William H. Hallahan - (13 page)

In the late sunset, none of the people of Tuscany who paused in
their fields and villages to observe the last tawny rays of the day
saw her. Glorying in her great wingspread, her great strength and her
great freedom, feeling the enormous power of that wind flinging her
into the heart of Italy, she flew with her eyes sweeping the terrain
below her. She saw everything and waited to feel certain vibrations,
some warning manifestation. She sailed with great speed as darkness
descended.

Whenever her eyes saw small game or a flight of bats, she resisted
the temptation to stoop and strike. But an early quarter moon rising
just above the Apennines showed her a large owl soaring, a fellow
predator exulting also in flight, in absolute silence, a
death-bringer of great skill and beauty.

It was too tempting in the moonlight. The black hawk stooped,
shortened her wing span, drew her wings partially folded to her sides
and fell like a rocket. She dropped so fast in the darkness she was
nearly invisible even to the many animal eyes of night. Down she
came, tilting this way and that, trimming her descent to the moving
target below her.

The owl never felt anything. He died instantly in midair in a
burst of feathers that fluttered toward earth far below as the hawk's
talons drove through his down, through his bones and skull and
pierced to the very seat of his life. She felt the owl's body go limp
in her claws and felt the indescribable joy of the kill. She rowed
her great wings to gain altitude.

Her talons closed even tighter, drove deeper into the flesh and
sinew of the great bird, squeezed harder until blood flowed from the
body, up around the talons, and dribbled away into the night. The
moment of victory having passed, she dropped the owl's corpse and let
the night wind carry her higher and higher. Her search continued. She
was inescapable, invincible, and she felt the joy of never missing,
never losing.

She studied the night lights of the isolated farmhouses and the
small walled cities of Tuscany. She looked eastward to the seven
towers of San Gimignano perched on its hill, trimmed her wings and
flew toward it. And there she circled doubtfully, her unblinking eyes
seeing everything, her senses feeling everything. Unsure, she circled
again, descended in a spiral a few hundred feet, felt a vibration
again and dropped.

She landed on the red clay tiles of a roof and cocked her head,
listening. In the square the evening
passeggiata
was under
way, people strolling and greeting each other. Others were sitting at
tavern tables under the stars, drinking wine, enjoying the evening
breeze.

Beyond the city walls, the worn hills, lying in moon shadows, were
covered with vineyards heavy with the grapes that produced an ocean
of Chianti wine each year.

The hawk glided down the side of the building and landed on the
railing of a balcony. The manifestation was stronger here and she
tried to peer into the window but there was no crack in the shutters.
The hawk gave a strong flap, glided down through the trees, then rose
and flew toward the moon. She disappeared.

The baby, a girl named Lucia, was barely three weeks old. During
the evening she had been restless and she cried. Her mother, a
knowing woman with four other children, had given her an extra
feeding, held her until she raised some uncomfortable gas and watched
her fall asleep.

The mother sat with her husband in the small living room on the
first floor, watching an American cowboy movie on the television. The
house they lived in was over 150 years old and was too small for a
growing family, so her husband was having a contractor add a large
room at the back, of frame and stucco and red tile roofing. He was on
the telephone, talking to the builder and watching the temporary
sheets of plastic over the windows stir in the evening breeze. He was
worried: There was talk of heavy rains coming.

Up in the baby's room the darkness seemed to intensify, in one
corner, seemed to draw all the pale light into it. A faint shape
loomed there. It stirred and moved toward the crib. Then it paused.
It heard the mother's step on the stairway.

Deftly it reached into the crib and raised the baby, enveloped her
in total blackness, covering the small face with a hand in a sleeve.
The woman stopped in the hallway outside the door to pick up two
school books and a pair of boys' socks. "
Peccato
,"
she said softly. Then she opened the door. The figure turned toward
her and waited. She stepped back, seeing another sock. She now
stepped into the room and almost into the waiting arms of the figure.
She paused once again and saw a shirt. She took three steps in the
hallway and retrieved it. She turned back and entered the room. There
was for an instant an overwhelming sense of darkness in the room. She
swung the door wider and by the hall light approached the crib. The
baby was sleeping peacefully. She reached down and adjusted the
blanket. Then she shrieked. The infant had stopped breathing.
 
