The Sins at Santa Maria

[AnonymousRendezvous]

(Thread closed to AnonymousRendezvous and audeamus)

There is a cathedral, tucked away in the mountains along the Italian-Austrian border, surrounded by centuries of thick forests, black and impossible to cut through. Its spires rise out of the black valley it rests in like two gray old popes. On sunny days the windows in the belltower shine like diamonds for miles around. The villages that are scattered around the cathedral look up and know that God himself is visiting their little region. The cathedral was commissioned in 1045 by Gregory VI and officially named after his holiness. The locals, however, always have the final say in such grand edifices. They called it Santa Maria.

Santa Maria, like most cathedrals, is a quiet place. It is surrounded by an immaculate garden, perfumed by local flowers donated by the poorest of the local farmers. In the center of the garden stands a statue of the Virgin Mary, her arms by her side, her palms outstretched to the observer. She is quiet, sad, serene, beautiful. The mother of God surrounded by Italian hills and flowers. The church itself is stone. It is cold inside, but Angelo (the bishop installed a few years ago) has furnished the floors with carpets and his own personal quarters with a fireplace. Old statues cling to the stone walls of the church. Some of them, macabre gargoyles and demons, nearly reach out of the walls as they are passed by, beckoning the churchgoers to hell with their wide eyes and long tongues. They are tempered, of course, by the virtuous statues; Michael slaying the dragon and Francis in his tattered robes. Another Virgin Mary stands inside beside the crucified Christ. She is an older Mary, void of all color she once bore. Her face is rough and worn away, but her body still stands sure and lovely. The peasants weep when they visit the cathedral and see her.

Aside from Angelo, the bishop, there is a small cloister of nuns that live on the grounds. They have their own abbey, tucked away behind the garden, completely out of sight. They come out to help with Father Angelo with Sunday mass, but other than that, they dedicate their lives to God in strict secrecy.

Angelo himself is a lonely man. He spends most of his days absolutely alone in great stone monster, save for one other, whom he hardly sees by light of day. He spends his early mornings reading mass to a small devout group from the village. When everyone has gone, he eats a large breakfast and finishes by walking in the garden. He studies until noon, when his lunch is brought to him. His door is open from noon until sundown for anyone to visit from the surrounding villages. Seldom do people make the journey though the gnarled forest surrounding the garden. On Christmas and during holy week, the cathedral is full to capacity. Bishops come from all over Italy to oversee the events. The cathedral is alive and full of color. But the rest of the year it is this, silence and stone. The sun rises, climbs high into the Italian sky, and sets, casting long shadows over everything within the cathedral walls. The nights are given to the devils.

But it is not night yet. It is but a little bit after noon. Angelo has just finished a lunch of anchovies and black bread and now he is ready to sit in his study in case someone from the surrounding villages makes a call. He walks down the halls. The sun shines bright in through all the high narrow windows. He is clad in his simple black smock, his shoes are black and free of dust. When he gets to his study, he sits down in his large brown chair and wraps a blanket over his shoulders. Even in the spring, the cathedral can become pretty cold as the sun begins to set. He finds a book that he had been reading the previous day, opens it to the ribbon bookmark, and begins to read.

[audeamus]

The exterior of The Abbey of Santa Maria was not elaborate, but it was that simplicity that made it elegant. There is one main entrance protected by two large iron doors. Just to the left of the entrance is the dormitory and common room, where the community takes up lodging and interact socially. Neighboring the dorms was the infirmary and physician's house. The church, enclosed by a cloister, claims the center of the open rectangular area of the abbey. In front of the church is a spring water well, surrounded by brightly colored flowers. Vines coiled randomly around the walls and columns of the buildings, and neatly trimmed hedges lined the perimeter.

The dining hall and kitchen are located behind the church in the large outer court, and is connected to a bakehouse. On the west side were the hospitality buildings, which served to accomodate guests and the poor. In the far southeast corner were two flourishing gardens; one for vegetables and the other for medicinal herbs. The winter and fall months obscured the grounds with snow and leaves, but during the spring the flowers, fresh cut grass, and fragrant herbs provided a charming place of peace and quiet. It was no wonder that Sister Amata Filia always loved admiring the common area from the cloister, especially during this time. Formerly known as Oriana, she allowed the sun to caress her face from the ornamental wrought iron that filled the spaces in the archways. This wasn't a life she chose, but one that she embraced.

When Oriana was ten years of age, a man came to their home. She remembers seeing only a portion of his large stature from the partially opened door. He leaned into the threshold to support himself and the smell of alcohol floated heavily around him. Beads of sweat formed at his temples and on the bridge of his nose. "No, I can't," her mother quivered. Oriana stood behind her mother, clinging to the second-hand fabric of her skirt. She peeked at the man and will never forget the way his bloodshot, emotionless eyes ogled at her. An irritated tone escaped his lips, "Silvia you do this or you get out. This was the agreement." Silvia's piteous sobs were all the answer he needed. He turned his back to her, "I want you out by the end of the week." Overcome with an unsettling feeling, Silvia ran to her bedroom and shut the door behind her, leaving her daughter at the front door. She nervously reached under her bed and grabbed a shoebox. Holding it close to her chest, she settled into a cross legged position on the floor and dumped the contents of the box in front of her. Salty tears flowed slowly in thin streams from Silvia's eyes as her fingers closed around the string of beads.

After locking the front door, Oriana approached her mother's bedroom. While looking at her bare feet, she spoke softly, "Mama?" Silvia worked in a factory as a seamstress and did the best she could, until the rent increase. The odd jobs were not enough to make ends meet, and often times she had to rob Peter to pay Paul. Oriana pressed her face into the corner where the vertical side pieces made up the doorjamb, "Mama?" The crying continued for a moment then stopped. At the risk of being yelled at, Oriana silently entered the room to find her mother rocking back and forth, clutching the Rosary. The child moved to floor embracing her distressed mother, "I'm sorry mama." Oriana pressed her cheek to her mother's shoulder and closed her eyes, wishing the pain away.

In the middle of the night, Silvia interrupted her daughter's sleep. She towed Oriana around the house, gathering clothes and shoving them into a bag. "Put your shoes on, Oriana." Never one to disobey her mother, Oriana quickly put her shoes on. She wanted to ask where they were going as they snuck off into the night, but offered to carry one of the bags instead. The pair spent the night in town at a rescue mission and in the morning, while Oriana had a modest breakfast of eggs, toast and juice, Silvia talked with the Abbess of Santa Maria. The Abbess was immediately taken with the girl's unique indigo eyes, "They are exquisite," she gasped, "I've never seen anything so rare, they're deep blue, almost black."

