..::St.Agnes's name is derived from AGNUS, the Latin word for lamb, and it also evokes the Greek AGNOS, meaning 'pure.' Her feast day is best known for the charming custom in which two lambs raised by the Trappist monastery of Tre Fontane outside of Rome are taken to the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth in Rome, where they are decorated with roses and a mantle. They then go to the basilica Sant'Agnese fuori le mura, where they are blessed on the altar by the abbot.
From there they are taken to the Vatican, where the pope himself receives and blesses them. The lambs are later shorn on Tuesday of Holy Week, and their wool used by the nuns of the Benedictine convent of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome, to make palliums for newly installed metropolitan archbishops and patriarchs::..
Michael P. Foley
Drinking With the Saints
.........
...At first they rode only slowly, for Frodo had been ill at ease. When they came to the Ford of Bruinen, he had halted, and seemed loth to ride into the stream; and they noted that for a while his eyes appeared not to see them or things about him. All that day he was silent. It was the sixth of October.
'Are you in pain, Frodo?' said Gandalf quietly as he rode by Frodo's side.
'Well yes I am,' said Frodo. 'It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. It was a year ago today.'
'Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,' said Gandalf.
'I fear it may be so with mine,' said Frodo.
'There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?'
Gandalf did not answer.
J.R.R. Tolkien
The Return of the King
...............
At last, after Vespers, Daryl sought out Wolf Star and Llew before they slipped away with the Sisters.
'Wolf Star, I have been wishing to speak with you,' Daryl began, hoping to get back in the enigmatic man's good graces. Hoping that he could hide the attraction for the man's sister...
Wolf Star stood still, facing Daryl. They were both of the same height, and yet Wolf Star seemed to be looking down upon him. 'Speak,' he told him.
Thus pinned by a word, Daryl now felt flummoxed.
'I am glad to see you here. It was an odd thing...coming upon this place by accident in a storm, after fleeing a bear. I'd tried to take a short cut in the woods and became lost. The good Brothers have been kind enough to allow me to rest here and heal a while.'
Wolf Star's stare seemed to pierce Daryl to his very soul. What he'd just told the man had been the complete truth, and yet his story sounded weak even to his own ears. When Wolf Star simply kept staring, saying nothing, Daryl continued, 'Brother Sebastian has been a great help to me. He told me you had grown up here at the monastery.'
Finally, the man spoke. 'Yes. With my sister. Now, Sister Cecilia.' He resumed his hard stare. Granite.
'Are you Dary-el?' Llew popped up on the scene. 'I am Emlyn's son, Llew Llaw Gyffes.' He bowed with appropriate aplomb. 'I wish to thank you for your consent to allow my presence at your house a while. I shall endeavor to live there as lightly as possible.'
Daryl laughed softly. A handsome lad. Red hair, like Em's. He liked the ears, though surely that had been his father's doing.
'Daryl Van Horn; and it is my pleasure. Stay as long as you need. I have no doubt you will be respectful of the property. You are free to move about as you will; however, do not breach the locks into the lab. That is off-limits.' Daryl now gave Llew a hard wolf-worthy stare himself.
'Indeed, sire, I shall not roam where I must not. I have taken up residence in the library loft for the nonce.' Llew looked altogether trustworthy.
Those ears though, looked like fey mischief to Daryl, and knowing young lads, he was sure he kept his back pockets full.
The Sisters began to take their leave then, and as Sister Cecilia approached...to Daryl, in her long habit, she seemed to float.
'A friend of yours, brother?' She inquired, all innocence.
Wolf Star was tempted to deny this, but sighed. 'Daryl here is staying with the Brothers, healing from an altercation with a bear, I hear.' His eyebrows raised, as if in doubt.
'Not quite,' Daryl reddened. 'I managed to flee before it came to that. But I fear I also managed to do myself some damage in the escape.' He bowed his head, humbly, he hoped: 'Daryl Van Horn, Sister. I met your brother earlier, but I had no idea of your connection to the monasteries here. A happy coincidence, it seems.'
'Indeed.' Sister Cecilia nodded. She regarded Wolf Star. 'Are we ready, brother? We should be getting back to St.Agnes's. Time to "feed the sheep", as le bon Dieu has instructed.'
'Only they have actual sheep to feed!' Llew grinned, earning an indulgent smile from Our Lady of the Tattoos.
