0 comments/ 11877 views/ 0 favorites Light in the Darkness By: Nigel Debonnaire This story is set in the year 846 in Northern Italy. A brief glossary follows the story. Abbot Agostino winced as he made his way on the muddy track. A afternoon rain had dampened the trees and shrubs on the five mile path between the historic abbey of Ebovium and the simple hut of Niccólo the Priest. The Abbot's toes grew muddy in his leather sandals; the chill dampness affected his sixty year old joints and old war wounds more than previous years. Mumbling his office from memory, he trudged on, alternately offering his pain up on behalf of the monks of his monastery and cursing the advancing feebleness of years that his warrior father and grandfather never knew. He longed to return to the Scriptorium, to his copying and his books beside a warming fire, and to his Cell afterward. He never slept well at Niccólo's house: partly due to the long evening of stories, instruction and simple entertainment, and partly due to what happened after Niccólo and his family left the next day for market, when the Mother Superior from St. Barbara's convent arrived. Peeking up at the sky from beneath his hood, his cropped rusty silver hair was tousled by a flick of a breeze. The sky showed a few clouds hinting their red dusky hue while a dark storm on the horizon flickered blue as it headed farther into the mountains. Ice blue eyes darted around, peering between the trees; the Abbot knew this track from fifteen years of regular weekly passage, yet he knew the fragile peace of this area could be lost to brigandage at any time. He had put off the mad warrior ways of his youth, but his senses were always tuned for potential combat even after walking the way of peace for forty plus years. More than one unlucky thief had discovered this trying to rob this particular monk. The path through the woods opened on a small clearing, where a simple, one room hut offered rustic incense heavenward through the central hole in its roof. Within sight was a small chapel on an old cart path where Niccólo offered the Sacraments of the Church to the farmers of the nearby village. Storytellers sang of an ancient pagan shrine to Diana on this remote spot, so when Christ came to the Lombards, a chapel was constructed here from Diana's sacred grove next to her sacred spring rather than in the village. The nuns of St. Barbara's convent gathered for Vespers. Filing in one by one, they took their place in the dim light of the Romanesque chapel. Beams of light shone down like spotlights, playing with the incense that wafted through the Chapel. Mother Lucia strove with difficulty to focus on the Office: it was Wednesday and tomorrow would be the day she spent at the house of Niccólo the Priest. Her thighs were warm and wet in anticipation, and she knew she wouldn't sleep well, eager to rise early in the pre-dawn to bathe, as she had every Thursday morning for the past fifteen years in preparation for the encounter. She looked over at the older girls, who were always present for prayer. Most were rapt in prayer, except for some of the teenagers. A frown crossed her face as she corrected them silently as their eyes met hers: afterward she would have to set penances for them. Thanks to the rebels, the older nuns seldom had to scrub the floors, weed the gardens and carry the water themselves. Mother Lucia's eyes met a young girl of eight, whose dark hair, blue eyes, full lips and olive skin were a mirror of hers. Little Monica was developing rebellion early, and Mother Lucia smiled ruefully as she remembered her own childhood and early independence. "My mother has cursed me well," she muttered to herself under her breath. The small chapel by Niccólo's hut smelled of old incense as Abbot Agostino entered, and glowed from many beeswax candles. The walls were plastered and the ceiling and floor were made of rough wood. The high altar had been carved by Niccólo's father with great devotion and minimal skill. The crowning glory of the small chapel that could hold eighty souls before bursting was a stained glass window, created by Emperor Lothair's own glassmaker for this little chapel at Abbot Agostino's bidding, in exchange for Masses said for the glassmaker's late mother. A portrait of the Blessed Mother, holding the Infant Jesus in her arms, glowing in the light. Four small children were playing in one corner: a reprimand from their mother dampened their glee. Niccólo was a dark haired man in his mid forties wearing a ragged alb, chausible and stole over his peasant shirt and trousers; his son Boetio was dressed likewise and younger son Silvestro, wearing only an alb, held the missal ready to begin the Mass. Abbot Agostino took his place, and the twenty year old Boetio, a mirror of his father, began: "In nomine Patris, et Filiis, et Spiritui Sanctis. . ." Niccólo's wife and her spinster sister were thick, heavy set women, their short hair contained in their headscarves, their plain, placid faces lost in prayer. The four young children, barefoot and grimy, sat and watched in awe as their brother celebrated the Eucharist. Niccólo swung the censer and beamed at his son's flawless pronunciation of the Latin prayers. The Abbot nodded as he followed the rite, graciously receiving the host and chalice when offered. The Mass concluded and the family reverenced the altar before cleansing and putting the sacred vessels and garments away and returning to their home. Some honey flavored dough was rising as the Priest's family entered the hovel with their guest. Niccólo's wife pinched and flattened several pieces before slapping them on an inverted pot: baking them to warm, brown, soft goodness. Niccólo brought out some homemade wine, and the family shared their simple meal with their guest in high spirits. "Wonderful, Boetio, wonderful. You'll be a fine priest for this little chapel, just like your grandfather and father," Niccólo said as he slapped his oldest surviving son on his back. The older women smiled while the little children laughed at Niccólo's praise. "I've never heard such good Latin; you've learned your lessons from Abbot Agostino well." The lean young man smiled and sipped from his cup. "Thank you, father. The Abbot has been very patient with me. I am honored that he has shown me such favor by patiently instructing me for so many long hours." "My pleasure, Boetio," the abbot said. "I had hoped you would join us at Ebovium someday, but serving God here for the villagers is a noble life's work as well." "Boetio's girl is large with child," his mother interjected. "We go to fetch her tomorrow so she may live with us. Ludovigo's daughter will make a fine priest's woman." "She has large hips like my sister, and will bear him many children easily," her sister volunteered. The older women giggled like children while the little ones looked on in confusion and Boetio blushed. Niccólo beamed. The Abbot nodded, trying not to wince. Boetio was an intelligent young man who deserved more than this small, vulnerable parcel of northern Italy offered, as the politics of Charlemange's Empire swirled back into chaos. Another sharp young mind was to be deprived of the resources of the Abbey library, where honed, it might uncover new mysteries from the past and provide new light for the future. He could only pray that Boetio, this family and this land would be spared the wicked winds blowing in the North and the South. The women were chatting with each other and scolding the children, who had returned to loud pranks once they had finished their food. Niccólo moved close and whispered nervously: "Are the Saracens coming? I heard they defiled San Pietro and Papa Sergio is in danger." Abbot Agostino leaned back and murmured: "I do not think so. The Holy Father has called his neighbors to support him, and the infidels have withdrawn. The Saracens still hold Sicily and press toward Gaeta, but by the Grace of God, they will not prevail. Their numbers do not seem enough to make it here through central Italia; their ships do not probe this far north." "Will the Emperor intervene?" "He still squabbles with his brothers Louis and Charles, trying to regain what he has lost. The peace is not firm, and I do not think he will look South unless the Saracens come to the Po." "God forbid." "God forbid. This land should be at peace for the foreseeable future." "Good. I do not want to worry about my family in my grave, and so lengthen my years in Purgatorio." "In your grave? Surely not soon. Niccólo, you will have many more years, God