Silvia blinked back tears and was careful not to divulge too many details, but Oriana understood that she was to stay with the lady in the black dress for awhile until mama found a new house. Though feelings of worry and fear washed over her, she didn't cry. She only asked when her mother would be coming back. "Soon."

Now twenty, the girl once known as Oriana calls the Abbey at Santa Maria her home and has yet to cross paths with her mother, Silvia. The community inside these blessed walls are now her family; this sacred building her home. "Sister Amata, you're going to be late. Again," the voice of Sister Bethany interrupted her moment of tranquility to sternly remind her that once again she was late for choir practice.

"I'm so sorry Sister Bethany." Being on time for choir practice was something Sister Amata desperately needed to improve upon.

"I know you're sorry, but you will have to clean the pews of the chapel tomorrow during breakfast."

"Yes, Sister Bethany."

"Go."

"Yes, Sister Bethany." Sister Amata bowed her head in shame and walked quickly to the chapel, hoping to slip into the music room without drawing too much attention to herself.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

Someone did come, a pear tree pruner named Jesuit deRossi. Father Angelo knew him well. His only son had been murdered the previous year by bandits to the north of the parish. The man was deep in mourning. He wore a black scarf around his neck and a black band around his hat. His face was constantly red and chapped and the lines beside his cheeks and eyes sunk deep into his face. He came to father Angelo once every few weeks. He came to confess or to discuss the scriptures with Father Angelo. He was "just doing his duty to God," he said, but Angelo knew he needed a friend. The man bled with loneliness.

Father Angelo knew loneliness better than most in his position. Fifteen years ago, when he was just a young man in the seminary in Rome, his future had looked bright. He was the greatest ecclesiastical scholar of his class. He was even awarded a rare audience with the Pope himself, a great and humbling honor considering his age. His teachers nicknamed him the Jewel of Rome.

But Father Angelo was a man of many weaknesses. He was known for lasciviousness in the seminary. He drank wine late into the night with his fellow seminarians, discussing canon and church law, Aristotle and Augustine and Francis of Assisi. He was known to rebut St. Thomas Aquinas with Blaise Pascal, who had been long declared a heretic. He believed in the right of happiness, and publicly made it known that he believed pleasure was a gift of the Holy Spirit.

He had his enemies. The older students, those less adept at the precepts and less versed in Church Doctrine, whispered behind his back. They were jealous, of course, but they saw in Angelo a proud man ripe for a fall. The autumn of his twentieth year, they would get it.

He met Nicola at a dance that was to be a fundraiser for the city counsel of of Rome. She was from Piedmont, the same region as Angelo. She had strikingly dark eyes, Angelo thought they were as black as a starless sky. She was also the fiance of the future Duke of Tuscany. It didn't take long for the rumors to ignite.

Not that all the rumors weren't true. Yes, she had drawn him out of the Abbey and into her bedchamber on two occasions. Angelo remembered those nights with bitterness. They were the sweetest and most passionate moments of his young life, but they were also the cause of his loneliness and his downfall.

When the rumors became too much to quell, Angelo was sent for. It had been agreed that he would take up a position as see of a tiny backwater parish in the rugged mountains of Veneto. The Jewel of Rome would become the lonely Bishop of Santa Maria.

Father Angelo listened to Jesuit deRossi talk well into the afternoon. By the time the man had left, the sun was low in the western sky. Father Angelo got up and walked out of his office. He strolled down the long hall with his hands behind his back. The cathedral echoed with each footstep. He could hear the birds chirping outside through the high windows. He walked slowly out into the garden, where the afternoon had already begun to grow cold. He stood for a while at the statue of the Virgin Mary, looking up into her eyes. Who knew what thoughts lay masked behind those soft and loving eyes? He had been at Santa Maria now for fifteen years. In those fifteen years, he could count only a handful of days when he'd had any sort of conversation with anyone. Bishops are inhuman, more akin to Angels and Demons than men. Who could relate to him?

Father Angelo crossed himself and said a Hail Mary. He kissed the Virgin's feet and hurried back into the cathedral.

[audeamus]

Pristine voices filled the area of the music room with beautiful admiration. The Sisters were preparing for the Spring Concert in the Courtyard and the late, young novice had a small solo for Cantate Domino. She paused to catch her breath before quietly entering the music room, and mouthed the words to the final chorus of, Holy God, We Praise Thy Name. "How nice of you to join us, Sister Amata," Sister Isabel, Santa Maria's Choral Director, glowered over the frames of her antiquated glasses. "And you've conveniently shown up right on time for our break." Sister Amata felt the full lash of Sister Isabel's tongue.

"I'm very sorry Sister Isabel," was all the novice nun could offer in reply as the choir filed out of the music room. The Spring Concerts, just all the other concerts were a special gift; a gift to the village, and a gift to the Bishop, Father Angelo. It was then she realized that Sister Isabel's callous words meant that by showing up to choir practice late, it reflected badly on the Abbey and the Bishop. And the last thing Sister Amata wanted to do was bring disappointment to the Bishop. It was rumored that a dark past that was not in strict accordance with Church Doctrine haunted Bishop Angelo.

There were times after third service, when the Sisters were supposed to occupy themselves with work inside of the convent, that hushed conversations occured about his academic rise in the seminary at a young age, and his torrid affair with the Duke's fiance. Soft laughter from a few of the Sisters blanketed the space of the kitchen after mention of the handsome Jewel of Rome. Sister Amata would busy herself by kneading bread and pretended not to hear the idle speculations that he grudgingly accepted his position as the bishop's diocese. This was an opinion she kept to herself of course, but she imagined she wouldn't be too pleased if one day you were held in such high regard and the next, know that you are no longer known for that favorable opinion. Where some chose to have conversations about his personal affairs, Sister Amata pitied the Bishop and prayed for him nightly.

