Chapter 1
The sun rose in the summer sky alongside
Anthony as he climbed his favorite tree on the vast grounds of his home. It
took some time to reach the top of the ancient cedar, which towered over its
surroundings like a great ladder into the heavens. He breathed deeply of the
fresh evergreen scent as he stepped in familiar footholds and pulled himself up
through the heavy branches spiraling the gnarled dark-red trunk.
When he was more than halfway up,
loud chirping drew his attention to a sparrow building a nest in a hollow of
the trunk. Anthony crept closer and leaned in.
The bird tilted its head to him
before returning to work, using its beak to push a thin strip of scarlet cloth
into layers of grass and twigs. Sunlight filtering through the leaves glittered
on metallic gold threads embroidered on the cloth and on bits of material already
woven in the nest.
Anthony whistled. “That’s some nest,
birdy bright. Are you trying to match your own colors?” Russet patches on the sparrow’s
breast and crown stood out against its soft gray and brown feathering. “And where’d
you get that rich cloth?”
The bird chattered.
“Could you have found the abbey ruins?
We’ve been searching for them for years. I’ll watch to see where you go.”
Anthony continued climbing to
the top of the tree where he settled himself on a group of branches, holding on
tightly as they swayed in the breeze. From this great height, he could see for
miles past the stone walls surrounding their family estate, across the rolling
hills to a far-off river. The Morning Star, as it was called, gleamed like a ribbon
of silver light on the horizon.
“The world opens up from here. I
wish I could explore it all, especially now with summer vacation starting. Papa
said we’d hike to the river someday and follow it all the way to the sea. But I
don’t think he can walk that far anymore.”
He sighed and dropped his gaze. A
motion below drew his eyes to where his mother worked in their Rosary Garden,
its layout clearly visible from this height. Tall hedges enclosed an inner
garden of rose bushes arranged in the oval pattern of a rosary, with every set
of ten bushes separated by a bush with a larger space in between. Three rose
bushes emerged from a passageway of grapevine-covered trellises and led to the very
tree he sat in, the great tree that represented the crucifix of the rosary.
“I should help Mama prune the
roses.” Beyond the hedges, his father emerged from his work shed. “And I promised
Papa I’d help him too. I’ll just see where this bird goes first.”
Anthony was an only child, as his
parents had married later in life. They led simple lives even while dwelling in
a vast estate that had been in his mother’s family for generations. Carefree
for the most part, Anthony did have chores that were his responsibility, more
so since turning twelve. He was supposed to keep up with the harvesting of
fruits and nuts from their plentiful groves, but his love of the outdoors often
distracted him.
Suddenly, the sparrow soared out
of the tree.
Anthony watched until the bird
was out of sight. “It’s headed toward the Martyrs Cliff.”
He descended the branches, sprinted
down the gentle hill beneath the tree and through the passageway into the
Rosary Garden. “I’ll help you later, Mama. I just want to check something first,”
he called out.
“Don’t forget you told Papa
you’d help him move the pedestal for the statue today.”
“I won’t,” he answered as he ran
through a break in the hedges toward his house. After packing a sandwich into his
knapsack, he added bread for the fish that lived in a pool below the cliff. Then
he headed down the long tree-lined path in front of their home and out the
front gates, the only opening in the tall outer walls.
Climbing and descending over the
springy ground, he filled his lungs with pine-scented air. The only sounds were
birds calling and the wind stirring the leaves. Near the cliff, he brushed
against silver moss trailing from a grove of stooping oak trees. “If your beards
grow any thicker, olden oaks, I’ll have to cut my way through!”
The musical sound of a waterfall
reached his ears before it came into view, spouting from a high opening on the cliff
face to cascade into a pool below. He descended a gradual slope to the water, where
he clambered over a mossy boulder and peered into the rippling surface.
Gold fish with long feathery
fins swam toward him. Several raised their heads out of the water and opened
their mouths.
Anthony laughed. “I salute you too,
Golden Knights of the Round Pool! And yes, I’ve brought your rations.”
He tossed crumbs to the fish as
he looked around for the sparrow. The clear pool, an oval of about forty feet
across, reflected blue sky, pale birch trees, and lush green ferns. He took off
his shirt and shoes before plunging in and swimming toward the center where the
water was deepest.
Several fish twirled gracefully around
him. “Your armor shines in the sun!” Anthony ran his fingers across their slick
scales before somersaulting in turn. They played games as they had for years, especially
a favorite jousting game of Anthony’s in which they charged toward each other
from opposite ends of the pool, turning aside at the last moment. Whenever
Anthony floated on his back, several fish raised their heads out of the water
and rested on him, opening and closing their mouths until he laughed and went
under.