willing." "No, I do not believe it is God's will. When my father passed his fortieth year, Satan began squeezing his chest from time to time, and one day he was struck down gathering grapes to make wine. Satan squeezes my chest from time to time, has for a year now, and I know the day will come soon when I am summoned to the Refiner's fire. It may be next week, next month, next year, but I do not think it will be more than two. If I do not see you before then, Abbot Agostino, let me express my eternal gratitude for your kindness through the years. You have advised me well, tutored me and my son, done many favors to brighten our lives. Boetio will take up my work fully prepared for life as a priest. I am eternally in your debt." "Father Niccólo, you have done me great service over the years, hosting my weekly conferences with Mother Lucia and Sister Agnes. Your dwelling is exactly halfway between our monasteries, but like the noble man from the Gospel who bears a pack two stadia when asked to bear it one, you have made us welcome without question, taking your family away to give us privacy. Words cannot express my appreciation for your generosity." Niccólo the Priest stood up and dusted himself off. Clapping his hands, he announced: "It is nothing; we had to go to the market one day a week. Another cup of wine before we bed down?" The Abbot nodded his head, and the Priest poured him another cup of deep crimson liquid. Speaking louder, he said: "If you would favor us, Abbot, we would like another story of your youth in the far land of Laigin on the Holy Island where Naohm Padraig drove out the snakes of evil." "Well, if you insist. . ." Mother Lucia returned to her cell at last. Another day at the convent was done, and all were bedded down for the evening. Monica had accepted rebuke for her behavior at prayers sullenly, and the Abbess worried about her. Ten years and the girl would be told about her heritage. By then she should have shaken off her youthful rebellion. A breeze played through the window, and Mother Lucia shivered in anticipation of the next day. Memories flooded back of the Flann Mahon, and how he made her feel. She tingled from her head to her toes, and ached for him. The sun had long sunk beneath the horizon when Niccólo called for an end to the stories and bade all to rest. The Abbot was invited to lie on the bed alone, where two of the family dogs lay across his throbbing arthritic feet once he was settled. The children scurried to the rafters where their pallets were set up, while Niccólo, his wife and her sister made their resting place in a corner. The lamps were doused, and moonlight shone through the window. Resting uncomfortably, the Abbot listened as the house and the world outside came to its evening rest. When all was quiet, he heard slurping sounds from the corner, and turned away from them. The rustling grew more and more frantic, with murmurs and moans wafting through the room. "Niccólo deserves to have Satan squeeze his chest, using two women to satisfy his raging beast," he said to himself as he half-dozed through the ordinary sounds of the hut at night. It brought back memories of his childhood and his teen years, sleeping in common rooms and politely ignoring different couple's lovemaking in the night, and made him long for the silence of his Cell. He shifted uncomfortably as he grew erect, the sounds reminding him of the next day's meeting and the one who met him there on Thursdays. Finally, he fell asleep, his member still rigid, as Niccólo, his wife and his sister concluded their coitus. Mother Lucia and Sister Agnes silently toiled up the path from their convent barefoot just before dawn. The dampness brought a delicious sensual feeling to the hardened soles of their feet, squishing up between their sturdy toes. They walked in silence befitting two religious women, their heads bowed but their eyes darting beneath their veils. There was only one possible ambush spot on their trail until they met the old Roman road that ran up the mountain toward the Lombard village and beyond to the chapel that transformed Diana's grove. There were other travelers that bowed as they passed, touching their breasts in respect, before passing on. Enough people were on this road today that the possibility of a madman beyond God's control would consider attacking a holy woman. They breathed prayers of gratitude for their safe passage. Each step was a thrill for Mother Lucia, Abbess of her monastery. The Flann Mahon, the great Red bear of a man, who pushed her patience and devotion like none other, would be waiting for her. Her skin tingled as her rough habit touched her skin. Sister Agnes had entered the convent when she did twenty eight years before, at age 12, and they had shared many long hours of labor as they claimed their place in the community. Mother Lucia remembered Sister Agnes' long blond locks from their childhood together: an odd pairing of a dusky daughter of ancient Roma with the descendant of the Winnili from the far North, a barbarians who came as invaders toward the end of the old Empire. Sister Agnes spent every moment possible in prayer, and was always glad to accompany her Abbess on her Thursday journeys, to spend long hours lost in meditation undisturbed in the remote chapel, away from the cares of the nursery for orphans she supervised. Sister Agnes never asked Mother Lucia what she did at Niccólo the Priest's hut. The old friends traveled together cautiously, but with light hearts. They reached the market, touching the faces of the children in blessing as they passed, receiving the thanks of their parents. A basket of fresh eggs covered in straw, and another with fresh vegetables and figs were pressed into their hands, to share with their sisters upon their return. An offer of a delicate lamb and a shank of fresh, red deer meat were refused with a delicate shake of the head. "We are abstaining from meat this month," Mother Lucia said quietly, and the villagers gasped in awe of spiritual white martyrs, great in faith, that would abstain from meat outside of Lent. Between the village and the chapel, they met Niccólo and his family on their way to the market. He touched his brow in greeting and his family bowed as they approached. His voice almost sang: "Greetings, sisters, how fare you?" "Well, sir," Mother Lucia replied, "both of us. And you?" "Well for today. A great day, a great day." Mother Lucia nodded and smiled: "How so?" "Today after we market, we go to fetch Ludovigo's daughter to be Boetio's woman." "How wonderful. She is a lovely girl, and I'm sure Boetio will be happy with her." "Yes, yes. The Abbot speaks highly of both of them." "Did he spent the night under your roof?" "Oh yes, slept soundly this morning. The travails of the Pit could not awaken him, but I'm sure he'll be lively when you get there." "Thanks, Niccólo. We would appreciate your blessing." Niccólo reached out and muttered a few words in Latin, ending with the Sign of the Cross. "Hope your conference is a productive one." "Thank you. I hope your journey to Ludivigo's house is safe and your celebration of Boetio's union is a festive one." "Oh, doubt not, doubt not." The nuns resumed their walk as the priest and his family moved on toward the market. A dream gripped the Abbot's slumbers after dawn passed. A flashback: wild men shouting and sending way cries to the heavens, women and children crying. Smoke and blood, metal clanging against metal. The Flann Mahon met his match: a huge Vik who was a head taller and the reflexes of a cat. A nick here, a cut there, maybe he could bring the big man down. A comet grazed his chest and threw him to the ground, wet blood bubbling, a blow to the head sent sweat and blood to blind him. Lying on the grass, waiting for a death blow, but bright light appeared above and an angel's voice sounded in his ears. . . Abbot Agostino woke with a start, realizing Niccólo and his family had risen and left without his awareness. He rubbed his eyes, and looked around as they cleared. The sun was still a red ball on the horizon, and he dashed water on his face before chewing on a crust of bread. He went out the door and sat under the tree in solitude. The day was warming rapidly and he was glad for the shade. The animals browsed languidly, and the birds sang in the nearby trees. His feet were no longer pulsing from the morning's damp chill. Shortly, a solitary veiled figure in a habit approached, gliding peacefully as a swan on a placid pond. The abbot nodded to her, and bowed her through