After another apology to Sister Isabel, Sister Amata found the choir to apologize to them for her tardiness. She knew that her solo would have to be nothing short of perfection if she were to get back in the good graces of Sister Isabel, so as the other rested their voices and made small talk, Sister Amata returned to the music room and found her focal point. The top edges of the walls were decorated with blue mosaic tiles. They always reminded her of the deep blue sparkling waters on the Santorini Beaches; beaches, known for its black sand, that she would never have the pleasure of exploring.

With her mind clear, she began the first verse. She was to sing the section twice in Latin and the choir would then finish the song in English:

Cantate Domino canticum novum:
cantate Domino omnis terra,
Cantate Domino et benedicite nomini
ejus:
annuntiate de die in diem salutare
ejus.
Annuntiate inter gentes gloriam ejus:
in omnibus populis mirabilia ejus.

Her voice quivered out of nervousness at her first attempt, so she took a deep breath and began again from the diaphragm. Without her knowledge some of the Sisters, including Sister Isabel gathered in the doorway to listen to the a capella verse. After the touching rendition, the sound of applause expressed enjoyment and approval. Sister Amata turned to see Sister Isabel's lips move upwards into a smile and nodded gently at her gesture.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

Father Angelo listened as the clouds drifted over the setting sun. A voice, lone and melancholy, sang the 95th psalm. Father Angelo knew it well. He closed his eyes and let the words wash over his body as water washes over the shore, smoothing out every surface.

Sing to the Lord a new song;
sing to the Lord all the earth.
Sing ye to the Lord and bless His name:
show forth His salvation from day to day.
Declare His glory among the Gentiles:
His wonders among all people.

David, the author of the song, had also fallen. He also had a weakness for beautiful women. He was, however, the great monarch of Israel, the father of Solomon, and the eventual progenator of Christ himself.

Father Angelo crossed himself when the solo had ended. The sisters were practicing for the concert again. It promised to be another beautiful one. In all this loveliness, Angelo mused, a lark sings without an audience. He knew that few from the villages would come to hear the concert. He knew that the sisters were some of the best voices in all of Italy, if not all of Christendom. He was glad for small blessings. He would sit in a place of honor and be able to hear them in all their glory.

Night approached fast, as did the cold. Father Angelo wrapped himself up and made his way to his quarters. He lived in a small room off the northern wall of the church. His was a tiny space, stucco walls coming to a low arch over his head. Against one wall was a small metal bed with a thin mattress and a few blankets, and against the other was a table and candle. There was the fireplace, which kept Father Angelo up much later than his designated bedtime on most nights. He'd just sit and watch the flames roll and lick the flue like belly dancers.

He lit the fire and shut his small oak door, leaving God's monstrous house empty until morning.

[audeamus]

After a light dinner and the final service of the evening, The Sisters retired to the dormitory for the night. Not only would Sister Amata have to get up and ring the bell to wake the community for prayer, she would also miss the first meal of the day and work in the chapel; a fair disciplinary task for her lack of punctuality. The cold night air embraced them as they walked the grounds to their living quarters. Sister Amata pulled her habit closer to her body in an effort to shield her from the chill.

Each cell in the dormitory was private. The walls in each room were painted white. All of the rooms contained a narrow bed, a small table next to it, one window set in a concavity in the wall, a chair, and a dresser to hold items of clothing. The floors were made of bricks and some of the Sisters covered a small area of their room with a rug. On each wall of every cell, hung a wooden cross. The conditions were austere, but more than provided sufficient shelter.

After saying goodnight to the Abess, the Sisters dispersed into their respective cells. Sister Amata would never tell anyone this, but with so many elements to remove and put on each day, she couldn't wait to get out of her habit. First the cross was removed from around her neck. Then the Rosary and belt were pulled from around her waist, followed by the removal of the scapular, underskirts, and coif. Finally she removed the main piece of the habit, the tunic. She carefully placed each item in its proper storage place and grabbed a plain nightgown from her dresser. She removed a pin from the back of her head and a curtain of sooty black hair fell past her shoulders and framed her face.

Because there was no means of heating the dorms, the Sisters kept extra blankets under their beds to protect them from the harsh winter months. But even nightime during the spring could be moderately unpleasant, so Sister Amata reached for the additional comfort of a second blanket.

Like every night, before her eyelids folded into a closed position, Sister Amata said a prayer. For the village, for the church and the abbey, for the Sisters and finally for Father Angelo. She sained herself, pulled the covers up to her neck and turned to face the wall. As she drifted into the first stage of sleep, a faint smile emerged on her lips.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

It was late by the time the fire died down and Father Angelo looked around from his little spot at the edge of his bed. Shadows were thick and black on the walls. The fire threw everything out of proportion and everything grew longer. He slipped his soft black shoes off of his feet and lay back, still in his black smock, looking at the ceiling. A lone crack, probably formed over hundreds of years, worked it's way from the door to the window. He thought about the other bishops, the ones whose portraits hung from the walls in the library. They had laid in this exact bed, on these exact blankets, staring at this exact crack. The cathedral was like an everlasting child, forever changing and decaying, while the bishops were like caregivers, passing away without a hiccup from the great cathedral. Father Angelo felt it more thoroughly at night than at any other time. He was merely passing through. He was just an extra in Santa Maria's grand opera.

Without thinking about it, as he had done every night since he'd arrived at Santa Maria's, he slipped out of his bed and opened the small oak door onto the dark cathedral. It was transformed at night. It was a labyrinthine, a catacomb, a tomb. He could here the tiny rodents that dared come out at night scurrying with loud echoes in some unknown chamber of the church. The high stained glass windows offered no light but starlight and the dim light of the moon.

Father Angelo hurried down the great hallway, past a myriad of demons and monsters. They all cast ugly shadows on him as he passed, condemning him in ways his church never could. He passed Michael the archangel and St. Peter holding the keys to heaven and earth. Both of them stared at him with angry, hollow eyes.

At last, he came to the crossing, where he turned right and walked right to the giant doors of the presbytery. When he saw the great marble Virgin there, he stopped and looked up at her. A shudder went through him, not at the Virgin or at the cathedral, but at his own soul. He knelt before the crucified Christ, who looked at him with a painful exasperation. Father Angelo looked up into the face of the statue and brought his hands to his heart.

He began to whisper.

If anyone had heard him, they would have heard an old prayer, one not normally expected from bishops.