When his arms and legs had grown
tired from swimming, Anthony climbed out on boulders at the edge of the cascade
and let the cold spray wash over him. He drank deeply of the sweet, clean
water, and then sat on a patch of grass to dry in the sun.
Eating his lunch, he watched the mesmerizing patterns of
light and shadow made by the dancing birch leaves. His gaze wandered up the
waterfall where a rainbow shone in the spray all the way to where the water sprang
out of the cliff.
Dropping his gaze to the jagged rocks below, he shuddered as
his thoughts turned to the martyrs. “That must be where the monks fell when
they were thrown off the cliff. Mama said it was one of our ancestors who
secretly buried them, but no one knows where. The medal he saved from the abbot
is supposed to be a clue. I wish I could find their gravesite, and their abbey.”
Anthony scanned the skies for
the sparrow again before lying back to watch the drifting clouds. His full
belly, the soothing sound of splashing water, and the warmth of the sun soon lulled
him to sleep.
A bird’s call woke him. Anthony sat
up and rubbed his eyes in time to glimpse a sparrow fly over the precipice. He dressed
hastily, grabbed his knapsack, and raced around the cliff. On this side, the
oaks grew closer together, with vines tangling in the moss canopy.
From deep within the thicket came
a tuneful call. “Is that you, birdy bright?” Crouching, Anthony pushed his way
through the heavy growth.
The bird sang again, leading
Anthony to an even more overgrown area where dense bushes grew between the
trees. He caught a flash of wings ahead and a glimpse of russet. “Are you
toying with me, bird?” He whistled, and the bird whistled back.
Anthony continued struggling through
the growth for some time, whistling to the bird and following its responses.
Soon, he was covered in scratches. “Hey, birdy! Unlike you, I don’t have wings.
I’m going to turn back.”
In a sudden flapping of wings, a
sparrow took flight from the brush ahead.
Anthony sprang forward, keeping
his eyes on the bird. His foot caught in some low-growing vines, and he tripped.
The ground dipped before him, and he tumbled down a long slope before coming to
a stop lying flat on his face. Raising his head, he gasped at the sight that lay
before him.
Spread out in a low clearing
were the remains of ancient buildings, covered in ash and open to the sky. He
stared wide-eyed for a few moments before unwrapping the vines around his legs and
getting to his feet. Then he wandered around gazing at the surreal beauty of
the skeletal stone structures. “I don’t believe it! The ruins were hidden before
our eyes all along!”
Dead, charred trees were scattered
throughout the area. “There must have been a huge fire.” When he laid his hand on
a scorched trunk, the tree swayed. He pushed until it toppled over in a cloud
of soot, filling the air with crackling sounds as its roots ripped from the
soil. A nearby flock of crows cawed noisily as they flew off in a flash of black
wings. Then everything was quiet and still again.
He headed toward the remains of
a long building that was divided into sections by crumbling walls containing alcoves
of varying sizes. “These must have been their cells.” Brushing off cobwebs, he wandered
through the remnants of arch-lined corridors surrounding a center courtyard
with a spacious circular fountain, long since run dry. In the middle of the
fountain, a graceful stone fish mounted on a pedestal opened its mouth to the heavens.
“It looks just like the ones in the Martyrs Pool.”
Continuing to explore, he soon
came upon the shell of an edifice filled with massive piles of ash. Puffs of
soot rose in the air as he sifted through the layers with a stick, uncovering remnants
of singed leather book covers, some with metal hinges and clasps attached. In
the deepest layers, gold leaf still glinted on the fading decorations and flowing
letters of parchment fragments. “I’ll bet this was their library.”
After dusting himself off, he headed
toward a toppled tower, its stone blocks splayed alongside tarnished bells of
varying sizes. Striking a large one with a branch, he broke the silence with a
deep, resonating knell.
He turned his gaze to the nearby
shell of a once majestic building, now fallen for the most part and open to the
sky. Stepping over the threshold, he craned his neck to gaze at the remaining columns
and archways, some at their original towering heights. “And this was their church.”
Sparse plants poked between the
stones of the spacious floor. The sun blazed off a tilted metal cross protruding
from the top of a circular mountain of rubble. “This must have been the dome.”
Going around the mound, he spied
a large altar at the far end of the church and clambered over collapsed pillars
and debris to make his way there. The sides were crumbling, but the center
portion still stood, covered in layers of ash and dust. A dead-looking thorny shrub
grew from the rubble and hugged the pale marble.
Anthony climbed the altar steps
to examine a carving visible amid the fissures on the front face. “A Chi-Rho.” His
father had once shown him the symbol on a tombstone in the old part of the cemetery,
explaining that it was a monogram for Christ.