the door of the simple hut. On entering the room, she fell to her knees and crossed herself. "Bless me, Father, for I sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. Since then I have been angry with the sisters of my community for vain things, and for when my moods grew dark. I punished Sister Monica excessively for pride; she is but eight years of age and has her mother's stubbornness; I should have more compassion for her. I have been distracted in prayer, distracted in my rest, and distracted in the cloister. I beg your penance and absolution, Holy Father." The Abbot cupped his chin with his hand. "What was your distraction, Mother Lucia?" "The Red Bear." "Again?" "Yes, the Red Bear. My desire for him is undimmed after all these years. He stalks my dreams when I am alone in my cell, he prowls my thoughts when I try to pray. My legs ache for his touch, my breasts for his hot breath. What is there that can help me with this fever?" Abbot Agostino felt a stirring below his simple rope belt. Mother Lucia's eyes were fixed on him: two dark pools shining with insistent light. Her nose was aquiline, her skin an olive hue that was her inheritance from a long lost Roman Imperial family. Her mouth was full, her lips turned up humorously, as if enjoying an old game. The Abbot looked away. "Your penance, Mother Lucia, is to fast tomorrow and Monday, praying for the sisters in your care. Between that and your discipline, you will redeem your soul." "Yes, Most Reverend Father. May I have absolution?" She bowed her head as he laid his hands on top of her head, muttering the syllables of the Latin formula, breathing heavily and expectantly. As he finished the sacred words, his fingers began to move, caressing, palming, moving softly. Her breathing grew quicker and quicker as his hands stroked downward over her covered ears. The caresses became more frantic roamed farther, she licked her lips and stroked her stomach, working upward and downward simultaneously. "It is time," the Abbot intoned solemnly, stepping away from the kneeling woman. Mother Lucia rose, staring hungrily at Abbot Agostino momentarily in calm determination, before reaching downward suddenly and flipping her habit and veil over her head in one quick motion. Her long, lustrous dark hair tumbled down as it was released, draping her voluptuous nude form. She was long and lean, with ripe breasts hanging heavily with milk, a lush forest between her legs, and pair of dimples that graces her cheeks, stomach and buttocks. Unlike peasant women in their forties, she had kept her form through monastic moderation and hard work. Light in the Darkness It crept up on them slowly and at first it had been a bit of a joke between them: Aiden's little slips; his inability to find the word he wanted and that Julia would supply; his failure to recall the name of a client. Aiden was building up his reputation as an architect and was working long hours, and so they put it down to anxiety or stress. "You need a break," Julia had said, "get away from it all for a couple of weeks," and so they took a couple of weeks off from work, going to a seaside resort, but nothing changed. They would make an arrangement in the morning to do something in the afternoon, but when the afternoon arrived Aiden would have forgotten the arrangement. A week after they returned home their son Patrick asked Julia, "What's the matter with dad, I said good morning to him and he looked at me as if he'd never seen me before." It was at that point it was decided Aiden should see their doctor. He was sent off for tests and after that came the devastating report, "I'm sorry to have to tell you that you have the early stages of Alzheimer's disease." "But that's not possible," Julia had gasped, "that's a disease for old people, not for a fit thirty two year old man." "I'm sorry," the doctor said again, "but it happens. There have been teenagers diagnosed with Alzheimer's. What I can do," he said to Aiden, "is to give you some medication that may slow down the progress of the disease." "There's no cure?" Julia had asked. The doctor looked embarrassed as he had to tell her that there was no cure. * * * * * * * * Aiden and Julia had met while they were both studying at the university; the handsome, personable and aspiring Aiden and in his eyes, the gorgeous Julia. She was tall and statuesque and beautiful in that divine way normally associated with Greek goddesses, the straight nose, upstanding breasts, her long neck, and her looks were matched by the grace of her movements and a dignity rarely seen in one so young. Both of them had engaged in a number of brief affairs, but at their first meeting they had said to them selves, "That's The One," and nothing thereafter had changed their minds. Julia had often said that if marriages were made in heaven then certainly their marriage was. She did allow that some marriages seemed to have been made in hell, but not hers. Strong, fit and an ardent lover, Aiden had been all she had hoped for in a marriage partner, and whereas in many cases the birth of a child, despite rumours to the contrary, could break up a marriage, the birth of Patrick had accorded with the rumours and had bound them together in an even closer bond of love. Everything had seemed to be as perfect as it could be for Julia until that at first little cloud had appeared over the clear sky of their lives, and had grown ever more ominous until their lives seemed to inhabit in the darkness of Aiden's sickness. The medication did little or nothing to slow the onset of the disease, and there came a time when Aiden had to stop working and stay at home. Julia, assistant curator at the State Art Gallery, had to continue working to provide an income. Patrick was thirteen and in the early stages of high school, and this meant that Aiden was at home alone. This led to the first near catastrophic event. It seemed that Aiden had started to cook a fillet of fish in a pan of oil, and had forgotten about it. The oil had caught fire and had it not been for their neighbour seeing smoke pouring out of the kitchen window the whole house might have gone up in flames. This meant that drastic measures had to be taken, and a woman was employed to stay with Aiden while Julia was at work and Patrick at school. This was followed by the daily visits of a nurse, but as Aiden began to lose control of his bowels and bladder further measures had to be taken. The choice was between Julia staying at home and thus they would lose their income, or her continuing to work and putting Aiden into a nursing home. It was their doctor supported by the nurse, who said to Julia, "He's never going to get any better, only worse, and you won't be able to cope." And so the decision was made to put Aiden into the nursing home. Julia visited him regularly three times a week, and on other occasions when she could, sometimes accompanied by Patrick, but the time came when Aiden no longer knew them apart from brief moments of lucidity. It broke Julia's heart when during those moments of lucidity Aiden asked, "What am I doing here, I want to go home." Even before Julia had said, "You're not well darling, and you can't come home until; you're better," the moment had passed and Aiden might ask her, "Who are you?" And so Julia, at the age of thirty seven, found her self with a ruined marriage, heavy nursing home bills to meet, and a seventeen years old son to support. * * * * * * * * Aiden had been very sexually potent, and Julia had met his potency with her own challenging libido. Theirs had been a joyful and free giving sexual relationship, but that had come to a stop with the progress of Aiden's disease. A woman of strong religious commitment she prayed long and hard for her particular deity to turn the situation around. It seemed that the deity was either not listening or had gone on vacation. There were grounds on which Julia could have divorced Aiden and remarried or perhaps taken a lover, but she did neither. Because of her religious allegiance she would not countenance either divorce or the taking of a lover while Aiden remained alive. Patrick proved to be a very loyal and supportive son, and as the financial situation became increasingly difficult he went to work in the evenings and weekends at The Spaghetti House and this brought in a few extra dollars. Julia's mother, a widow, had been left a little money mainly through investments, and she helped where she could, and it was through her mother that some degree of financial equilibrium came about, although