"O my God! Source of all mercy! I acknowledge Your sovereign power. While recalling the wasted years that are past, I believe that You, Lord, can in an instant turn this loss to gain. Miserable as I am, yet I firmly believe that You can do all things. Please restore to me the time lost, giving me Your grace, both now and in the future, that I may appear before You in "wedding garments." Amen."

He stayed late into the night, until the cold crept into his bones and it hurt to stand back up. His soul troubled, he walked back to his room down the long dark passages.

[audeamus]

Well before the sun emerged from the horizon, Sister Amata quietly dressed and left her humble cell. She missed the comforts of her blankets and she walked the drafty corridor to the belltower, but her duty to wake the community prevailed over her personal relaxation.

Each day, it was the responsibility of one nun to wake before the others and sound the bell to call the community to prayer. The bell is rung twice and the community wakes, make their beds and line up in the corridor two by two before heading over to the chapel for prayer. These early morning prayers are called Laud. It is a period of devine worship consisting of words and song to extol the Blessed Savior. After Laud, the Sisters return to their cells in the dormitory and rest before having to wake again at the first light of day. They would then bathe, and have breakfast in the refectory.

After making her bed, Sister Amata fell in line to take a silent walk to the church. The inside of the church at Saint Mary's was small, but decorated modestly. Arch-shaped windows lined the walls to allow plenty of natural light in. In all there were about fourteen benches, one platform that made up the pulpitum, a small organ to the left of the pulpit, and two rows of wooden chairs on the right of the pulpit. The walls were snow white and adorned with paintings. Some done by gracious religious travelers, others by talented local villagers who wanted to the Lord's work. Crucifixes hung on the walls throughout the church and chapel, but none as majestic as the ones in the cathedral. The church was home to the tombs of those who had the finances to buy a lavish burial chamber: priests, and noblemen mostly. There was talk of opening the abbey church to the public for wedding ceremonies, so far it's just been talk.

The chapel was an intimate space inside of the church with about seven pews. There was a small pulpitum at the head of the chapel where the Abess would officiate the morning service. Once inside, the Sisters stood and sained themselves as the Abess performed the Invitatory and Psalter:

Abess: "Oh God, make speed to save us."
Sisters: "Oh Lord, make haste to help us."
Abess and Sisters: "Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit: as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be for ever. Amen.


The entire process of morning prayer was lengthy, and afterwards the holy sisters looked forward to resting before breakfast, everyone except Sister Amata. She was allowed to take her rest after Laud, but there was the small order of cleaning the chapel pews. She tried to ignore the low rumbling plea her stomach made as she returned to the dormitory.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

The sound of the bell from the Abbey woke Father Angelo just before the sun rose. He rolled over onto his side and rubbed his eyes. These late nights were becoming too frequent. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and he could feel it in his throbbing limbs. Through his window, the sky above the eastern horizon was as pink and soft as a rose.

He slipped the black cassock he'd folded neatly beside the bed over his head and the shoes underneath, and stepped through the oak door into the chilling cathedral. Mass was in an hour. He would need to ring the bell before, to wake the pious villagers. He had been lacking the services of an assistant to ring the bell for at least a decade, when the old man who had held the position died and the church in Rome failed to replace him. It was alright with Father Angelo though, he rather liked the great overwhelming sensation of being next to the giant bell, feeling his entire body tremble as though he was just a tiny bug standing atop God's eardrum.

He quietly climbed the stairs to the tower and rang the bell three times to worship the divine trinity through the rafters of the empty church and through the whole of the countryside.

He covered his ears and prayed aloud, though he couldn't even hear himself:

Domino Domine Deus meus magnificatus es nimis gloria et decore indutus es

When he had rung the bell the third time, he descended quickly down the stairs. A dozen or so devout villagers generally made their way up the hill every morning, and some of them (the ones who's farms were close-by) made it early and knelt before the shrine of the Virgin and crucified Christ, muttering prayers with their slick rosaries in hand, before he came in to officiate mass.

He slipped into the treasure, that small room that housed the holy vestments. He slipped out of his basic black and changed into the choir purple. He fit his ornamental gold cassock over the purple and fit the cross around his neck. He placed the tall gold mitre on his head and slid the ring on his cold finger. He always felt like he weighed twice as much in the vestments.

When he was dressed, he took the wine from the ornamental oak cabinet, along with the tray of flat white communion host. He hurried out of the treasure and down the hallway. He crossed himself as he entered the presbytery and walked silently down the red carpeted aisle. The presbytery, lit gloriously by the rising sun through the intricate stained glass windows, welcomed him like a cold second home. The stations of the cross hung below the ornate windows and culminated at the altar, where Christ hung bleeding from the cross and gazed out over the parish.

Father Angelo set the sacred objects on the small white table below the altar. He bowed his head to the cross and said a silent prayer for all of Italy, then rushed back up the stairs to the tower for the final bell.

[audeamus]

The final bell at Mass also summoned the community to breakfast. Sister Amata dragged herself out of bed and quickly changed into a white muslin nightgown. When it was time for bathing in the dormitory, the holy sisters only had minutes to present themselves in the corridor or be disciplined for this infraction.

Sister Amata dug into the top drawer of her dresser for a small bar of soap that she made some time ago in the workhouse. She always used the sweet smell of lavender to scent her bars. As she turned to leave her cell, she pressed the soap close to her nose and inhaled deeply. Her moment of enjoyment was broken as an unpleasant shudder coursed through her body when her feet hit the cold, rough floors in the hallway; but she was on time.

Because the holy sisters used a communal bathroom, they used their time together to interact socially. The ceiling was high, with walls that separated the bathing area from the toilet room and washing stations. Large baskets were placed against the wall and filled with clean towels for washing and drying. Behind the bathing area, a boiler room fueled by small pieces of wood kept the water in the rectangular tubs heated.

The holy sisters discussed the spring concert with excited interest as the vapors from the water coated their faces. When their laughter became amplified, the Abess would rebuke them by clearing her throat loudly. The ladies giggled softly like school girls and continued their socializing. After she was clean, Sister Amata smiled and politely excused herself from the bath house.

The novice nun walked the cloister to the chapel and went to the storage closet for cloths and oils. She returned to the chapel and decided to begin with the back pew. Though her work was diligent as she polished the old wooden bench, it was also repetitious and boring. She sang softly, to break up the monotony and to squelch the gnawing hunger pain that begged earnestly for sustenance.

Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu in mulieribus
Et benedictus fructus ventris
Tui, Jesus
Sancta Maria
Mater Dei
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus
Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae
Amen.