At the sound of flapping wings,
Anthony turned and spotted a sparrow disappearing into a pile of stones. It soon
emerged with something in its beak before flying off.
“It was you!” Anthony scrambled over
and peered into a gap between the stones. He caught the sweet scent of cedar as
he spied wood. Stretching his arm into the opening, he managed to move it
slightly. “It’s a cabinet door.”
After trying unsuccessfully to
move the heavy pile of stones, he used a stick to prod inside the cabinet. It
seemed empty except for a piece of cloth he maneuvered out.
Darkened by age, the scarlet
silk square was embroidered in shiny gold thread with an intricate image of
Christ crucified in a tree, encircled by a string of roses. One edge was frayed.
“So, this is what the sparrow
used for its nest. Won’t Papa and Mama be surprised!” He slapped his forehead.
“I was supposed to help Papa move the pedestal to the garden today.”
He looked at the sun, now low in
the west and tinting the horizon red. “I must have slept longer than I thought.”
He packed the cloth in his knapsack and hurried home.
It was almost dark when he found
his parents in the Rosary Garden. Joseph stood on a stepladder on the center mound,
attaching a pulley to scaffolding set up over a wooden pedestal. Anne was busy transplanting
white lilies over the mound.
Anthony doubled over to catch
his breath. “Papa, I’m sorry I’m late. I lost track of time. Why didn’t you
wait for me to help you? That pedestal must have been heavy.”
“I used mortar to set it, and I wanted
it dry enough to mount the statue in place tomorrow, on your name day feast.”
He spoke haltingly between breaths. “I’ll definitely need your help for that.”
Anthony read aloud the words carved
on the front of the pedestal base: “Ad
Jesum per Mariam.”
“To Jesus through Mary,” Joseph explained,
“the words on the back of the abbot’s medal.” He slowly climbed down and peered
at his son. “What happened to you?”
Anthony grinned as he brushed soot
from his clothes. “You’ll never guess what I found—the abbey ruins! They’re in a
low valley not far from the Martyrs Cliff. And look at what I found there.” He brought
out the cloth.
Joseph’s mouth dropped open. “How
could we have missed them?”
“The ruins are surrounded by thick
brush. I followed a sparrow and sort of stumbled in.”
“Our prayers to Saint Anthony have
been answered on the eve of his feast day, your name day!” Joseph said.
“And the day you erect a statue
modeled after the very image on the abbot’s medal!” Anne examined the cloth. “How
exquisite! It’s a chalice veil. I’m surprised at how well it’s preserved.”
“It was in a cedar cabinet under
the rubble. Maybe the stones shifted and opened the door. The sparrow I
followed was tearing off pieces to build its nest.”
“Perhaps I can repair the damage
and return it to the Church.” Anne’s eyes shone as she gazed at her son. “After
so many generations, God has guided you to the long-forgotten abbey ruins. Maybe
next He will guide you to the martyrs’ burial site!”
Joseph also studied the cloth. “The
roses are arranged like beads on a rosary. It reminds me of our Rosary Garden.”
He beamed at his son. “I can’t wait to explore the ruins!”
Anne patted her husband’s
shoulder. “You look tired, Joseph. Let’s pray our Rosary and turn in.”
They walked together from one
rose bush to the next as they did every evening, the blooms filling the air
with their varying sweet scents. As twilight descended, the moon rose and cast a
silver glow over the garden. Cricket choirs joined their soft chorus to the
family’s prayers, carried on the summer breeze into the heavens.
Chapter 2
Piping birds awakened Anthony early
the next morning, the Feast of Saint Anthony. He found his father in his work
shed, wrapping canvas cloth over the statue.
“All finished, Papa?”
“Ready on your name day.” He tousled
his son’s hair. “Today is the day we place the statue in our garden, one that you
helped carve.”
Anthony smiled. “I only helped with
the rough work.”
“And that was the most strenuous
part,” Joseph replied. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Together, they leaned the life-sized
statue against a tipped wheelbarrow and laid it back down. Each took a handle
and gingerly pushed it across the grounds toward the Rosary Garden, slowly
making their way through an opening in the hedges, past the loop of roses, and
up the center mound.
After pausing to catch his breath,
Joseph tied one end of rope from the overhead pulley around the center of the statue
and looped it securely. “When I lift it, you line up the holes in the base with
the pegs on the pedestal. Ready?” Pulling the rope from the other end of the pulley,
he raised the statue enough for Anthony to guide it into position.
“You can lower it now, Papa.”
Joseph gently released the rope
and then climbed the stepladder to uncover the statue of Our Lady of the Rosary
holding the Christ Child. “This work took quite some time. I was afraid my
health would give out before I could finish it. Now all that’s needed is to
place the rosary.”