the means was unwelcome. Julia's mother died and left all her assets to Julia. It was far from a fortune, but it did make life a little easier. Sexually Julia seemed to have closed the shutters. It was not that she did not have opportunities for sexual indulgence, far from it. Some of the men who subtly or openly suggested a "meaningful relationship," surprised and at times alarmed Julia. One was the curator of the gallery, a man some twenty years older than Julia, with a wife and grownup children. Others included a church deacon and her dentist, and, she suspected, her minister who for a while had taken to visiting her frequently and at unusual times like nine o'clock in the evening. Finally even Aiden's lucid moments ceased and his days were spent sitting in what was called "The Lounge," staring uncomprehending and probably unseeing at the television screen. Had she been waiting for Aiden to die before she resumed her sex life, she was even thwarted there. She was told that apart from the deterioration of his brain the rest of his organs were in good condition and "He could go on for years." What sustained Julia over those years were two loves; that for her work at the gallery, and that for Patrick. For a while after her rejection of the curator she thought she might lose her job, but for once good fortune came her way. The curator found what he wanted with an attractive woman employed to restore paintings and in that respect Julia was forgotten. Despite his love and support she realised that one day Patrick would want to leave home. He might want to get married, or, as he was following in his father's architectural footsteps, he might need to live elsewhere. Her relationship with Patrick had been almost the still turning point in her life; the one person who was intimately present in her life; the one she thought was "safe." She may have put up the sexual shutters as far as an observer was concerned, but that did not mean she could completely close them on her self. She took to masturbating to relieve her sexual tensions, first by hand, and later using a dildo that combined the virtues of an ordinary dildo and a vibrator. This gave her some relief, and with this she believed that she must rest content, but for Julia it was no substitute for a male body, specifically Aiden's, but that was now permanently and finally beyond her reach. Patrick had long been aware of his parent's sexual obsession with each other and as a child he had often heard them enjoying each other. When he reached that age when he understood what those cries and groans meant he had been happy that his parents still gave expression to their love in that way. When those sounds of coitus ceased he began to wonder about his mother. He was not blind to her physical attractions and had always been proud of her, and so he did wonder if and when the first male would appear to spend the night with Julia. When no such male appeared, and his mother rarely went out except to go to work or to an art exhibition, on which occasions she often took him, he was puzzled. He was after all at the height of his own sexual potency, and at such times it is difficult to imagine how anyone can "do without it," but his mother seemed to have taken on the vows of a nun. The only physical affection she indulged in was with him, and that was usually after she had visited his father and come home distressed. At first the hugs and crying had embarrassed him, but with the passing of time he found himself enjoying the physical contact. It was not that he lacked even closer physical contact elsewhere since like his father he had enjoyed a number of girls' favours, but somehow his mother seemed special, although he wasn't quite sure why. * * * * * * * * It was a week after Patrick's eighteenth birthday and the end of his high school career when Julia broke out of her work-home self imposed confinement. There had been a small celebration for Patrick's birthday and highly successful ending to his high school, and this had seemed to free her up slightly. During the following week she found herself becoming restless. She felt as if she had shut herself away for too long. On Sunday morning as they made their way to church, she said to Patrick, "Let's go to the beach this afternoon." Patrick had since the death of his grandmother and the money she had left Julia, stopped working at The Spaghetti House, so he was free to go with her. He was surprised by this unexpected suggestion from Julia. She had for a long time shut herself away, and so he welcomed this change in direction. "Fine," he said, wondering if this presaged further changes in Julia, and whether the long anticipated lover would finally make his appearance in Julia's life. That afternoon at the beach only reinforced his view that a lover might be imminent. Not since he was twelve years old had he seen his mother in a bikini -- a relic of the days when the three of them used to go to the beach. Back in those days her physical exposure had little effect on him except that he was proud to have such a lovely mother. He might have been equally proud of his father's fine physique, but like a lot of sons he hadn't taken much notice of him in that respect. That Sunday afternoon was to be different both for him and Julia. Always aware of his mother's beauty he had nevertheless not seen her so exposed for years. Her breasts seemed to support the cups of the bra rather than the other way round, and her long slender legs constantly drew his gaze to them. His thoughts became distinctly unfilial and he was not unaware that every male eye within range was focused on Julia, and he wondered if like him they were getting erections over her. He thought he should have been shocked by what he was feeling, but somehow it seemed entirely natural. She was his mother, but she was also a woman, and a damned desirable one, and he knew he would never be able to see her as he had done in the past, ever again. Patrick wasn't the only person on the beach who had a change of perception. He had gone for a swim and it was as he came out of the water and approached Julia that she had a sudden vision of the first time she had seen Aiden doing precisely that. Now it was as if Aiden was coming to her again. Patrick was so like Aiden as he had been back then that she almost called him Aiden as he began to dry himself. She noticed that his penis was rather prominent and wondered which of the several skimpily clad girls on the beach had inspired that. Looking at his erection she found herself responding to it and was glad that her arousal, although frustrating for her, was not quite as obvious as Patrick's. She remembered how on that first occasion on the beach with Aiden they had gone back to his flat and he had taken her with more passion that ever before, ripping off her bikini and burying his face in her genitals as he started to lick her pudendal cleft. She had not experienced that before and he had brought her to a frenzied orgasm, and afterwards she had sucked his penis and he had ejaculated into her mouth. The memory only increased her frustration and it as if her long held back libido was demanding release from its captivity. She began to fantasise that Patrick would take her back to the house and make love with her as Aiden had, but she was shaken out of her fantasy by Patrick addressing her. "Mother...mother...are you all right?" "What...oh...yes darling, why?" "You just looked a bit odd," he replied, a note of concern in his voice. "I'm all right darling, just daydreaming. Would you mind if we went home now?" "But you haven't even had a swim," he replied. "Oh...er...some other time...when we come to the beach next time." Male eyes followed them as they made their way from the beach, and behind the male eyes the thought, "Lucky young bastard, I'll bet they going off somewhere to have a fuck." * * * * * * * * At first Julia resolved that they would not go to the beach again. However it had been for Patrick, for her it had been an almost frightening experience, being sexually aroused by her son. This ran counter to her religious principles. Her first impression had been that Patrick's erection had been inspired by one or more of the females on the beach, but as the week passed she started to wonder. Patrick, always attentive, became even more attentive, seeking every opportunity to hug and kiss her. Despite her principles she found herself enjoying these tactile moments -- moments that seemed to become extended -- during which she found herself nigh on overwhelmed