"Sister Amata." The Abess called from the chapel entrance. Sister Amata stood and turned immediately to see the Abess approaching her with her arms tucked into the sleeves of her habit.

"Yes, Abess?" the novice asked, hoping she wasn't about to be admonished for disturbing the souls of the chapel with her singing.

"I know you aren't supposed to have this but," as if she were performing a magic trick, the Abess pulled her hands out of her sleeves and presented Sister Amata with a cloth. "It's just some bread and cheese but you are never to let Sister Bethany or anyone else know that I gave this to you."

Sister Amata lowered then lifted her head graciously, "Thank you, Abess. I'm really trying to work on...."

"I know child, and I can't very well reprimand you for something I've done myself as a young novice."

Sister Amata smiled, the tension she felt dissipated, "I'll do better, Abess."

"I know you will," she smiled warmly at the holy sister and left the chapel. Unsure of why the Abess took pity on her and rewarded her tardiness anyway, Sister Amata decided it was best that she not let the thought linger in her mind any longer and placed her humble meal on the cushion of the church pew and finished her duties, singing softly to the souls of the chapel.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

The sanctuary contained about a dozen people for mass that morning. They came dressed in their morning best, which wasn't much. Father Angelo, his vestments weighting him down, wore his best purple gloves. Most of the bishops that came out of Rome hated wearing the gloves. They thought it an affront to the flock, wearing such finery and flaunting it at mass. To Father Angelo, they were a bittersweet reminder. They were a testament to his golden past, when he attended to the Bishop of all Bishops, the Holy Scepter of Rome himself. If His Holiness was content to wear the gloves of a pontiff, then Father Angelo wouldn't hesitate wearing them either.

The mass went on. Angelo was known over the whole region for his eloquent chanting voice when he read in Latin. Most of the Bishops these poor folks were used to spoke Latin in the local accent, void of intonation and song. Not Father Angelo. When he read the canon in Latin during mass, he read it as though he was only a stones throw away from the Vatican Walls and the Pope himself could have been listening.

When Father Angelo finished the liturgy, everyone felt cleansed. They felt fresh and new. They looked upon the crucified Christ with tears in their eyes and muttered "Our Father," under their breath.

The Eucharist was a special treat for these attendants of morning mass. They each waited for the blood and body of Christ and Angelo lovingly gave it to them. As each of them came forward, he also gave them a kind word.

He would look directly into their eyes and say things like:

"It will be alright Daughter Angeline. Your daughter will find her way. Not a sparrow falls from the sky without the Father knowing wear it falls."

"So good to see you Signore Maiphesto. I'll be praying for your mother."

He spoke these personal words of kindness so softly that none but the receiver of the host could hear them. They nodded and ate and drank. The pious of the county loved him for his personal kindness. They bragged of Santa Maria everywhere they went.

After the benediction, the presbytery cleared out fast. The villagers went home to begin working in their fields planting spring crops. The summer wheat needed planting and most of the villagers would be out until after dark with their work.

Angelo slowly changed out of his clothes. He slipped the black tunic back over his head and exchanged the gold sandals with his simple black shoes. His belly rumbling, he made his way through the library to the silent kitchen for breakfast.

[audeamus]

After Prime, the second service of the day, the Sisters returned to the chapel to meet in the chapter house, a small room attatched to the chapel. The more prominent abbey's were afforded the means to design chapter houses that were excessively decorated buildings. The chapter house at Santa Maria was nowhere near as grand. The ceilings were high, but not vaulted. There were no sculpted pillars supporting polygonal spaces, only a simple rectangular room whose walls were lined on either side with dated, wooden chairs.

During chapter, sections of the Bible or the written words of saints were read aloud. Afterwards, the Sisters would discuss the matters of the abbey, and the confession of sins would be publicly announced. Sister Bethany entered the chapter house first to bless it with incense. Sister Amata quickly returned the used cloths and oil to the storage closet and joined the others.

Sister Bethany controlled the chapter meetings, and would always follow with a lecture after the reading before she segued into the matter of business. The business today however, being the spring concert. With only a day left to prepare, Sister Bethany reminded the holy sisters that the bleachers needed to be erected, the chairs that the Abess and Father Angelo would occupy would need to be polished, and everyone was expected to attend the final rehearsal -- on time. The novice's eyes narrowed involuntarily at Sister Bethany; she purposefully and distinctly prononuced the words, everyone and on time.

Sister Amata rose from her chair with a calm dignity, "Sisters, I ask your forgiveness for my tardiness yesterday. I have good intentions and the desire to do right, but I don't. I humble myself before you and ask your forgivness so that I may be washed of my transgression." The holy sisters nodded at her request and forgave her in unison. Before she sat down, Sister Amata sained herself, her indigo eyes fixed on Sister Bethany.

That should fix her for trying to embarrass me, the novice nun expressed mentally.

With the business of the chapter meeting complete, the holy sisters returned to the chapel for the third service of the day, then separated into smaller groups for their daily activities. Some went to the kitchen, some the workhouse, and others to the garden to gather herbs and vegetables for that evening's dinner. Sister Amata fell into the group that would find themselves in the workhouse where they would clean and erect the bleachers for tomorrow's concert. When that was complete, they would return to the dormitory to clean and the bathroom and transport towels to the washroom where they were cleaned and air dried.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

In addition to his normal Bishop duties, Father Angelo was charged with the maintenence of the church as well. He loved this part of his job. He rolled his sleeves up and found the gloves in the gardener's shed in the cloister. He put them on and set to weeding. The garden was beautiful that April morning. Roses and morning glories and easter lilies grew abundant everywhere. Ivy sprang out of the ground and overtook the red wall on the south side of the church. The Virgin watched over it all, her austere eyes as impervious as the moon.

Father Angelo hummed as he worked. He dug into the cool black earth and uprooted the gray weeds. Small bits of earth clung to the hair on his arms. He adored the garden. The flowers were his friends, the birds his choir, the Virgin his own mother.

When he had finished, he took off his shoes and carried them to his bedchamber. As he opened the door, he noticed a small white letter on the floor someone had slipped under the door. He picked it up and unfolded it. It had been written in black ink of the careful hand of the Abbess. Father Angelo smiled. In this giant lonely place, the Abbess was the closest thing he had to a friend. Sure he rarely saw her, but her brief executive letters held a sort of small charm for him.

