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The Father Dante Journals
Category:
Fantasy
Publisher: Christian Books Today Ltd
ISBN-10: 1907436472
Type: Fiction
Pages: 218
Copyright: 1907436472
ISBN-13: 9781907436475
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
A tough master of novices, Father Dante encounters the bold young priest Antonio who accuses him of being Saint Nicholas. Despite the Father faking his death, a determined Antonio discovers a rather alive Dante arrayed for battle. The Criskindl. Ice Steeds. The Unborn Saint. Traveling through the Holy Land as a new civilization is being born and even as far as revolutionary France, the incredible tale of Father Dante’s quest goes beyond belief and into a world of myth and legend.
"Intriguing, spellbinding and filled with on the edge of your seat expectation with supernatural happenings ... shedding light on the greatest myth ever told!" - CBM Book Reviews
THE GREATEST MYTH EVER DISPELLED
Italy. A tough master of novices, Father Dante encounters the bold young priest Antonio who challenges his identity and accuses him of being the Saint Nicholas. But despite the Father faking his death, a determined Antonio discovers a rather alive Dante arrayed in kilt and armor.
In return for Antonio’s silence—and to protect the town from attracting all manner of darkness—Dante agrees to tell his life story. Without explanation, Dante orders Antonio to meet him at night in the abandoned Cathedral, the site of a former battle that the Church has kept secret for a generation.
Until today.
The Criskindl. Ice Steeds. The Unborn. Saint.
From the Dark Ages’ when Poet-Sorcerers ruled kings, to the Holy Land when a new civilization was rising, to Revolutionary France where love is lost and gained, Father Dante pursues the one responsible for both his master and his mother’s deaths:
Black Peter, his brother.
Excerpt
Chapter One: I Knew
"As you see, I'm not overweight, and of being jolly I've never been accused. Moreover, I find the pagan ritual of indulging children's greed quite loathsome. Rewarding a year's worth of insolence merely encourages more childish behavior and prevents the child from becoming the man. Secular excess goes against everything I believe about how to upbraid the sinner. In fact, I can't name a single child who should get anything other than the strap for Christmas."
He sat back in the creaky chair, then wove his fingers together and hooked his thumbs into his silver buckle. The white of Father Dante's priestly collar contrasted the Cathedral's late-night shadows. Diamond eyes—blue crystal pools that appeared half-blind but which studied all—snared the candelabra's golden light with a glint. Red among gray streaked the trimmed whiskers at his chin, and cardinal flecks peppered his mane.
November gusts rattled the stained-glass windows and shuddered the main doors where we sat in the foyer. I glanced right to the rows of freshly varnished pews, then above to the painting of Sebastian's Martyrdom on the dome, and hoped the Abbot slept soundly. On the curved roof was a gothic spire, and that was where the young Abbot took his brief hours of rest. He claimed he felt closer to God there.
Dante shifted his broad shoulders. "Were a man like that to exist, do you really believe he'd be sitting across from you now? They're myths. We made them up to teach women to pray at least as much as they gossip. Really, Antonio, you surprise me."
I set my jaw. "If you think you're going to get away with that old trick, you're wrong. I said you're like a St. Nicholas, and you shouldn't hide the good things you do by being so mean to everyone. They're amazing! If the novices knew what you're really like, imagine what it could do for their morale. Heck, imagine what pilgrims could do for our collections!"
"Heck?"
He laughed a muffled rumble that squeezed tears from his eyes. "You novices, always seeing winged angels in the trees."
I crossed my skinny arms. "There's another old trick, deflecting by putting someone else down."
Dante schooled his mirth to stone. The six-foot-six tall priest leaned forward and pressed his fingertips into the mahogany table, his voice as deep as the lines in his flesh. "What can you possibly tell me about old tricks, boy? And besides, saying heck is the same as stating the word itself. Don't bother trying to humor me."
Although I held his gaze, he was right. Back then I looked much younger than my twenty winters of earthbound life. My bony chest showed not a sprig of hair; my chin lacked the most meager dusting of growth; and my large brown eyes made me look more doe than man. All the same, I was, and still am a child of God, so what did I care if stereotypical feminine traits outweighed the masculine?
A lot, unfortunately. The irony is, in the present I dream of the carefree days when I could leap from bed to engage the glorious day. Instead I rise to mundane tasks of ear and nose plucking, which gives my parishioners the chance to concentrate on the Mass rather than on my facial garden sprouts.
"I understand a bit about old tricks." I jabbed at him with my finger. "Young doesn't mean I'm stupid."
Although Dante yawned, he drew his fingernails across the table making a sharp sound that caused me to cringe. "I appreciate your ambition, to get our monastery on the ecclesiastical map, sure. I'll give you that." He paused as if to inhale the incense. "Tell me then, what makes you think I perform miracles? And be careful. Remember, an illusion isn't the same thing as an act of God. I do have a past, you know."