by the emotions they gave rise to. She wondered if she was totally depraved in desiring her own son, despite the fact that she knew, as people said, "It goes on." As the next weekend approached she decided that she would ask Patrick to go to the beach with her again, and then decided against it, only to change her mind again. It was Patrick who saved her from the dilemma when he asked, "Shall we go to the beach again this Sunday?" "You...you really want to?" Julia asked hesitatingly, half hoping he would say that he did not really want to and he'd only asked for her sake. "Certainly I want to" Patrick replied cheerfully, "Only let's go to Parsons Bay." "Parsons Bay!" That conjured up poignant memories for Julia. An isolated beach, she and Aiden had gone there and having the beach to themselves they had made love several times. Perhaps going there with Patrick they would...she tried to brush the thought away, but it lingered. At night she had resorted to her dildo more frequently than ever, trying to beat down the rising feelings she had for Patrick, but it was to no avail. The dildo seemed to give her less relief than previously, and left her weeping for her past love and the new and illicit desire that had now unexpectedly come to agitate her. Sunday morning in church she prayed long and hard to be relieved of her new found feelings, but once more the deity ignored her request. Even as she prayed she was aware of Patrick's closeness and longed for him to touch her and say, "I want you mother." He didn't of course, but the afternoon loomed ahead of them, an afternoon in which Julia did not know what she wanted to happen, but she believed that something would have to be resolved either then or later. What Patrick felt for her she only suspected, but for her self she knew it could not go on like this. They lunched at home in what Patrick found to be a disconcerting silence. He caught Julia looking at him intently several times; she seemed to be about to burst into tears. As on the beach the previous Sunday he asked, "Are you all right mother?" "Yes...yes I'm fine," she replied, "let's clear up and go." * * * * * * * * At Parsons Bay they found themselves to be alone apart from a few people hunting among the rocks at Parsons Point. That was a considerable distance away, so mother and son were virtually alone. Patrick encouraged her to have a swim, and together they went into the water. Julia swam out a little distance and then trod water, watching Patrick swim some distance beyond her. As he turned to come back Julia made her way towards the beach until she could stand with the water just below her breasts. As Patrick approached she began to tease him, splashing water over him until he took hold of her and ducked her. She came out of the water laughing and gasping. Patrick was holding her close, her breasts were pressed against his chest and she could feel his hard penis against her lower abdomen. The stood silent and unmoving, looking questioningly into each other's eyes, then suddenly Patrick swept her up in his arms and carried her to the beach. He laid her on the sand, and then knelt beside her. He was however irresolute, and remained looking at her until they heard voices. The people who had been out on the Point were now making their way along the beach towards them, a mother, father and three children. The moment had passed and there was to be no resolution of the situation for Julia that day. They drove home in silence, each immersed in their own thoughts. The following week was one of frustration and emotional turmoil for both of them. Julia wondered if it would be better if they separated, lived in different places. There were no further suggestions about going to the beach together and they seemed to try and avoid each other's company. And so it seemed, it would go on like this interminably. Julia thought she should have the strength of will to overcome her illicit desire for her son, and made extra visits to Aiden, but this only caused her distressed, and this in turn seemed to make her more in need of Patrick. Her dildo was even less effective and she was in a constant state of sexual arousal and made some bad errors of judgement at work. * * * * * * * * On Friday afternoon Julia left work early and at home she had a shower and then busied herself doing the weekly ironing. Since one of the pieces of ironing was a dress she intended to put on as soon as it was ironed, she stood before the ironing board wearing only panties and bra. On Friday afternoons Patrick always went to the gym after lectures, usually arriving home around seven thirty. All week Patrick had been morose and that particular Friday he decided not to go to the gym. It therefore came as a bit of a shock to Julia when he walked in on her as she was still ironing. Patrick also had a bit of a shock because although he had seen his mother in a bikini, it had not been Julia's habit to wear only panties and bra when he was around. Also, seeing her dressed like that in the house seemed to be somehow more seductive than a bikini on a beach. The ironing board was in the kitchen, and instead of passing through on the way to his bedroom he sat at the kitchen table and watched Julia. Feeling as he did about her it was hardly surprising he started to get an erection. He was only wearing a track-suit and this tended to give a magnificent display of his manly assets even when his penis was not erect. Fortunately from his perspective it was at the moment hidden under the table. Light in the Darkness Despite his erection being hidden Julia was as aware of his arousal as her own. She tried to concentrate on the ironing, but she had begun to tremble noticeably. Patrick, seeing this said, "Mother, your shivering you must be cold, "I'll get you something." Julia was about to say that she was all right, but Patrick had left the room to return quickly with a coat that he went to put over her shoulders. He didn't succeed because Julia took this moment to settle the matter between them. She turned to face him. They were very close and Patrick could smell the perfume from the soap she had used when showering. Julia's resolve faded as they stood looking into each other's eyes. She struggled to speak and at first the words would not come, and then finally she managed to whisper hoarsely, "Darling, I have to...have to...to say something to..." She did not finish because Patrick taking the initiative put his arms round her, drew her close, and kissed her full on the lips. He then drew away from her very slightly and said, "I love you very much, mother." "I...I...I know you do darling and I love you very much." She intended to add, "I love you too much," but those words were stifled as Patrick drew her tightly to him again and began kissing her. Julia seemed to melt in his arms, her lips parted and she began to lick his lips and then thrust her tongue into his mouth. Their mouths still clinging together Patrick put his hands under her buttocks, lifted her and then sat her on the table. "I want you mother," he gasped "I want you so much." "I know darling I know," Julia said, her voice quavering. She unclipped her bra and letting it drop away she said, "Touch me darling...please touch me." Patrick took her breasts in his hands and murmured, "They're lovely mother," and then he bent and took a nipple into his mouth. As he suckled her Julia reach down and pushing down the top of his track suit pants took hold of his penis and began to lovingly caress it. Overcome by what Julia was doing to his penis Patrick gasped and released her nipple. He removed Julia's panties and kneeling before started to lick her genitals. Julia made little sobbing noises as she stroked and played with his hair. She felt her orgasm building and gasped "I'm coming darling but please not like this, not this time." Patrick rose and stood before her, his lower face glistening with her fluid. For a moment, her orgasm held in abeyance, Julia kissed him, tasting her own sweet juice. She raised and parted her legs and said, "Like this darling." Patrick moved the head of his penis to her vaginal slit and slowly penetrated her. It was strange, but Patrick was so like his father that up until then Julia had the illusion that somehow it was Aiden she was with, but the moment Patrick entered her it was him and him alone. As she felt him penetrate ever more deeply into her she cried out, "Oh my darling...my baby...my lovely boy." She strove to give full expression of her love and need for him by gripping his length