"Father,

The sisters are ready for their spring concert. Your seat will be ready for you tomorrow after the Abbey bell announces sunset.

In the name of the Holy Virgin Mary and her son our Lord Jesus Christ,

The Sisterhood of Santa Maria"

Father Angelo folded the little letter and placed it on his table underneath the candle. The concerts always heralded the spring. They were the first messengers to remind the Bishop and the Sisters of the busy season that lay ahead. Father Angelo thought for a moment. He counted another twenty five days to the Holy Week. Time flies.

He had been daydreaming for thirty minutes or more when he heard quick footsteps out in the church. He put on clean shoes and stepped out to welcome the visitor.

[audeamus]

Sister Amata pinned her skirt in the front and dipped a stiff brush into a bucket of hot, soapy water. The temperature scalded her delicate hands, but her only protest came in the form of a pained expression on her face. "Are you nervous, Sister Amata?" Sister Mary Joseph called from the opposite end of the bleachers. She was a tall, thin woman whose tone never climbed above a whisper. Sister Mary was the one who showed the novice nun how to properly layer her habit. She wasn't an attractive woman, but her smile was as kind as her demeanor and you couldn't help but to feel uplifted in her presence.

"Yes, very much so."

"I'm sure you'll do fine, the Abess and Father Angelo will certainly be moved by your performance." It was that positive energy that lessened Sister Amata's anxieties.

"Thank you, Sister Mary." The duo finished cleaning the bleachers and moved them to the courtyard, placing them so that they framed a small bed of Roses. The two Sisters finished earlier than expected and met in the church to polish the chairs for the Abess and Father Angelo. When that task was complete, the holy sisters walked together to the chapel for the fourth service of the day, afterwards they all gathered in the dining hall for dinner. Tonight, Sister Amata savored the vegetable soup, bread and beer placed before her. The vegetables were fork tender, and rested in a broth that was seasoned perfectly with herbs from the garden. The bread was day old but proved to be a suitable sponge to soak up the juices left in the bottom of the bowl. There was no talking during dinner and one of the holy sisters read the fifteen Psalms of Degrees from the book of hours.

Once their palates were satisfied, the holy sisters returned to their activities. There was plenty of time for bathroom and towels to be properly cleaned before everyone met in the church for the final practice performance. Even if Sister Mary wasn't there to accompany the young novice, there was no way Sister Amata would be late.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

"Padre," exclaimed Father Angelo.

The footsteps he had heard belonged to Signore Ignatius, the esteemed bishop of Milan. He wore his purple traveling clerics tunic. He was a large man, with a bushy black mustache.

"Your groundskeeper hasn't tended to my car," he said, when he saw Father Angelo in his simple work blank.

"Such a pleasure to see you Padre," replied Angelo. "Please, have a seat my office while I tend to your car. You're parked out front?"

"So this is Santa Maria," said Ignatius, looking around the vaulted ceilings and pushing his tongue into his cheek.

"It is, welcome."

They walked to the Bishop's lonely office and Father Angelo gave Ignatius his chair. He hurried out into the afternoon with Igatius' s keys and pulled his long black coupe to the small dirt parking lot in the back of the church. No one ever used the parking lot. No one had a car in a fifty kilometer radius; grass and flowers grew out of the parking lot in little patches.

"What brings you to our humble parish Padre?" Father Angelo said when he had come back inside. He brought two cups of coffee, one for the Bishop of Milan, and one for himself.

"I've come for the spring concert." Ignatius twisted his mustache and took the coffee from Angelo.

Angelo sat in the small chair opposite his desk. He looked at the picture of the old Bishop, the Bishop of Tunis, painted on the wall behind the desk.

So Rome has sent a spy, he thought to himself. To see what old Angelo is up to.

After a small dinner of vegetable soup from the garden, and bread from the pantry, provided by one of the generous and silent nuns, Angelo showed Ignatius to his bed in the empty Monks dormitory.

[audeamus]

As the holy sisters paused for a break during choir rehearsal, the Abess entered the chapel looking frantically left and right for Sisters Bethany and Isabel. The three woman shifted to a semi-private corner, speaking in discreet tones amongst themselves.

Unbeknownst to them, the Bishop of Milan, Signore Ignatius made an unannounced visit to Santa Maria's Cathedral. Sister Frances Samuel was the first of the holy sisters to become aware of his presence. She carefully carried Father Angelo's dinner to his office when she heard the heavy, booming voice speaking to Father Angelo in a tone that would imply that he was less than impressed with his surroundings. Sister Frances turned quickly and hid herself from view when she heard the soft jingle of keys echo in the corridor. Acting as if this was her first approach, she walked into the office, tray in hand. "Sister," the chubby man nodded to acknowledge her presence.

"Forgive me, Padre. It's time for the Bishop's dinner. I didn't know he was keeping company."

"Quite alright," he replied, almost yawning in boredom, "Perhaps you could spare an extra meal for a starving traveler?" His fingers folded over his plump belly as he reclined in Father Angelo's chair.

"Yes Padre, right away," returning later just in time to hear, 'I've come for the spring concert.' Sister Frances quietly and patiently entered the Bishop's office and placed the food before both gentlemen. She bowed before leaving and once her feet touched the floors of the corridor, she hurried out of the cathedral to find the Abess.....

The holy sisters returned to the music room talking softly amid themselves until Sister Isabel re-entered. "Sisters, quiet please. The Abess has informed me that Santa Maria is being visited by Signore Ignatius, the well respected and well honored Bishop of Milan. Now, I realize this is last minute but The Abess has graciously canceled the fifth service of the evening so that we may practice another hymn to add to the program in his honor."

A lack of enthusiasm, blended with surprise settled in the music room which was quickly replaced with the voices of compliance from the holy sisters. When Sister Isabel announced the additional selection the ladies would be singing, Sister Amata smiled broadly. The chosen piece was one of her favorites.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

Father Angelo sat up looking up at his fire that night. As much as he hated to admit it, he was furious. He was furious with the hierarchy in Rome for keeping tabs on him. He was furious at Father Ignatius for being the sneak that would report back to Rome in a few days what the outcast Angelo was up to these days. He was furious at himself for letting it affect him so.