I regarded him through the candle glow. My quarry grinned, which revealed incisors that could reflect his razor wit.
I shuddered a breath and swallowed but narrowed my gaze. "I know, so you say. The first time was last January. The sixth actually. I'd never experienced real cold. The mercury hit twenty-two. Can you believe it?"
Dante brushed lint from his sleeve.
"Anyway, once I got to the library, the blizzard was already in full swing. But I stopped myself to look at the flakes. Amazing. You can imagine why. Siracusa hasn't seen snow since the Etruscans built temples, so the winters here are very new to me."
Dante smacked his mouth. "For goodness sake, stick to the story. And feel free to put the right word in place of goodness."
Heat flushed my cheeks. "Okay, okay." I stiffened in my chair and coughed. "Then I saw somebody in the storm, too tall to be anyone but you. I realize I kind of panicked but something bothered me, which is why I kept looking. And then when you moved, I figured it out. You left the path, for the fountain I think, but the light brightened enough of you."
I expected a hasty denial or a lengthy quotation about composure, but instead Dante raised his eyebrows and stroked his trimmed beard. During a long moment of silence, I gazed across the dark rows of pews to the main altar: flanked by Latin-inscribed columns, a painting of the Final Judgment came unnervingly alive. More loin-clothed sinners fell into fire than shining pious ascended to the blue of heaven.
At last a commanding voice broke the stillness. "I was in bathing trunks. Just say it. Not much of a miracle."
"No? From what I saw, you were out there for at least six hours. You should be dead. Miracle."
"Steadiness of mind. No miracle."
"All right. How about this one? A few weeks later we waited for you for over an hour. Ringing a bell?"
Dante sniffed.
"Anyway, I ran to your room. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Still nothing, and so I pounded the door."
Dante waved his hand.
"It opened on the strangest sight—you on top of the blanket, arms at your sides, eyes shut, and the shutters wide open. I tried to wake you up, but you didn't so much as twitch. Then I listened for a heartbeat. You were dead. And that's when I made the big fist, and your eyes opened. You know the rest."
"I do. You ran like a scared child." He pursed his lips. "Should I have let you break my ribs? You could have killed me."
"Funny you mention that."
Dante gripped his belt so the leather squeaked. "Oh? I hope the next one's more to the point, because, frankly, I've got better things to do than listen to your fantasies."
I lifted my chin. "Just wait. It's a good one. Right before Father Caporetto got transferred. I'm no expert, but I can safely say that if you get trampled by a horse, and your guts are hanging out all over the place, there's nothing on this earth that can help you."
"Antonio!" Dante turned away. "Do you have to be so graphic?"
I couldn't be sure if he tried to divert me or if he genuinely found my description too explicit. From what I knew of the Father, though, Dante could draw as much satisfaction from a bowl of rusty nails as from a mountain of fresh primavera.
"Sorry." I bowed my head. "Won't happen again."
Gales whistled through gaps in the masonry.
I tugged my tight collar. "Well, I was in the stable—not watching you—I was oiling saddles when I heard one of the horses outside let out a shriek. I got to the doors, and the man was a goner. There was blood everywhere. And I'm going to be graphic, because half of Caporetto's face was gone. I was too shocked to move. Then you showed up—not an instrument in sight—hands flying around with what looked like electricity. And then you ran away faster than anybody I've ever seen. The Father sat up and all he says is, 'Maybe I need a new hobby.' A new hobby? Yeah, like not resurrecting from the dead!"
A loose shutter clapped a bang, which sent my pulse thumping in my neck. Dante tapped the table with his index finger, then flicked a gesture for me to continue.
"Until yesterday, though, I hadn't even thought of associating you with St. Nicholas. I know you say Ignatius is your patron with all that self-mutilation nonsense, but I think that's a red herring."
Dante pressed his palm to his chest. From the way his smirk wavered, I had the impression he anticipated my last example.
"I was getting the bread. I was just coming home, at Augustine's square. A small boy comes running up to me with a big grin. I thought he was going to make fun of me—you know how they are—"
"Not really, no."
"Oh. Well, the little monster threw a wagon at me and hit me in the legs. It looked like a work of art with its chiseled frame. I thought his Papa must have made it, but the kid said you gave it to him."
"So what."
"He saw you make it—out of three sticks. Miracle." I folded my hands primly in my lap.
Dante pushed his chair back so slowly the marble screeched. When he rose, his mouth dipped to a frown. I gulped.