'I very much enjoyed hearing your chorus,' Daryl attempted, not wanting to let her go yet. '"Dancing Day" is one of my favorite hymns.' He couldn't help the melting gaze he bestowed upon this intriguing woman.
'It is time to leave now.' Wolf Star hustled Llew and Cecilia out before him.' As he was following, he turned around to face Daryl.
'Your sehnsucht is showing!' He hissed. Nodded. And left.
'A warning must be given.' Emlyn was now adamant.
Athena sighed long. 'Well...Wolf Star, and Llew, should return soon. In a day or two, at most.' She seemed restless, moving about the parlor, straightening pictures, reshelving books back into bookcases. 'My poor horse...he misses his home when we are far apart.'
'And I need to return to Arcadia.' Shannon stood. 'Alain and I are meeting over the weekend to discuss plans.' She sighed as well. '...Whatever they are. But I wish you were closer, now.' Her gaze implored Em.
'I'll be home, soon. But, I must wait for Llew.' Em frowned. 'I hate thinking about what may happen... Those poor monks won't know what hit them!' Emlyn knew a bit of what St.John had been capable of, drugging and kidnapping Daryl. She'd doubted it not.
He'd had an oily, scheming sort of aura about him.
'When he returns,' Athena finally sat, 'Wolf Star and I can timewalk back to the monastery. He does it on his own, or rather, it overtakes him. But I can guide our travels.'
'Good. Do whatever needs doing to make that place a fortress!' Emlyn paused. 'I've half a mind to go myself...' She pondered the notion. If only Daryl were still here! Surely between his time-phasing science and his magical conjurings, he could whip up some sort of dome of protection over the monastery...
But, Daryl was off and away, she knew not where. No one knew. Possibly, not even him.
............
With everyone dispersed after Vespers, Daryl felt he had some catching up to do. Sehnsucht, indeed...that stung. But, the truth of it could not be denied. Daryl was only sorry that he'd been so easily caught out.
Otherwise, he seemed to be healing well enough, scratches and nicks were nearly gone, and needed but a bit more time and care for ankle to mend. He had been sleeping long, and healing slowly. Meanwhile, there were things that needed taking care of.
Limping slowly back to the infirmary, Daryl was pleased to find Brother Sebastian in the lab, putting pestle to mortar grinding herbs. He continued thus, not looking up. 'Daryl. So, are you becoming familiar with our routine here yet?'
'You recognised my walk by my lame foot?' Daryl guessed. Sebastian glanced over his shoulder with a small smile. Then resumed his grind.
'I wanted to ask, had anything of mine survived the storm?'
'Besides yourself?' Sebastian straightened. 'Actually, I just found these, newly mended, you'll find...'
He went into the infirmary's cot room, and on Daryl's bed lay his coat, not too much worse for wear, and the duffel bag, cleaned of a great deal of mud, as Daryl remembered it.
He held up the coat. 'Good as new!' Not quite, but Daryl was pleased with the fine stitching with which it had been repaired. He then reached into the duffel and withdrew an oilskin-wrapped object, twice wrapped. Expecting the worst, Daryl carefully unwound the ties and found his violin case within. He closed his eyes and said a wee prayer, hoping it works, considering where he was. He opened the case to find...violin intact. Indeed, it seemed much better off than he himself. He sighed deeply.
'Praise le bon Dieu, my baby is saved...' Daryl muttered. Brother Sebastian was standing by, curious no doubt, and smiling to see Daryl so relieved.
He rummaged about the duffle, extracting another smaller oilskin wrapped packet which he opened to reveal American currency in several denominations, (and in keeping with the current decades). He counted out a couple of hundred and turned, pressing them into the hands of Brother Sebastian. 'A donation, ' he told him, 'In gracious thanks. I've no doubt that you and your brothers here, had saved my life that terrible night of the storm.'
'My, my son, you don't...it is our pleasure and our duty, to minister to those in need!' Brother Sebastian was altogether undone by such a grand gift. 'I cannot deny that we can certainly use such...' He lifted moist eyes to Daryl's. 'Praise all saints and angels!
With this, a new barn roof is ours! And more!' Shoving the unexpected largesse inside his habit, Sebastian clasped Daryl to him and hugged fiercely. 'Ah, pardon! I should remain gentle with an invalid!'