They had sent another spy about five years ago. This one had been a simple monk from Sicily who knocked on Angelo’s door one day and during the winter and asked to be Angelo’s personal protégé. He only stayed a week before politely declining his new post and making his way back to Sicily. He had however, Angelo learned through letters, stopped in Rome for an extended period of time and stayed in the grand chambers of St Peters for a week during his return trip.

Ignatius was certainly no lay monk. He was the Bishop of the prosperous Milan parish. He had a retinue of servants and junior priests to do his bidding. The man never even performed morning mass himself. He simply stood from his ornate chair to pass the benediction over the congregation at the end of the ceremony.

Father Angelo stood from him spot on the edge of his bed. His heart thumping in his chest, he made his way quietly out into the cathedral. He walked quickly down the passageways to the presbytery, where he knelt before the great stone crucified Christ. He brought his palms together at his chest and muttered the words he knew so well, the prayer that marked his existence at Santa Maria.

"Please restore to me the time lost, giving me Your grace, both now and in the future, that I may appear before You in "wedding garments." Amen."

He started when he had prayed his first. He thought he saw something moving in the shadows behind him. He watched the dark nave for a long time before resuming his prayers.

It had been Padre Ignatius who had been in the shadows. He had come down from the dormitory as soon as he heard the little oak door open and followed Angelo all the way to the presbytery, sinking back into the shadows provided by the high windows.

Father Angelo passed right by him without seeing him when he walked the long hall bback to bed.

[audeamus]

Pleased with the final rehearsal, Sister Isabel dismissed the choir for a light dinner in the refectory. Beer, fruit, bread, and Caprino, an Italian cheese made from goat's milk. The cheese was soft in texture and spread easily on the day old bread. After their small meal, the holy sisters returned to the chapel once more for Compline, or Night Prayer. Compline was the final service of the completed workday used to give thanks for the blessings of the Lord and Savior. It was also a time to settle with the evening and nurture your soul.

The Compline was divided in this manner: psalms, short passages from the Bible, a hymn,the Canticle of Simeon, a series of spoken liturgical prayers, final prayer and the benediction. After asking for God's blessing, the holy sisters lined up outside of the chapel while Sister Bethany blessed the church with incense. Two by two, the sisters walked the cloister in silence to their living quarters where they would go directly to bed.

When Sister Amata entered her cell, she went through the ritual of removing her habit and pulling a muslin nightgown over her head. Kneeling at the side of her bed, she reached for the blanket underneath it and climbed into bed, lying on her side after covering her bed with the second blanket. The young novice admired the cluster of stars that filled her window, jealous that they were closer to God than she was. She said a prayer for the village, the church and the abbey, for the Sisters and Father Angelo. Tonight her prayers would include their guest, Signore Ignatius, and a prayer for guidance during tomorrow's concert.

Sister Amata rolled onto her back and pulled the blankets up to her neck. She grabbed a section of her hair and wound her finger around the lengthy strands. With her day complete, and her mind clear, the young holy sister closed her eyes. Just as the night before, the faint expression of pleasure appeared on her lips.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

Father Angelo couldn’t sleep.

His mind raced with events from the past and present. He lay looking at the ceiling, that old crack. He could hear the crickets chirping outside his window and every now and then, he could make out the distinct bray of a distant donkey.

It wasn’t Signore Ignatius that was bothering him tonight, however. He wished it was. It was the troubled way his mind mixed everything together while he was just on the cusp f sleep. A face from the past, dark eyes, black hair, mingled with other faces, the red faces of the other priests in the dormitory at seminary, the face of his mother—gone all these years, buried in a potter’s field in Piedmont—the faces of his see, covered in mountain soot, the face of the Pope, the face of the Virgin Mother.

His life haunted him at night. Rather, the devil haunted him, slipped in through the window from out into the night and reminding him of all the folly that had dropped him in Veneto. He would begin to think about Veneto, about the lonely life he led, and his heart would burn for companionship.

He rolled over onto his side. He glanced at the window, hoping for a little sliver of light.

Nothing.

He watched the wall and everything that was inside him could not be heard over the crickets and the bells around the necks of the goats down in the fields below.

[audeamus]

Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Dominus tecum

The song of praise filled the creases of Sister Amata's mind as she slept. Only the voice behind it wasn't her own. Nor was it that of any of the holy sisters.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus
Et benedictus fructus ventris
Tui, Jesus

This voice belonged to a dramatic tenor; powerful with a deep, full sound. Sister Amata's head turned from side to side on her pillow as the voice continued the hymn. A wrinkle formed on her forehead causing her brows to furrow. Her eyes remained tightly shut, refusing to open and face the person who sang so beautifully to her.

The emotive timbre beckoned to her and in her mind she sought out the power that attracted her....Sancta Maria....

Her body twisted and rolled in the darkness of her cell until the covers no longer protected her body. Short, shallow breaths escaped her mouth. Her forehead and temples became slightly damp with perspiration causing strands of hair to cling in these areas. The voice seemed to become stronger in pitch as if to provide a hint as to where it could be found.

Mater Dei
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus
Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae
Amen.

Sister Amata drew a sharp breath and her eyes shot open. After surveying the drafty, little room she pushed herself upright and turned, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Heaving a sigh, she pushed her hair away from her face and stood up thinking it was just pre-concert jitters. The young novice quietly emerged from her cell, the brick floor chilly to the balls and heels of her feet as she drug herself to the bathroom.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

He could hear her. He could hear her but he couldn’t see her. All he could see was a pervasive black, as thick as a thousand curtains hanging from the presbytery ceiling. That’s where he was, in the presbytery. He was barefoot and his body was shivering.

The voice was a woman weeping. He didn’t know who she was, but the sound broke him and terrified him all at the same time.

“Is anyone there?” he called out.

He was swimming in the black now, the curtains were rushing out at him, wrapping around his limbs. He could feel them, like fingers in his hair and on the back of his neck. They whispered to him.

“We know who you are,” they said.

The woman still wept, and it became a chore to move at all, much less find her.

“We know who you are,” the darkness repeated.

The woman’s voice was far off now, as though a train was carrying her away. He tried to run after it, but the darkness, the tangible darkness with limbs and a voice, pulled him off of his own feet. He felt himself drifting along helpless in a swirl of nothing. He looked up, and the darkness filled his mouth and lungs.