Reaching under his shirt collar,
he removed a rosary from around his neck. He had carved each bead in the shape
of a rose, and the cross as a branching tree with Christ Crucified. After
draping the rosary over the arm of the Blessed Mother, he placed one of the
beads in the little Lord’s hand, Who extended His other hand in blessing.
Joseph climbed back down and surveyed
his work. “It’s fitting that the rosary on the statue is a likeness of our
Rosary Garden. We are in the hands of Jesus and Mary.”
Anne, who had come over to watch,
clasped her hands together. “It looks exactly like the image on the abbot’s medal.
What a magnificent remembrance!”
“Soon I’ll build a stone grotto
over it for protection from the weather.” Joseph turned to his son, his eyes
twinkling. “But for now, I have a surprise for you. I obtained all the
materials we need to build a tree house. We can start right away, now that I’ve
finished the statue. It will give you a safe place to perch, since you like climbing
to the heights of birds!”
Anthony’s face lit up. “A tree
house! I can’t wait!”
“And I have a gift for you too.”
His mother handed him a wrapped parcel.
Tearing off the paper, Anthony
found a handmade notebook of thick cream pages. His name, surrounded by leaves,
was embroidered in gold thread on the green cloth cover. There was also a tin
box decorated with an image of the Christ Child appearing to Saint Anthony over
an open Bible. Inside, Anthony found a large set of chalk pastels.
“I hope you use this gift to
build your creative skills. I believe you have a great deal of talent, just like
your father.”
He kissed his mother’s cheek. “Thank
you, Mama.”
“And now we should get ready for
Mass. We’ll take lilies for the feast; it’s the custom to bless them today.”
“And loaves of bread for the
poor, in thanksgiving that our prayers to find the abbey were answered,” added
Joseph.
After Mass at the village
church, several of Anthony’s schoolmates came home with him to celebrate his
name day. They played sports, hiked to the pool for a swim, and feasted. His
mother had prepared his favorite foods and decorated a cake with his name.
In the evening after the guests left,
the family prayed the Rosary in their garden, where the lifelike statue of
Jesus and Mary now watched over them.
“You can show me the ruins first
thing in the morning, Son, and then we’ll start on the tree house,” Joseph called
out as he and Anne strolled back to the house, arm in arm.
“Thank you for a wonderful day. I’ll
be in soon.” Anthony climbed the great tree through golden beams sifting
through the leaves from the setting sun. He found the brightly colored sparrow
perched beside the nest and another sparrow with softer coloring sitting inside.
“Well, birdy bright, I see you’ve found a mate! She must have been impressed
with your decorating skills.”
The bird in the nest rustled her
feathers and resettled herself, revealing the bluish-white egg she sat upon. The
father bird strutted a bit.
“A surprise for my name day
feast?” Anthony gazed through the leaves as the colors of the horizon deepened to
match the strips of cloth in the nest. “You didn’t know that your nest was made
from sacred material, but at least you helped me find the ruins. My papa is
also going to build a nest for me—a tree house. Maybe in this very tree!”
The next morning, Anthony found
his mother in the kitchen. “Morning, Mama. Where’s Papa?”
“He’s not feeling well today. He
has some chest pain and should rest.”
“Oh no. I hope he didn’t overdo
it. Can I help with anything?”
“If you collect some hyssop, I
can make a tea to soothe his symptoms.”
Anthony grabbed a shoulder sack and
headed into the woods. His father had shown him a hyssop patch not too far from
the Martyrs Pool, and he quickly spotted the lavender flower spikes. Using his pocketknife,
he cut enough plants to fill his bag.
Upon returning home, he found
his father sitting up in bed absorbed in carving. Wood shavings filled a cloth in
his lap, and the sweet scent of cedar filled the room.
“Shouldn’t you be resting, Papa?”
Joseph looked up and smiled. “I am
taking it easy.”
Anthony studied the rough carving.
“That looks just like the crucifix you carved for the rosary on the statue.”
“I’m making a larger version for
your mother. It’s too bad I can’t start on the tree house today or go with you
to the ruins. Why don’t you tell me all about them?”
Anthony sat on the bed and
described the ruins as his father worked.
After a time, Joseph leaned back
on his pillow and closed his eyes.
Anthony quietly took the carving
tool from his father’s hand and placed it on the bedside table. After discarding
the wood shavings, he took breadcrumbs to the sparrows in the nest. “My papa’s
not well today.”
The birds pecked the crumbs
eagerly.
“He loves fresh fruit. I should go
check the groves to see what’s ripe. I’ve been neglecting my harvesting
chores.”
He went back to the house for a harvest
basket. Besides bread for the birds that usually flocked around the statue of
Saint Francis in the olive grove, he packed carrots for the rabbits that lived in
a nearby meadow.