'I believe I shall live, Brother Sebastian. In large part, thanks to your good self.' Daryl was pleased to have been able to give back to the brothers, in return for their generous care.
'Forgive me, but I must run and give this over to Father Michael! He has had such worries of late, with all this in his care...' Sebastian seemed to glow then, so happy was he. He grasped Daryl's hands and held them to his chest, then turned and quick-footed it down the hall.
Daryl sat upon the bed, smiling to himself as he went through the remainder of what was left to him in the storm's wake. He looked through his cash and although he had plenty now, he knew that without the ability to timewalk, and gather 'antiques' (plunder and scavenge like the pirate he was), or had been? -- that his antiques business would soon go bust.
Liquidation. Was that his only option now? To sell all that he had?
Perhaps he should sell Nob Hill House. That would set him up for a while. If only he could hang on to it...but would it survive the quake and fire? Time lines change over time, he'd found. And he'd given up the Mausoleum. Besides, what would Manuel and Rosa do? Best hang on to his place, back in the City, he decided. For now.
He looked about him, listening to the small sounds about the old stone building, outside the window, birdsong and voices of monks as they brought in their oxen to the barn. A new barn roof, thanks to Daryl's plundering...well, it was put to good use here at least.
Perhaps he could stay here...on a semi-permanent retreat? He shook his head, no that won't fly. He couldn't muster the needed dedication, devotion. He had not had 'A Calling'. That, could not be faked. He was an outsider and would remain so.
He was suddenly aware of someone else in the room. He looked up to find Father Michael standing there, watching him.
'Have you a moment, my son?'
...........
'Why must we leave so soon?' Llew groused as he packed up some small things he'd gathered as souvenirs here: some printed cards of the more colorful and eccentric Catholic saints, which he adored, especially St.Martha who had defeated the dragon, Tarasconus, in what is now Tarascon, France. A particularly prickly and gruesome creature, in the card's vivid depiction.
'She had actually leashed it with her girdle!' Llew whispered, reverently, as he sorted through his collection.
He also perversely enjoyed St.Uncumber who had grown a long beard to dissuade suitors. But his favorite, of course, was the lovely St.Cecilia, patroness of music, beloved by many. Llew sighed. Too many. Perhaps she, also, could've used a beard.
'Athena needs her horse returned to her.' Wolf Star had watched the lads growing fascination with all things Catholic here, wondering at the boys mounting obsession. Odd, he thought, that what would be deemed a blessing to many would be thought an abomination to his blood family in the Otherworld.
And yet, like himself, thought Wolf Star, the boy was both of this world and the other; a mother here, and his father, there. He sighed. As to fathers, who knew? His remained a mystery. Something rarely found on this world. Ah, que sera sera. What will be, will be.
'We ride at first light.'
..............
'Greetings, Father.' Daryl attempted a small bow. 'Do, take a seat.' He motioned to the chair at bedside.
Noting Daryl's bandaged ankle, the good father took the seat offered. 'Please.' he motioned to the bed, and Daryl sat.
'Brother Sebastian had come to me bearing a most generous gift.' He paused, eyes searching Daryl's. Father Michael had learned that, by remaining silent, most outsiders would then be tempted to speak for themselves.
'Please,' Daryl slowly shook his head, lowering it, 'it is the least I could do, after the good brothers took me in the night of the storm. I was in bad shape. And, left outside on such a night, I may not have survived on my own.' Daryl realised that now. Too long he had been away from the north east.
'You are unused to the vagarities of weather here.' A statement from Father Michael. Not a guess.
'Oh yes,' Daryl smiled ruefully. 'It has been...decades since I last lived in this area. I've a house on the California coast. Although I grew up in upstate New York.' Daryl realised the good pere had an easy way of unearthing a man's secrets. Which he did now. Just by sitting. Silently.
He now seemed to be asking Daryl, silently, to give an account of himself.
'I have made a decent living dealing in antiques out west.' Obliged Daryl. '-- The gold rush, though over now, even silver -- has been profitable in many ways. Fortunes were made. And spent.'
Father Michael spoke at last. 'Antiques? C'est vrai?'
He appeared to be pondering all that. 'So, you must have a background in history.'
'C'est vraiment,' Daryl returned the volley, en Francais. 'History is rather a time-consuming fascination for me. Always has been.'