"First I'll say this—" Thunder crashed above the church: forked lightning illumined the stained-glass saints, giving vivid substance to a fresco of Bel slaying the Dragon. "From here on, never utter the name Santa Claus in my or anyone else's presence. Second, stop using Saint. And third," he said, curling his fingers into a white-knuckled fist, "I'm Nicholas. No less and I can assure you nothing more. In seven ninety-two Holy Rome conferred the title Saint on a man who—at the time—wasn't even Christian, but a—well, pagan really."
I covered my mouth and felt suddenly itchy all over.
Dante inclined his head. "Back then I had no idea the source of my unique abilities was hell's own. You see, long before learning my name was Nicholas, I knew myself as Amhairghen, son of the warrior Mael Duin and Lebhorcham, a renowned Filid in ancient Eire. Now keep my confidence."
I couldn't decide if he was mad or a saint. "Those were miracles?
"Sort of."
"I'm—I don't know what to say."
Rain lashed the stained-glass windows like whips. A dank draft stirred moldy air and flickered the candle-flames.
"Good," Nicholas said. "No more shall we speak of this in the presence of the tabernacle. Secure the Abbot's permission, and meet me at the House of Purgatorio three days from now. It's a cafe along the Piazza del Duomo."
"What—what'll I tell him?"
He clapped a fist into his palm, then rose to his full height. "The truth of course. The Ruler of this World would have you lie."
"Then he's definitely not going to let me go. He'll throw me in the asylum for such a tall tale."
Nicholas sighed. "Asylum? Boy, more maniacs fill the priesthood than any home for the insane. At least if someone committed you, you'd have a chance of escape. Holy Orders are forever. Poor beggars."
I stared blankly. Not only had Dante made a joke, he'd insulted our vocation. And did he mean the inmates or us?
"Alright, I'm going to Milan to meet with the Provincial anyhow. Tell the Abbot I might need the company, since I've a reputation for taking longer than expected when running errands."
"Then we'll travel together."
Nicholas chortled. "Not on your life."
I raised my hand, but Nicholas turned away and walked up the aisle to the altar where he knelt on the bottom of the three steps and where I presumed he'd spend the rest of the night in prayer. With a light tap of my fingertips on the table, I rose, slid the chair in and moved to the doors.
How was I supposed to lie but tell the truth at the same time?
I clutched my collar and pushed into a frosty wind.
The Piazza del Duomo under a blue sky. 1912. Before the Great War. I stood in the middle of the square with Cathedral ahead and behind me, a glassed-in Galleria of boutiques and cafes. Despite a cutting November gust, I inhaled the scents of perfumes and espressos, for I looked on the Duomo which soared to a roof of spires, and the whole church resided as if in a frame cobbled from the green crags of the Lombard plain which was in turn headed by the snowy Alps. The Madonna gleamed silver atop the tallest steeple, her downcast gaze reminding me not to enjoy my time in Milan too much.
Sandwiched among a throng of tourists in sun hats and loud-colored shirts, I still couldn't believe the Abbot let me go. Hours of tortured reflection—should I lie or not—had found me standing last night before the Abbot without a plan either way. The office consisted of one desk, one chair, a ledger book, pen and ink well. Hooks and wires were on the walls where paintings had once hung but which the Abbot had sold to give money to the local poor. I decided to relate my entire conversation with Dante. The Abbot had rubbed his neck. 'Delusions often afflict the best of us. Broken dreams of perfection, which leads to self-identification with a saint. Father happens to be one of those affected souls. Look after him. Discreetly mind.'
"Antonio! Antonio!" called a nasal voice.
A shaved head popped up and down five shops north of the Via Mazzini, next to the sun-glinting Galleria.
"Ambrose! Over here!"
My fellow novice and childhood friend waved a plump hand, but when he emerged panting, his black cassock showed food stains at his lap and wet under his arms. He lowered his chin to his chest while a frown flickered at the corners of his mouth, uncharacteristic for one who, as a youth, had accused the town Don of commanding the devil's army and gone on to suggest the Don ranked somewhere between Mephistopheles and Pontius Pilate.
"You never run. What's the problem?"
Ambrose teetered on his heels. "Father—Father—well, he—Dante, this morning ..."
A sudden heaviness hit my belly. At once, we returned to the Abbey.
The funeral went as one would expect for a cleric who passed to personal Judgment: much incense, shaking of hands, a lot of tears at special late night prayer Vigils. Except for two differences. First, no family had to be cabled, since Dante was allegedly an orphan. Second, the well-fed Archbishop of Milan himself, dressed in a violet cape and carrying a gold crosier, led the Mass. Before the sermon, His Excellency held up a slip of yellow paper: "The Holy Father expresses his deepest sympathies to the brethren. He also wishes you to know His Holiness is confident that Father Dante's exemplary life here should be emulated by all whose laudable goal is nothing less than that of true sanctity."