 

Of all the monks who had witnessed Brendan Davitt's baptism and
his aura's color change, only two remained alive--Father Joseph,
abbot of the order, who had baptized Brendan, and Father Ambrose.

Monks are as prone to gossip as any other group of men, so after
Brendan's baptism. Father Joseph summoned the entire order then in
residence to the chapel and silenced them: They were not to discuss
the baptism among themselves. Nor were they to disclose anything
about it to the other monks who were away. In fact, never again till
deathday were they to even utter so much as a syllable about the
affair.

This was a difficult promise for the monks to make and keep. The
birth of a purple aura seemed a profoundly religious event. Might it
not be that a saint had been born? If so, then they were witnesses to
a miracle. And there was so much for the monks to discuss. Consider
the cry of the banshee, the first time ever at a birth, so far as
they knew. To discover the meaning of that would require long
conversations. And then there was the mother's second sight--some
said she'd seen the Magus right there in the old ruins and elsewhere
too. What did that mean? Surely these were signs from God. To fail to
discuss them and to prize out their meanings would be wrong, wouldn't
it?

But Father Joseph remained adamant. There would be no discussion
forever. A purple aura had been born. And legend had it, as they all
well knew, that Satan hated purple auras and killed such babies
without hesitation. That was the reason the color of Baby Brendan's
aura had been changed to begin with.

And, Father Joseph reminded his brothers in Christ, that Satan had
minions everywhere. Babbling tongues could bring death to the baby
with untold consequences. The monks could ruminate privately to their
heart's content but not one word, not even one mute sign must pass
between or among them. Amen.

Amen.

So far as Father Joseph knew, from the day that he baptized
Brendan Daviu to this, not one monk had violated his vow. Satan had
never eavesdropped on one conversation about the purple aura.

But silence was only one half of the problem. The other was
protection. Since Father Joseph had himself changed Brendan's aura,
he assumed thereby a responsibility. When the day came that Brendan's
aura became noticeably purple again, if it happened at all, then
Father Joseph would have to put Brendan somewhere safe from Satan's
eyes. He had no idea where that place might be. In the early years of
Brendan's life it was relatively easy to dispatch a monk each year or
so to observe from a distance the condition of Brendan's aura.

However, as the older monks died off there were fewer and fewer
who knew of the aura; fewer, therefore, whom he could send to observe
Brendan. These last few years the assignment of observing Brendan
fell almost exclusively to Father Ambrose, since Father Joseph had
the monastery to run and traveled very little. And there were no
other monks still alive who had witnessed the baptism. Even the boy's
parents were dead. By the time he was sixteen, Brendan began to show
small purple spots in his aura. At eighteen, there were four. At
twenty, there were eight.

Last year Father Ambrose had returned quite alarmed. There were
nearly two dozen spots now and the newest were larger. "One is
the size of a saucer," he whispered.

Father Ambrose had failed visibly the last year or so. There was a
slight tremor in his hands; he prayed frequently and muttered to
himself. His eyes stared at eternity. Father Joseph patted Ambrose's
shoulder. "Sit down. Tell me about it."

They discussed at length. Reluctantly they came to the same
conclusion: Brendan had to be concealed, preferably within walls on
consecrated ground, his head permanently covered with a cap or hat
for whatever protection it could provide.

The problem was Brendan himself. Father Ambrose reported that the
young man was not by disposition monastic. He was a creature of the
world. An extrovert who reveled in the company of others, who loved
city life, and who in his great benevolence loved to help others. He
was now employed in a private social agency, helping young people.
There was also a young lady in his life. Anne O'Casey. "How can
such a young man endure life in a monastery?" Father Ambrose
demanded. "It will be a prison to him."