As he had expected, birds of all
kinds covered Saint Francis, perching on his shoulders, hands, and even on his
head. Anthony sat at the feet of the saint, tossing crumbs to the birds while admiring
their varying colors and calls.
A family of gray rabbits hopped up
and stood on their hind legs, noses and whiskers twitching. He held out the
carrots. “Yes, I brought treats for you too, furry coats.”
Anthony gathered olives from the
gnarled trees surrounding Saint Francis. Then he visited all the fruit groves, each
with a statue of a different saint, and picked a variety of ripe fruit.
Anne prepared a fruit salad from
the harvest, which they brought to Joseph that evening.
“My favorite dish! Thank you.”
Joseph spoke between labored breaths. “I wish I could pray with you in the
Rosary Garden, but I’m afraid I’m not yet well enough.”
“We’ll pray right here,” Anne
said. They prayed the Rosary by his bedside. Afterward, Joseph drank hyssop tea
and soon fell asleep.
The next morning, Anthony found
his father still in bed, working on the crucifix.
“Are you feeling any better, Papa?”
“I just have a little pain in my
chest,” Joseph replied through ragged breaths.
“We’ll have to let your father
rest some more.” Anne placed a cup of tea by his bedside.
Anthony went outdoors and
wandered around listlessly. “I’ve never seen Papa so ill.”
Drawing near the crucifix tree,
he gazed up into the branches. “Mama said people have been healed while praying
at this tree over the ages. I should pray for Papa. I could pray the Way of the
Cross as I climb.” He ascended the first tier of branches and prayed the first
station. Then he climbed higher and prayed the next, continuing for each
station. He finished at eye level with the sparrow in her nest.
“Where’s papa bird?”
“Where’s papa bird?”
She tilted her head and peered
at him.
“My papa is still unwell.”
Anthony leaned against the trunk and lightly traced the outline of the hollow
around the nest. “I didn’t notice before; the opening is shaped like a heart …
the Heart of Jesus in the crucifix tree.”
The sparrow rose and stretched
her wings before settling back down on her egg.
Anthony caught a glimpse of glittering
threads in the nest. “Say, that cloth came from a holy place. I could walk to
the church ruins to pray as pilgrims do. Maybe I could clear a path to make it
easier for Papa when he feels better. Thanks for the inspiration, mama bird! I’ll
bring you bread later.”
Anthony found a long scythe in the
shed and carried it over his shoulder as he hiked toward the ruins. When he passed
the Martyrs Pool, several fish poked their heads out of the water. “I’m sorry, little
knights; I forgot to bring bread. I’ll remember next time.” He looked back
before continuing around the cliff. “Is it my imagination, or does the
waterfall seem slower?”
Making his way toward the ruins,
he swung the tool through tangles of heavy moss, vine, and brush. After a time,
his arms and shoulders ached. “This is slow work. I’ll clear more tomorrow.”
He propped the tool against a
tree and then headed through the brush to the ruins. Reaching the altar, he
climbed the steps and knelt.
He took out his handkerchief and
wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he rubbed the ashes covering the Chi-Rho, revealing
gold paint. He kept wiping as he spoke to God. “I know I don’t pray much, other
than with my parents. I’ve busied myself with everything but You. Only please,
make my papa well again.” He stayed there for some time, feeling more at peace
in the stillness.
Upon awakening the next morning,
Anthony rushed to check on his father. “How do you feel today, Papa?”
“I’m breathing better now. I may
even feel well enough to pray in the Rosary Garden. I miss that so much.”
That evening, Anthony and Anne supported
Joseph on either side as they slowly walked beside the rose bushes, reciting
the Rosary.
“I’d like to sit awhile and gaze
at the crucifix tree,” Joseph commented after they finished praying.
They helped him through the passageway to a nearby bench where they sat and watched the branches swaying in the breeze. Rosy light lit up the garden as the sun sank lower in the sky.
They helped him through the passageway to a nearby bench where they sat and watched the branches swaying in the breeze. Rosy light lit up the garden as the sun sank lower in the sky.
“The sight of that tree always
fills my heart with peace.” Joseph sighed contentedly. “It seems to me as if it’s
been growing here since the beginning of time, and that one day it will reach
all the way to heaven. I’ve always felt that we are sheltered living beneath
its boughs.”
He turned and looked fondly at
his wife and son. “God has truly blessed my life, most especially with the two
of you.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m ready to go back home now and rest.”
He grew a little weaker each day
after that, sleeping more and breathing with more difficulty. A doctor visited,
but there was nothing that could be done.