with her vaginal muscle; this drew a long drawn out groan from Patrick who began to move in her. They clung together and between cries of ecstasy Julia kissed him hungrily. "It's been so long...so long," she sobbed. Patrick moved very slowly in her, both of them struggling hold back their orgasms to extend the journey but finally Julia had to surrender. "I'm coming darling...I'm coming, I can't hold it back...faster darling...faster...deeper...oh...oh...oh darling...ah...oh...oh my God...come...come...aaahoooh..." With a loud groan Patrick released his sperm into her and they writhed together frantically for several seconds as he filled her tunnel with his cum. As he finished Julia cried out, "Don't stop darling...don't stop yet..." and he continued to move in her until her cries ceased and they hugged each other breathing heavily. Julia's hands were fluttering over Patrick's body as she said breathlessly, "You can't leave me now...I won't let you...you're mine and I won't let you go...I..." Patrick whose hands were once more caressing her breasts interrupted her flow by kissing her and then saying, "Stop it mother, I've no intention of leaving you." His words calmed Julia, and she leaned her head on his should and after a few moments said, "I'm sorry darling; I think I was a bit delirious it's been such a long since time and it was so wonderful." They remained holding each other for some time until Julia said, "Would you take me to the shower and wash me darling." Then she laughed softly and said, "After all, I used to wash you once." Patrick took her in his arms and carried her to the shower and they washed each other, Patrick carefully removing his sperm from Julia's vagina. As Julia concentrated on washing Patrick's penis it started to harden again and so she said, "Here or in bed, darling?" For a few moments Patrick wrestled with the desire for instant gratification but finally said, "In bed mother," then grinning said, "After you've blow dried your hair." * * * * * * * * The blow drying was carried out in the bedroom, and her hair, once more to its normal state of curling dark waves, Patrick sat her on the edge of the bed and kneeling before her, parted her legs, and saying, "We'll finish what I first started," he began licking her cleft. Julia felt waves of love coursing through her and she began to stroke Patrick's hair and murmuring, "I love you so much...so much...oh darling...darling...oh...oh...don't stop...ah...on my baby...my lovely boy...oh...aaah...ohwaaa...I'm co...oh my God..." She clutched his head to her and began to frantically jerk her clitoris against his mouth. Patrick wrapped his arms round her thighs and held her to him tightly as her orgasm shook her with violent spasms and the love fluid poured out of her. When it as over and she grew calmed Patrick rose, the lower part of his face soaked with her juice. Julia moved to the middle of bed and said, "Come here darling." Patrick lay beside her and Julia took control, kissing her way down his body until her mouth, poised over the head of his penis, she took hold of it and began to lick its head, sucking in the little droplets of his precum. Patrick, driven almost frantic by her actions, was unable to hold back his ejaculation and he cried out, warning her, "I'm coming mother...I'm coming..." Julia continued her sucking taking in more of his length, and his cum spurted into her mouth. Despite his previous ejaculation into her he discharged a copious amount of sperm and Julia struggled unsuccessfully to swallow it all. When he had finished she kissed him fiercely, thrusting some of the un-swallowed sperm into her mouth as they exchanged each others taste and smell. Julia rolled away from him onto her back and laughing said, "That seals the bond my love, there's no escape for you now." Patrick echoed her laugh and leaning over her said, "Who said anything about escape, you're my beautiful woman from now on." "Oh my darling," Julia said mischievously, "those sound like words of commitment and you might have to live up to them." "What do you mean?" Patrick asked, feeling a trifle mystified. "Do you take this woman as your unlawful wedded wife?" Julian quipped. "Only if she'll take me as her unlawful wedded husband," Patrick laughed. "Its deal then," Julia said, "so let's seal it." As Patrick kissed her and fondled her breasts she spread her legs, ready to receive him. * * * * * * * * Julia, at last free from her long sexual abstinence, became for a time insatiable. Fortunately Patrick, as well as inheriting his father's looks and physique, also seemed to inherit his potency. Combining the love of mother and son with that of sexual partners proved a powerful bond, and thus these two people now brought together in what they called their "Unlawful marriage," found deep satisfaction with each other. Julia, often accompanied by Patrick, still visited Aiden, but he had lost the power of speech and was finally locked in his inner world, if such existed. That world no one was able to penetrate. As Julia had prophesied, there came a time when Patrick had to live up to his words of commitment since her had impregnated her. This was hardly surprising since they had used no means of contraception. As Julia had once commented, "I like it unmasked." Given the law regarding incestuous relationships, and the wild claims of the media about "Rampant sexual deviation," they never revealed the true nature of their relationship. Patrick was the odd bachelor son who lived with his "slut" mother who had given birth to a child outside wedlock. The term "slut" was used even more vehemently when Julia gave birth to a second child. People at the church made comments like, "It's disgusting, why doesn't she get married if she has to have sex?" Such words barely touched Julia and Patrick since the coming of children made their bond even firmer, although some might suspect that Julia deliberately got pregnant in order to retain her hold on Patrick. If that is so, then she needn't have bothered because Patrick, as he had said, had no intention of leaving Julia. As one Hollywood married actor has said, "What was the point of having barbequed sausages when I could have real steak at home." Admittedly an unusual attitude for a Hollywood actor, but true if we care to take a look at what is readily available to us. Aiden still lives; Julia and Patrick are still lovers, and their children are growing up into manhood and womanhood. "And they all lived happily ever after," or they have done so far. Light in the Darkness He circled behind her, reaching for the scourge that was secreted in the rafters. It was made from reeds in the creek that crossed his path from the monastery, created lovingly in the dark of night when the Abbot was denied the gift of slumber. It rustled drily as he swished it through the air. "Are you ready for your penance?" he asked with a quavering voice. "Yes," she replied meekly. Her shoulders recoiled as her penance began. The landscape of her body was still in dark twilight as the light pink flecks of dawn began to touch her shoulders. It grew brighter and brighter, traveling down her back and over the sweet mounds halfway down her body. Down and down the red dawn broke, reaching over the heights to filter down to the depths. She uttered little cries of pain and pleasure as the dawn spread over her, rising up slightly to meet the source. The Abbot finished and regarded his work. Long practice has taught him the exact amount of penance the Mother Superior could handle, as the red morning brightened the dark olive landscape. He took a long breath and released it, before moving around in front of her. She looked at him lost in a trance. "Reverend Abbot, surely you are not done. My sin is great, and deserves chastisement as the great Saint has commanded." Olive skin quivered as it waited. Swelling curves reached back to welcome their sweet recrimination, their sweep ripening an apple red that flowed downward over her thighs and calves to the floor. Smiling, the Abbot regarded the color that once adorned his head, spread so delicately yet uniformly from ankles to neck. He shook a little bit as he thought to what was next, the ritual of fifteen years in this place between Abbot and Abbess. "Are you ready for the next step?" "Yes, Father." "You must be honest with me. You must not hold back." "I will not hold back. I will hold back nothing." The Abbot came around to the Abbess' front. She pulled her long dark hair from its resting place down her chest, running beside her right