Odd. Though I and my fellow novices stood in line behind the altar rail, I leaned forward to look left past Ambrose at the Abbott, who nodded agreement, though His Excellency the Archbishop had made no exact reference to Dante being dead per se. Someone not listening closely might miss the subtext but if dignitaries such as the Archbishop deigned to attend the funeral of a lowly priest—who wasn't even the rank of Monsignor— one would expect a litany of stories of greatness rather than a brief 'he shall be missed' sentiment.
Later, in groups of three, the brothers approached the open coffin.
I knelt at the lace-covered rail, did the sign of the cross, and bowed my head. When I stood, I bent over the casket to see that Dante's thick silver hair was draped on his shoulders, and a Chaplet of Our Lady of Sorrows twined around his fingers.
I leaned further, sniffed. Aha!
If Dante were a saint, he should have scented of a sweet odor. In contrast, if Dante were an ordinary man he'd have exuded embalming fluid. He smelled of neither.
Ambrose grabbed my sleeve. "What are you doing?"
"I—I—"
I felt myself yanked back off my heels and saw the Abbot with his hand on my collar. He hooked my arm in his and push-escorted me to the side of the altar where a short corridor led to the Sacristy behind, in which a single wall-candle lit a room that was little more than a closet for hanging vestments.
"Are you trying to humiliate us?" The Abbot squeezed my upper arm.
"But His Excellency said Father Dante was—"
"His Excellency nothing. I know what he said. Dante was half mad but if the Archbishop had said the Father was the Lord's beloved apostle I wouldn't have dared say boo. He's here to inspect our records for deciding which diocese was to get the new minor seminary. What exactly are you playing at? Are you a fool, Antonio? Well, I've got just the spiritual exercise to get you back in the team spirit."
That evening I served the meal for the entire monastery while dressed in a buffoon's costume. If that wasn't humiliating enough, the Abbot had picked an outfit with the tallest cone hat imaginable, topped with a red ball of tufted wool. But the experience strengthened my resolve. I cannot count how many times I heard, 'Joining the circus?' or 'You forgot your poodles,' from the brethren, both senior and junior.
A crisp, sickle moon cast the land in gray.
Crowbar in my left hand, I stepped out of the woods and turned right onto a tree-lined cobble lane, at the end of which loomed a ten foot stone wall. Two columns flanked an iron gate, and from their perches, winged gargoyles stuck out their tongues. Hooked into the statues' sides was a chain from which hung the sign: 'Cimitero di San Michele'
Behind, an owl hooted from a willow, with whip-like branches that clawed the ground. I hugged my coat against a gust and blinked up at the sky to check for storm clouds. Only white wisps scudded the pitch.
I hefted the bar over my shoulder and marched onward, though the closer I came to the wall, the more I stooped. Once I reached the iron barricade, I slipped the wedged end into a lock as large as my head, then started leaping up and down until the tumblers released with a clunk.
With a push, the hinges whined, and the gate swung open, revealing rows of waist-high, plaster tombs with sloped roofs and overgrown footpaths wide enough for one person to walk. A line of sweat dripped down my spine.
I walked a path so narrow that if I reached sideways my fingers would touch stone. Gravel crunched under my shoes.
"Determined aren't you?"
I jumped around. My bladder felt like it loosened and imaginary hands grabbed my throat. I screamed and screamed. And when I ran out of fuel, I swallowed gallons of air and screamed some more. My mouth seemed as if chafed by sandpaper, so no nothing came out but a rasping sound. I finally forced my eyelids to open.
Framed by the gate, a broad-shouldered man stood draped in a voluminous black cape while his gleaming red breastplate showed every muscle, and a pleated leather kilt touched just above his knees. A wide cuff topped his sable boots. His long beard was braided, and his thick white mane had been tied into a ponytail. Shoulder straps supported a back harness that held what I presumed was a sword, for a ruby pommel thrust above his head. Diamond eyes reflected the moonlight.
"I say, determined aren't you?" Nicholas folded his arms.
My lips moved but a gurgle came out. In the darkness Nicholas lobbed something towards me, which landed with a dull slosh. I bent down to get the canteen and gulped as much water as my queasy stomach could hold. Although I made a grand effort to throw it back, the container went five feet or so to Nicholas' right, but he side-leapt and caught it.
"Thanks."
He fixed the bottle to his belt, and I glimpsed that his buckle had the golden outline of a tree.
"You're most welcome," Nicholas said with a curt nod. "I'll be at the Cathedral ruins tomorrow night. Bring something warm."
"Why there?"
"No risk of sacrilege. Why else? Good evening, Antonio."
Nicholas wheeled around. His black cape swirled, and he strode into the night.
I clenched my fists slightly. "Sacrilege?"
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