Anthony prayed the Way of the
Cross in the crucifix tree and journeyed to the altar at the church ruins every
day, clearing more of the path each time. He carried water from the Martyrs
Pool to clean the ashes and dust from the altar, scrubbing the Chi-Rho until the
gold paint gleamed. Now he knew it was not his imagination. The waterfall had
slowed, and the level of the pool was slowly dropping.
Each day, he picked fresh fruit for
his father, and Anne made soothing teas for him. They spent much time at Joseph’s
bedside and prayed the Rosary with him every evening. As the days passed, it became
too difficult for Joseph to speak the responses, but he prayed with them in his
heart.
The village priest visited several
times, hearing Joseph’s confession and bringing him the Blessed Sacrament. One
evening, he gave him the Final Anointing.
Afterward, Joseph spoke to Anthony
through labored breaths. “Son, I want you to keep your heart in the Heart of Christ.”
He turned his gaze to the crucifix he had completed despite his illness, which Anne
had hung beside the bed. “You will always find me there.”
Anthony cradled his father’s
hand. “Papa, you have my heart.”
“And you will always find the Heart
of Christ open at the cross.” Joseph closed his eyes.
Anthony tossed and turned all
night. A howling wind kept awakening him, and when he did sleep, he had terrible
dreams. The water in the Martyrs Pool dried up, and the fish flopped and gasped
in puddles turned red with their blood. Shrieking birds streamed from the
treetops, and a herd of deer raced past. Anthony realized the forest was burning.
Struggling to breathe in the thickening smoke, he tried to run home, but he
felt as if he were moving in slow motion.
He found himself in the Rosary
Garden, where the rose petals were withering and falling to the ground. He made
his way to the statue on the center mound and gazed up through billowing smoke at
the faces of Jesus and Mary. “What if the fire reaches our home?”
A wave of hot air blew against
his skin, and he turned to see that the crucifix tree had become a blazing pillar
of red fire. Sparks showered down from its heights before it toppled over with
a resounding boom.
He woke up as the sound faded into
knocking. When his mother opened the door and spoke his name, he knew by
looking at her drawn face that his father had passed away.
She sat beside him. “Papa is
with God.”
They clung to each other and cried
for some time. Then she led him into the bedroom to see his father. Bathed in
morning light, Joseph looked as if he were having a beautiful dream, the lines
on his face relaxed.
Anthony raised his eyes to the crucifix
on the wall. Detailed leaves cradled the body of Christ as He hung upon the
tree. The wood was stained at His wounds, especially at the opening in His Heart.
With His eyes partially open, Jesus seemed to gaze at Anthony from the depths
of His suffering.
Anthony remembered his father’s
last words to him, that he would find him in the Heart of Christ, open at the
cross. Gazing into the eyes of his carving of Christ Crucified, Anthony knew that
his father was already there.
Chapter 3
The day of the funeral dawned gray
and overcast. At the village church, many friends came to offer condolences, including
Anthony’s schoolmates; but he felt as if he were watching everything from a
distance. The tolling church bells struck against his heart, and everything
seemed like a bad dream, especially when his father’s casket was lowered into the
earth.
Upon returning home, Anne retired
to her room to rest. Anthony wandered around outdoors with a hollow ache in his
heart. Low-swirling mists parted before him as he headed in the familiar
direction of the Martyrs Pool. He kept feeling as if he would see his father at
any moment or hear his voice again, carried on the wind.
The waterfall dribbled into the murky
pool, where his gloomy reflection peered back at him. The fish did not come up
as they usually did. Sitting on a boulder at the water’s edge, Anthony hugged
his knees and buried his face in his arms. As memories of his father replayed
in his mind, his shoulders shook with sobs, and soon his sharp gasps cut
through the stillness.
After a long while, he looked up.
Several fish had poked their heads out of the water through the drifting mists.
“It hurts so much, little
brothers, as if I fell into a dark abyss I can’t climb out of.” He took out his
handkerchief and wiped his face. “I could cry a river of tears. I wonder if
Papa felt a lot of pain.”
Feeling stiff, he rose to his
feet and stared bleary-eyed across the pool. His gaze traveled up the trickling
waterfall to the plateau. “And what was it like for the monks who had to climb
to their deaths?”
He made his way around the cliff
where the ascent was not as steep. He began climbing, the effort releasing some
of his pent-up emotion.
The rocky soil was loose, with
sparse vegetation. Halfway up, he slid down several feet before catching hold
of a shrub. “Mama has enough worries without me falling.” He climbed more cautiously,
digging his feet into the soil.
After a long time, he finally pulled
himself onto the windy summit. Catching his breath, he watched the shadows made
by passing clouds across the landscape. He could see for miles and quickly spotted
the crucifix tree and the far-off river. Farther in the distance, sunlight
glinted on the sea, and he could just make out a crag at the shore. “It’s as if
I were at the top of the world.”