breast, behind her. Her eyes leaked delicately, running thin, fine trails down her face and off her chin, but she made no effort to brush them away. He trembled with the scourge in his hand, his lip quivering. It was as though he wanted to hold back, to leave this place and run back to his abbey, but he was bound. "Tell me where the Flann Mahon has been." "The Red Bear embraced my body, drew me naked against his hairy desire. He pawed my breasts and drank their milk. His nails scratched my mons, provoked me to the mountains of lust, brought me close to the lip of the cliff. Then his member drove deep into my garden house, watering my garden with his fruitful seed, and I bore his cubs, male and female." "The Flann Mahon pawed your right breast?" "Yes, Father." It accepted dawn's red kisses, brightening the olive sky gently, stopping short of sunrise. "The Flann Mahon pawed your left breast?" "Yes, Father." It accepted the dawn's red kissed, its brown peak turning hard and thick, oozing opaque dew. "The Flann Mahon pawed your sex?" "Yes, Father. He reached inside me and enslaved me to his will." The reverse horizon widened as it caught the rays as they fell sharply. The pale sun peeked shyly from its home, growing brighter and wetter as it lifted up, the fire of passion reaching out to burn his eyes as it captured him. The dawning light ran down toward her knees and shins. She looked at him as her body tingled with its chastisement. His blue eyes were frightened again, as they always were, struggling against his will. These eyes had seen horrors: men butchered like calves, shrieking in despair, vainly clawing to hold their dissected bodies together as their lives flowed away from them. These eyes has seen his reflection after battles against Vikings, his face streaked with blood and feces. Sometimes that vision looked out his mirror. Her dark eyes held his in an iron grasp. He struggled to free himself, she held him tightly, binding him to her desire and his. They stood as statues: she naked and marked before him, he struggling to move his feet before his hands moved to pull his habit over his head to release his aching manhood. Back and forth the current wavered, until she threw herself across the room, bearing him onto the coarse pallet Niccólo and his wife shared: the bed the Abbot and Abbess hollowed with their lust every week for fifteen years. With a single lunge, her dark, slick valley, made ready by her chastisement, engulfed his aching member, riding it frantically. After a few strokes, he growled and surrendered to the Flann Mahon within him. Flipping her over, he bore down on her, driving hard into her soft flesh as he had pushed into the Northron King's bodyguard, letting nothing stand in his way. She bucked hard against him, clawing hard red trails on his back, his penance for a life as a warrior, for his departure from his vow. They screamed and moaned in their mating dance that ebbed and flowed for another hour by the sun. The Flann Mahon growled as his seed poured into Lucia. They held each other tightly, and the struggle ended. They held each other gently, their calm natures restored. Abbot Agostino and Abbess Lucia lay naked on the broad Priest's pallet he shared with his woman and her sister, holding one another, gazing wistfully into each other's eyes. "I shouldn't be here," he said at last. "I shouldn't be here, either." A breeze rustled the delicate tree limbs outside the hut. "I have to keep coming back," she murmured. "I can't stay away," he admitted. "I have to be with you, whenever I can, as much as I can." "We've got to stop. You're over forty. You'll get pregnant again, and you'll be too old; another baby could kill you. I won't lose someone I love like this." "I gave birth to Mirabella last year without any problems. My mother had ten children and she lives; we have seven children together and I am not diminished. But if your spirit is heavy, my Flann Mahon, we shall find other ways to share our love." He nodded gravely. "I will accept the death of my little ones as my seed fails to find your little house." She sat up and gave him a disdaining look. "I don't care what the ancients say, I give my children something unique. Your daughters look like me in every way, the sages must be wrong to say the male has all that is needed for new life. There is no homonculous, man and woman must contribute half. It does not matter if your seed inundates my entire body; we have done no wrong." A bird sang in the tress outside; he knew Niccólo would be returning soon. She toyed with his grey chest hair. Her lips found his, then traveled down his body to Ouroboros' lair, where they surrounded its tail, pulling it from its introversion, licking and sucking its hybrid sweetness. As she pleased him, she reflected that he needed her like no other, for like the ancient serpent he would be lost in the pain of his past, the meditations in the Scriptorium, and the fear of the future if she did not intervene, swallowing his tail before he could. Her senses overtook her as she reveled in the feel of the hot, slick flesh in her mouth until it spewed its salty seed on her waiting tongue. He sighed as he ejaculated, twitching as she pulled every last drop from him. Then he caressed her life giving mounds. His questing mouth found a fountain of life, where he sucked and pulled its rich goodness to slake his thirst, gently nipping its supple moistness. Moving to the other side to repeat the process, her free hand came up where it clawed and twisted. His hand wandered into the dragoness' lair, beguiling its shyness until it was seduced, emerging at his commanding touch, to shake and shiver until the warm olive paradise shook with universal bliss once again. They passed some more time together, barely getting dressed before the Priest's family returned. It was almost dark when they were able to leave; the Abbot escorted the sisters on their long, silent journey back to their monastery, taking his place in their guest house overnight as he had on his twice yearly Visitation. He awoke in the bright early morning light, but instead of slipping out the door and back home right away, he stopped in the nursery where Sister Agnes greeted him by kissing his hand. The children solemnly followed suit, before the little ones wandered to play and the older ones sat at his feet for stories. A smile came to his lips and the fog cleared from his eyes as the eager faces waiting for him to begin, and he teased them for several minutes, watching them closely. He told them of Naohm Padraig, Corngall, Kelvin, Columban, and Dungal his mentor, who healed him after a seeming death blow from a fracas in Connaught and opened a world of learning, wisdom and peace to him. Monica, an eight year old replica of Mother Lucia, came close to touch his old scar as he showed it to the children, her eyes heavy with tears hearing of his ancient pain. There were about fifteen other children in the nursery, outcasts of nobility: three resembled Monica and a young boy around six had red hair and blue eyes. A dark-haired three year old sat at his feet, clinging to his calf, and a year old girl with olive skin tottered gleefully around the margin of the space on fragile brown legs, reveling in her freedom of motion. Abbot Agostino spent over an hour there, dispensing his gruff affection to all the abandoned children, before taking his leave and trudging back the long ten miles to his Abbey and his Scriptorium. Mother Lucia watched him go from her window as she worked on her sewing, still glowing from the previous day's encounter. Friday was a special day of hollowness for her, as her Red Bear left for another week, and she tried to lose herself in her work to salve his absence. In a month, the Abbot would have to start a long journey south, to visit Papa Sergio in Roma, and the mother abbey of Monte Cassino. Mother Lucia breathed a prayer for his safety, and lamented in advance how she would feel. Shaking herself, she remembered there would be another Thursday meeting soon, and she need not mourn his absence yet. The warmth he gave her returned, and she smiled as she worked. As he walked, he remembered a frequent conversation they had together, repeated the day before: "Why can't we live together with our children?" she would say. "Why do we have to stay where we are, apart? Why do I have to send my sons to you when they turn six, and not know how they are? Why can you not embrace your daughters and welcome their love for you? Niccólo and his woman are happy; why can't