Father Joseph questioned Father Ambrose about Brendan's knowledge
of his own condition. Did he know anything--anything at all--about
his purple aura? Father Ambrose shrugged. Very little. But he was
apparently beset with visions and premonitions about fighting a
demon.

Ah! Then for him the safety of a concealed place might have some
appeal after all.

"That would depend," Father Ambrose replied, "on
the place itself." So before they approached Brendan, the right
place of safety had to be found. And this required a long discussion.
The place had to be selected with care.

"With cloistered brothers," Father Joseph said. "Little
or no contact with the outside world."

"An order of monks who cannot see purple auras--as ours can,"
Father Ambrose added.

"Americans. Men of similar background and outlook."
Father Joseph was searching his mind for the right monastery in
America. His doubts were increasing. The cloistered life had driven
men mad, dedicated, deeply religious men. How could such a man as
Brendan Davitt endure it--and for the rest of his life?

Father Joseph regarded Father Ambrose with concern. They were both
two very old men. Nearing eighty. And the mendicant's life had
imposed an added burden. Father Ambrose should stop his itinerant
life and remain in the monastery. There was little strength left in
him. Still, the Lord's work is never done and there's rest only in
the grave. Father Joseph wondered if there was one last mission left
in the old monk.

"We must search out a monastery for Brendan Davitt," the
abbott said. "In America. Do you have any recommendations?"

Father Ambrose considered this question for some time. It had
begun to rain, a cold penetrating rain in a gloomy dusk, and his
flesh seemed to draw back from it. He was tired, so weary of coping
with the elements. He'd come to prize above all else a warm dry bed.
"I will go back to America and look."

"That's a big place," Father Joseph said, "and
there's so Utile time."

"I will leave at first light." Father Ambrose regarded
the rain and took himself to bed with an extra blanket.

Father Joseph wondered if the old man would survive the trip.
 
 

The months passed. And the abbot became increasingly anxious. What
could have happened to Father Ambrose? And what of Brendan Davitt's
aura? It must be dangerously visible by now.

Each day he scanned the twisting roadway outside the monastery. In
rain or sunlight, or in the star-filled darkness, monks arrived
periodically from all over the world, some young and hale, healthy
from the endless walking, others older and slower, some bent, all
arriving footsore and road-weary, eager for a short stay in their
sanctuary. But Father Ambrose was not among them and none of the
arriving monks had seen him.

Then with the springtime Brother Dominic returned. Yes, he had
seen Father Ambrose in Philadelphia. He seemed well enough, although,
yes, at times he appeared confused. He insisted on addressing Brother
Dominic as Brother Sebastian, who had died years ago. He talked to
himself frequently and seemed obsessed with his errand. He told
Brother Dominic they had to protect the purple aura. What was that?
Brother Dominic wanted to know.

The abbot was shocked. The old man was senile. He had to be
returned to the monastery quickly and silenced in isolation, and
Brendan Davitt had to be put in a place of safety too. If it wasn't
already too late. How many people had Brother Ambrose told of the
purple aura? How long could it be before Satan heard of it--or
discovered Brendan Davitt himself?

Brother Joseph made hasty preparations to leave--to find Brother
Ambrose and to house Brendan Davitt somewhere. As he set out, he
realized how tired he'd become. He turned his head back and looked at
his beloved monastery. And he wondered if he'd ever see it again.
Then resolutely he walked into the lovely Irish springtime and the
gravest assignment of his life.
 
 

It was pure chance that brought the Magus, Timothy, to the
monastery.

He had long ago detected a geographic pattern in the births of
purple auras, and tried to anticipate their appearance. Often they
were connected with other religious events--holy visions, miraculous
cures, supernatural events. The mendicant monks with their ceaseless
wandering of the earth were prime sources of such religious gossip,
especially in their monastery, where all such information flowed. The
monastery was like a godly spy center.