Peering closer below, he spotted
the monastery ruins nestled behind the moss-covered oak grove. “If I’d thought
to climb up here before, I would have discovered the ruins sooner. Then maybe
Papa could have had a chance to see them.”
He sat down and noticed a mark on
a flat white stone near the edge of the cliff. Wiping off the dirt with his
palm, he uncovered a carved fish symbol. “Could someone have marked the place
of martyrdom?”
He lay on his stomach and peered
over the edge, watching the water dribble into the pool. When he thought of the
monks falling from this dizzying height, his stomach clenched.
“Where was God when they fell? …
And why does He seem so far from me? … Jesus also felt alone on the cross.” A
tear slipped down his face and plummeted toward the pool. Sliding away from the
edge, he rolled onto his back and gazed at an eagle gliding high above. “The
souls of the martyrs flew straight into heaven. Where is my papa?”
He closed his eyes and lay
listening to the wind as his tears flowed quietly. When he opened his eyes
again, the colors of the sky had deepened, and the horizon was tinged in lavender
and crimson fire. “I should see how Mama’s doing. She looked so tired and sad.”
He climbed down and hurried home, arriving before dark.
Anne looked up from the dishes
she was drying. “I saved some dinner for you.”
“Thank you, Mama, but I don’t
think I can eat right now. Let me do that for you.” He took the towel from her.
She kissed his cheek. “I think
I’ll go to bed early, right after we pray our Rosary. You should get some rest
too.”
That night, Anthony dreamed he
was at the shore of an iridescent sea that blended into the sky. Walking beside
the water, his feet rose above the ground, and he found that he could move just
by willing it. He glided over the waves with a flock of dazzling white birds. Shimmering
fish kept pace beneath the surface, and he plunged in and out of sea and sky,
feeling free and fully alive.
A man approached along the shore.
When he drew closer, Anthony saw that it was his father, looking youthful and
radiant.
Joseph smiled at him. “The Morning
Star guided me into a sea of peace.”
“Papa, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Yet a little while, and you and
I will be together again.” He gazed lovingly at his son before turning and walking
away.
Anthony desperately wanted to
follow but could not move.
Joseph looked back at him. “Remember
to keep your heart in the Heart of Christ.”
“Papa, wait!” Anthony awoke to
the sound of his own voice calling out.
From the sunshine streaming in
through the windows, he guessed it was late morning. His mother came into his
room, sat beside him, and placed something in his hand.
Anthony sat up. It was a rosary,
carved from dark-red cedar wood just like the one on the statue in the garden,
but without the crucifix. An ancient gold medal was attached.
“Your father carved this for you
even as his strength ran out. He used wood from the crucifix tree but didn’t
get to finish the crucifix.” Her voice choked. “He wanted you to have a replica
of the one on the statue, so you could always have the Rosary Garden with you: the
roses, the crucifix tree, and the statue. Maybe you can carve the crucifix
yourself.”
Anthony examined the image on
the medal, which looked exactly like the statue his father had carved. He turned
it over and read the engraved words aloud: “Ad
Jesum per Mariam. This is the abbot’s medal.”
“It comes to you now. Let those
words remind you that Christ gave His Own Mother to be ours, and no child of
hers will ever be lost.”
Fingering the rose beads, Anthony
imagined his father painstakingly carving each one just for him. “I’ll keep it
close to my heart.” He placed the rosary over his head and tucked it under his
shirt. “I was just having a dream about Papa. I miss him terribly.”
Anne hugged her son. “I know. Your
father grieved to leave you so early in your life, but we must trust God as he
did. And one day, we will all be together again. I have something of his I want
you to have.”
She went to her bedroom and retrieved
a book with pages edged in gold, and a green leather cover tooled with a foliage
design. “Your father read from this Bible every day. Like the prayers of the
Rosary, the Scriptures will help you to know God. Drawing closer to Him will
bring you healing and peace.”
Anthony pressed the book to his
heart. “Thank you, Mama.”
Later that day, he rambled around
outside. Drawn to his father’s work shed, his heart swelled when he spied the
materials for the tree house. He picked up a carving chisel from the worktable
and turned it over in his hands. “I could never carve a crucifix as well as Papa.
I’ll have to practice a great deal.”
The high-pitched cries of a bird
reached his ears, carried on the breeze. He put the tool in his pocket and went
outside. The faint cries seemed to be coming from near the great tree.
Hurrying over, he spotted a nest
lying on the grass beneath the tree. When he scooped it up, he saw bits of scarlet
cloth with gold thread. A bald baby sparrow lay limply inside with its eyes closed.