we be like them and find a nice chapel to live together?" He would pause before replying: "This is no time to live outside the walls." She would give him a disbelieving look that softened eventually. He gathered her close to him, their bare flesh in maximum contact for a few moments. She felt his shaking as held her protectively, and nestled into his care. "I've seen too much, Dulce, and I will not expose you to danger. I was a soldier where Naomh Padraig walked the earth, throwing myself into battle after battle until I became a great hero, cheered by my fellow warriors. Rivers of blood of the Norsemen and my clan's foes I walked through while my name was Flann Mahon. I set their villages and crops aflame and their gold and their livestock became my new possessions. Then I was struck down, and through the prayers of Naomh Dungal, I was miraculously healed. He opened me to a better way than the sword: I learned the love of learning, of studying sacred scriptures, of studying ancient wisdom, of a combat without sword in the name of the Prince of Peace. I followed Naomh Dungal down through the Saxon and Frankish lands, seeing the Emperor's court at Aachen on the way, until I came here, to the bones of Columban, Attala, Bertulf. All the Abbots of Ebovium were better than I, but here I stay and do the best I can for them, holy men who have never known the horror of war. "If we lived here together, it would be a paradise, but any day an army could ride over the horizon, burn our crops and our vineyards, take our sons for soldiers and rape our daughters. I have seen it happen too often, and to my shame I took part in it myself once. Their screams still haunt me in the darkest part of the night. No, we cannot live together. In God's houses we are safe for now, and in God's protection we must remain. Only there can we hope to hold up a new Light for the world." A strong lad of ten with red hair and blue eyes but Abbess' full lips met him at the door. Perhaps Dulce is right, he thought to himself, as the lad guided him silently to the cloister, where a wayward young novice needed reprimanding for quarreling with his monastic brothers. The Abbot dealt with the matter gracefully, and went to the Scriptorium to continue his work copying the New Testament. As he settled on his chair, he sighed and relaxed, at his favorite place once again. The day was bright and warm, so the work of dipping the quill and tracing elegant letters on parchment was a joy for Abbot Agostino, a comfortable routine of a lifetime. As he worked, visions of Mother Lucia's supple olive skin returned to his wandering mind, disturbing his concentration as he worked out of habit with his mind disengaged. "Dulce," he whispered, "Dulce." His left hand caressed her dark breast once again, teasing the nipple, weighing its heavy fullness. A novice dropped a codex heavily on the floor, snapping the Abbot's attention back to the present. "Christ, preserve me," he whispered to himself, "I cannot get her out of my mind." He looked at the passage he was working on, from Paul's second letter to the Corinthians, to see if he had made any mistakes. The text leapt out at him: et ne magnitudo revelationum extollat me datus est mihi stimulus carnis meae angelus Satanae ut me colaphizet propter quod ter Dominum rogavi ut discederet a me et dixit mihi sufficit tibi gratia mea nam virtus in infirmitate perficitur libenter igitur gloriabor in infirmitatibus meis ut inhabitet in me virtus Christi propter quod placeo mihi in infirmitatibus in contumeliis in necessitatibus in persecutionibus in angustiis pro Christo cum enim infirmor tunc potens sum A thorn in the flesh, he thought. Even Paul had something to struggle with, asking God to take it away three times. What was that thorn? Did he have his Dulce to haunt his nights and stir his loins? Power and grace through weakness. Abbot Agostino thought he was over his warrior's pride, yet he still thought it was by overpowering his weaknesses that he would grow stronger, even though he left the battlefield long ago. This had not changed over the years in the Monastery, wrestling with his pride and his lust in many long hours of prayer. His life of fasting and discipline, his striving to control his wayward body, were just another strategy of conquest by force, force of will rather than arms. Was Paul saying it was all right not to be perfect? That our every part of our lives could be a path to salvation, even those out of our control? He put his quill down as the ink dried on the page. The blue sky was hinting at the purple of end of the day; the clouds had left and the mountains stood in sharp relief in the distance. A dove landed on the windowsill, gave him a quizzical look for several moments before flitting away. A rustling of chairs against stone tried to penetrate his consciousness as the other monks in the Scriptorium put aside their work in preparation for the cloister fellowship before Vespers. His stomach growled futilely: the Abbot was fasting that day, and would fast again twice before his next trip to Niccólo the Priest's house. Adoedatus came over and stood by him silently. He was the brightest of his class, a promising scholar who would soon go to Monte Cassino to study at the great library there after mastering the one of Ebovium. The twelve year old lad was already showing signs of a beard under his cropped red locks, and as the Abbot turned to look at him, he saw a distant reflection absent from his mirror these forty plus years. The boy's face questioned him silently, for speech was forbidden here except at dire need. The older man's smile dawned slowly as he regarded his son. Agostino reached up to grasp the back of the boy's head to draw him close in an sidelong embrace. The lad was stiff at first, but relaxed a little as the older man held him close. "I've been blessed in my weakness, my son, my thorn in the flesh has brought me more hope than I could ever dream," he whispered into the lad's shoulder. The sky was growing dim, but in that place was light and hope. Agostino led his son to the cloister, arm over the young man's shoulder, where he conversed with his monks. While seated at his throne during Vespers, a heaviness left him gradually as he prayed, his old wounds ceased throbbing. When it came time to sing the Magnificat, he silently gave thanks for the gift of Lucia, and made his peace with the Flann Mahon. A Glossary of embedded trivia: Ebovium: ancient name for the area of Bobbio Abbey, founded by St. Columban in the 7th century, and fabled for its library. Abbot: head of an abbey (monastery) Agostino: Augustine Niccólo: Nicholas. Priests of that time could be married and had families, although marriages were not official sacraments at this time, except in case of nobility Scriptorium: copying room in a monastery, where manuscripts were produced Mother: head of a convent or monastery of women, aka Abbess Lucia: light Agnes: chaste, pure one, lamb (via Latin pun on Agnus: lamb) Lombards: a north Germanic tribe that gradually moved southward during the Roman Empire days and settling in Northern Italy in the 6th century. Originally allies of the Byzantines, they fought with the Popes until subjugated by Charlemange and incorporated into the Holy Roman Empire. Flann: Celtic for "bright red" Mahon: Celtic for "Bear" Boetio: Boethius, named after the famous 6th century Roman philosopher Lothair I: Grandson of Charlemange, Holy Roman Emperor 840-855. Sergius II: Pope 844-847 Saracens: Muslim invaders of Italy in the 9th century, expelled in the early 10th. San Pietro: St. Peter's, Rome Papa: Pope Gaeta: coastal city in southern Italy, north of Naples, besieged by the Saracens in the late 850s Laigin: ancient name of Leinster, South Eastern Ireland Naohm Padraig: St. Patrick of Ireland Monica: mother of Augustine Columban: Irish saint, who made a monastic rule of his own; both were observed at Bobbio Vikings: the Norse invaders struck Ireland as well as England, pillaging monasteries and eventually setting up trading towns such as Dublin Attala, Bertulf, Dungal: Irish missionary saints associated with Bobbio Adeodatus: gift of God, after Augustine of Hippo's son Monte Cassino: primary monastery of the Benedictines, founded by St. Benedict himself in the late 5th century, located in central Italy Dulce: sweet "et ne magnitudo revelationum. . .": the Vulgate passage is 2 Corinthians 12:7-10, where Paul discusses his "thorn in the flesh" Please consult your favorite NT for translation, since they're all copyrighted.