*****
Father Angelo woke in a panic. He looked around the room. The gray predawn made everything look blue. He sat up and looked out the window. The stars were still shining bright and the sky was still black, but there was a small sliver of light on the horizon. Angelo settled back under his blanket and listened to the night. He figured it was only half an hour maybe a little more to the first bell from the Abbey.

He didn’t fall back asleep.

[audeamus]

Sister Amata rose out of bed the next morning to call the community to the first prayer of the morning. As she walked to the bell tower, her fingers reached for the Rosary that hung from her belt. She clenched her digits around the beads so tightly that they left an imprint in her palm. Softly, she recited the Hail Mary prayer, "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

Climbing the stairs to the belfry, she repeated the prayer twice more hoping it would purge her mind of the disturbing dream she had just hours ago. Sister Amata kissed her Rosary before allowing it to dangle at her side. She reached for the string that was attached to the bell's clapper and jerked her hand in a way that caused the sphere shaped piece of metal to strike against the side of the bell near the lip and mouth of the instrument. Normally, Sister Amata welcomed the sound that resonated from the bell, today, however it echoed violently in her head. Again, she jerked her hand to send the second and final signal to the community.

The young novice fell in line moments later for the silent walk to the chapel. She wondered if she should mention her dream to the Abbess; today was not the day to bring such distractions to her attention though.

Because of the concert, the activities of the day would be altered. After Laud their day would go on as normal up until third service. Instead of the holy sisters separating to perform their daily chores, they would prepare for the spring concert. Sister Isabel arranged for the holy ensemble to have warm tea and honey about an hour before the concert in the refectory

On their way to Laud, Sister Amata recited the prayer in her mind.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

The two Bishops presided over mass that morning. Father Angelo read the Latin vulgate and spoke a small sermon while Ignatius was given the honor of performing the Eucharist. The presbytery contained the same dozen or so devout parishioners from before. They didn’t get the same loving asides from Ignatius, and some of them left confused and looking over their shoulders. “Who was that man?” they asked each other on the way back to their fields.

“What do you spend your days doing in such a grand and empty palace such as this?” asked Padre Ignatius as they strolled the garden after mass, both of them still in full choir regalia.

Father Angelo thought for a long time. “I tend to the flock Padre. That is all. Santa Maria is here to serve their needs.”

They stopped at the Virgin and both bowed their heads in silent prayer, then moved on. Angelo took Ignatius through the entire church, showing him the different sections. They took a walk to the apse and looked up at the nave, which had been built hundreds of years before by the local masons. The nave was ornately painted with a scene from the book of Kings. Elijah sat on a rock while beautiful ravens brought him morsels of food from all over the country. It was supposed to be a reminder in this poor part of the country that God always provided for those in need.

He showed him the old flying buttresses and the great bell in the bell tower, which they rang twelve times at noon.

No one came to the church that afternoon, and Father Angelo skipped his usual study in favor of being a good host. They walked the grounds and talked and made pleasantries.

“The concert tonight promises to be the best the Sister’s have ever put on,” he said several times.

The Padre simply brushed him off and asked about other things.

Tomorrow, he would take him to the villages, thought Father Angelo. Show him where the real work is performed.

[audeamus]

After officiating the third service of the morning, the Abbess asked one of the holy sisters to place a lectern near the entrance, then returned to her private room for the concert program. With the surprise visit of Fater Ignacio, a selection in his honor was written on the bottom of the program. It may have seemed like an afterthought, but it was imperative that the abbey show respect to someone of Signore Ignatius's echelon.

The Abbess examined the roll of parchment, a smile settled on her aging visage. The words on the lightweight sheepskin were written so elegantly, one would never know that a painful joint condition claimed her hands. She rolled up the scroll and returned to the courtyard near the entrance. The scroll was unrolled and placed on the plain, antiquated three legged wooden lectern. The villagers wouldn't notice something so simple, but she worried that Signore Ignatius would recognize it. The larger, more prominent cathedrals had ornate lecterns, some made of marble and exquisitely sculptured.

The Abbess walked the cloister to her room for a small rest. Soon the villagers would arrive at the entrance of the church for a delightful musical performance in the courtyard:

~ Spring Concert at Santa Maria ~

Opening Prayer
Abbess Clara Rose

Musical Selections

Bells of the Angelus
Parce Domine
Lord of All Gentleness
Our Father (The Lord’s Prayer) - in Latin

Intermission


Musical Selections

O Sacred Heart
Soul of My Savior
Panis Angelicus
Cantate Domino - Latin solo by Sister Amata Filia



Closing Prayer
Father Angelo Bianchi

In honor of our esteemed guest, Signore Ignatius, the Sisters of Santa Maria will present to him a performance of Hail, Holy Queen.

[AnonymousRendezvous]

After they had finished walking the grounds and Angelo had personally cooked them a meal of river trout and rice, complete with two mugs of beer, the two Bishops made their way through the Abbey gate, over the old cobblestones, to the courtyard, where the sisters had set up the bleachers and the lectern.

The two ornate seats, carved out of mahogany, sat at the front of the bleachers, in the place of honor. Father Angelo knew well that the Abbey only had the two chairs. They had been donated by the Duke of the region eighty years prior. The Abbess saw to it that the two seats were treated like holy relics. The arms of the chairs were carved with elaborate designs and the four legs culminated in four eagles' claws gripping globes in their talons. The upholstery, which had been re-attached time and again by the Abbess, was a soft, clean red velvet. The chairs commanded the attention of anyone who saw them.

Father Angelo knew that the chairs were for the Abbess and himself. He also knew that, given the opportunity, the Abbess would offer her chair to the Bishop of Milan.

"This will be your seat, Padre," Angelo whispered to the golden clad pontiff.

Signore Ignatius nodded and seated himself in the chair.

"This is a place of great honor at Santa Maria," he continued.

The Bishop of Milan looked around and stroked his mustache.

They were both dressed in their best regalia. Both wore their immaculate golden cappa manga and gold mitres atop their heads. The few villagers who had come early felt enlightened by the finery of the two bishops. When Ignatius had seated himself, Father Angelo, in a gracious gesture of humility, took a knee before him and kissed his ecclesiastical ring. He then placed the crosier of Santa Maria (his shepherd's staff) across the Bishop's lap.

He found his own seat between two ruddy children in the front row of the bleachers. They looked up at his soft cheeks and touched his robes with smiles on their faces.