“Oh no! Where’s your mother?”
The mother bird was nowhere in sight.
Anthony had not seen the father in a long time either. “I should put your nest
back in the hollow, so she can find you.” He wrapped the nest in the tail of
his shirt and formed a pouch by tucking the ends into his waistband. Then he
climbed up the tree to the hollow.
Despite several attempts, he
could not place the nest back in. He was afraid it would fall apart or that he
would hurt the tiny sparrow. Feeling the weight of the chisel in his pocket, he
took it out began chipping at the hollow.
“What a terrible summer this has
been. I prayed so much, but God didn’t hear me. Maybe it’s because I’m to blame
for Papa getting so ill; I should have helped him more.”
The baby bird in its nest seemed
to be crying its misery along with him. He struck harder at the tree. “Maybe
this little sparrow will die. How is it still alive after falling from this
height? And the fish will die too if the water keeps drying up. Why is life so
full of suffering and death? What good is it all?”
His hand stung from the repeated
blows. Sap oozed from the deep cut he’d made, filling the hollow and trickling down
the trunk. He put his finger into the warm reddish liquid and tasted it,
finding it sweet. “What have I done? I’ve stabbed the Heart of Christ in the
crucifix tree.”
He looked at the tiny bird lying
in the nest. Its chirps had grown fainter, and its mouth gaped pitiably. Anthony
sighed. “I don’t think I can put your nest back in now, and I don’t think your
mother will return. Both our lives are full of loss. But don’t worry, little one;
I’ll take care of you. Even if your mother has forgotten you, I won’t.”
Anthony knew that a newly
hatched bird needed extra warmth and feedings throughout the day. All that
week, he cradled the nest in a pouch he wore against his chest, careful at all
times not to crush the sparrow.
By the end of the week, the
bird’s eyes had opened, and it had grown a coat of gray down. Anthony placed
its nest on the window seat in his room, where steps outside the window led into
the garden. “Now you can have fresh air and sunshine while I watch over you.
You don’t know it, but you’re helping me too. Taking care of you helps me
forget my sorrow for a little while.”
Soon the sparrow’s feathers grew
into a mix of soft gray and brown. It learned to hop onto Anthony’s fingers and
then up to his shoulder. It loved to perch there and chirped contentedly when
Anthony and his mother prayed in the Rosary Garden.
“The little one seems to want to
join in our prayers,” Anne commented one evening after they prayed.
Anthony gazed at the statue in
the center of the garden. “Sometimes when we pray, I can almost hear Papa’s
voice joining with ours.”
“I feel closer to him when we
pray too, especially at Mass.” She studied her son’s face. “Maybe it would lift
your spirits to have some company. Why don’t you invite a friend over tomorrow
after Mass?”
Anthony lowered his head. “I don’t have the heart for company right now.”
Anthony lowered his head. “I don’t have the heart for company right now.”
She put her arm around him. “Let
Christ accompany you, especially in times of sorrow.”
The next morning after Mass, they
walked to the nearby parish cemetery to visit Joseph’s gravesite. Anthony
carried a bouquet of roses from the Rosary Garden. Seeing that his mother had
difficulty walking, it occurred to him she had slowed down a great deal lately,
and that her hair was now streaked with gray.
“Mama, take my arm.” He supported
her as they strolled along the uneven paths to where Joseph was buried. Anthony
laid the bouquet before the stone cross marker and helped his mother kneel to
pray. Kneeling beside her, he studied the Sacred Heart in the center of the
cross. It reminded him of his father’s last words to him, and he pondered over their
meaning.
When Anne made the Sign of the Cross,
Anthony rose to help her up.
“Let’s visit the grave of our
ancestor who buried the monks,” Anne suggested. “I haven’t been to the old part
of the cemetery for some time. We should pray for our loved ones who may be in
Purgatory, even if we think they are in heaven.” She held onto his arm as they strolled
down into a low area where the tombstones were cracked and darkened by time.
She pointed to an ancient slab with
a faded engraving of a fish. “Here lies Jonas. It’s fitting an ichthys marks his resting place. The
symbol was used by the early Christians who had to practice their faith in
secret. Jonas also had to live his faith in a time of great persecution. His
reward must be great in heaven.” Her breath came in gasps.
“Are you tired, Mama?”
“Yes. Perhaps I should go back
home and rest.” She patted his hand. “You’re such a help to me, Son. I’ve
noticed all the work you’ve been doing lately, and I want you to know how much I
appreciate it.”
“I want to do more for you, Mama.
Helping you makes me feel better.”
She gazed at the ichthys. “That is the nature of love; it
makes suffering more bearable, and when joined with that of Christ, even sacred.”