugging the blanket from under his hip in order to wrap
him with it. She removed her velvet-collared coat and wadded it into a
pillow to tuck under his neck.
A tiny hand swept across
his fevered brow, slender fingers untangled his unkempt hair. She pulled
his collar together in an effort to modestly cover a bruise along the length
of his throat.
"I'll pray harder. God will
help me make you better," she spoke, her conviction even more evident with
a deep horizontal crease above her eyebrows which significantly aged her
youthful features.
"I don't deserve -- " Little
fingertips playfully pinched his lips closed before continuing to explore
the curve of his face, the fringe of his hair; circling the maze of his
lobes to settle him softly. To calm him. To love --
And heal him.
She struggled with each of
his leaden arms and tucked them under the loomed throw. "Shhhhhhhhh," she
cooed. Like her voice, her brown eyes were flooded with compassion.
Fear set him ashiver. "There's
nothing you can do," he sobbed, focusing on her affection. "I've always
been doomed. The Messenger keeps calling my name."
She reared back and sat on
her heels. Incredulity sharpened her features. "*I* call your name, Liam.
I don't recall speaking such wickedness. Haven't I only spoken of pleasantries?
Of wonderous things and how we'll always be together?"
"Y-- Yes." Before boring
deeper into his skull, an unpleasant spasm pained the muscles behind his
eyes, momentarily blinding him.