'How is the ankle?' Father Michael bent, studying Daryl's leg. Changing the subject.
'Ah. Healing.' Daryl lifted it, and gingerly turned it about, only wincing slightly. 'The bruising is nearly gone. I think it will be fine, soon.'
'Bon.' The good father seemed decided. 'Brother Sebastian agrees. But, take as long as is required here. To mend.' Father Michael, although his fringe of hair was snowy atop, boasted a pair of dark heavy brows below which now narrowed in careful study of Daryl.
'We can show you a much easier way out though the bois. The brothers take a wagon to town weekly to sell honey and mead in the marketplace, a few vegetables. I'm sure they would not mind having your company. Whenever you are ready. They leave on Saturdays.' He stood.
'We thank you, for your most generous gift, my son. Le bon Dieu blesses you for it, you may be sure.'
And with that, Father Michael made his retreat.
Daryl stared after him. Knowing that he had just been put in his place. Which was, obviously, anywhere but here.
Napoleon banished to the Isle of St.Helena could not have felt more defeated.
It was a bright autumn day, the sky turning a darker blue, no longer the white hot days of summer, and a fine contrast to the maple and sycamore leaves dressed brightly for a last dance before winter.
Daryl limped dejectedly about the monastery grounds, head down, violin case in hand. He hadn't noticed the fall finery about him, but was caught up in his own thoughts, unseeing.
Where to now? Was all he could wonder. He felt hemmed in, forced to wander, and where? Why now? When he was becoming more and more subject to the painful limits of his mortality and aging...
He'd believed he'd found a sanctuary here, with the bon hommes. He had even been able to shake whatever drugs had coursed through him simply by sleeping for hours on end...it was little short of a miracle, really. He wanted to believe Brother Sebastian's teas worked a kind of magic in healing: body, mind and spirit.
He looked about him now, wondering where he'd wandered...and spied a wee rose garden bravely bearing what last roses of summer there were after the storm.
He limped over to the garden and saw that the roses encircled a small statue of Mary. Maryam, daughter of Anne and Joachim. He'd always liked the statues of St. Anne, always with a book or scroll, teaching the young Maryam.
There were benches about the deserted garden, the time of day when the brothers were all hard at work, at the harvest in the fields, in the kitchens and brewery, in the library. And, busy with the bees, naturellement.
To retire and keep bees, like Sherlock Holmes, appealed to Daryl then. It seemed a peaceful retirement.
-- One not at all like his own.
Daryl sat, sighing, on a bench. He opened the violin case and drew the faithful old instrument forth and began tuning...as his mind recalled his earlier conversation with Brother Sebastian, after Father Michael had given him his marching orders.
'And so, I must be leaving soon, it seems.' Daryl had tried not to sound too whining. He'd regarded Sebastian as a friend, in the short time they'd known one another.
'I want you to know, that I have enjoyed being here,' he glanced about the lab, 'in your company and that of the other brothers, very much.' He looked down then, afraid of being overcome. 'In spite of myself, I've even come to enjoy keeping the Hours here, and joining in with the service.'
Brother Sebastian looked troubled. He hadn't expected Father Michael's less-than-thrilled reaction to Daryl's gift. He knew the good father had much on his plate, but he'd thought that this gift would help lift the burden, not add to it.
'Good brother Daryl,' Sebastian began, 'please don't be troubled. I could tell that your healing was not just in body alone, but that your mind and heart, your soul and spirit, also felt in need of mending. So, let not your heart be heavy!' He put a hand upon Daryl's arm, still wearing the dark robe of the monk's.
'Thank you, Brother.' Daryl looked at the gentle monk, wondering what his story was, how he had come to this place...truly a place of healing.
'Have you thought of where you will go from here? To continue your journey, I suppose?' Sebastian motioned Daryl to take a seat.
'I, really hadn't thought that far,' Daryl answered truthfully. 'Things...have changed; perhaps it is I who have changed, since being here.'
He regarded Sebastian's peaceful countenance. 'I was wondering, is there...are there, perhaps, any brother monasteries somewhat connected with yours, that might offer retreats, for lay folk? Such as myself?' -- sinner though I be, Daryl didn't add.
Sebastian smiled. 'Brother Daryl, of course! You need not feel abandoned!' He put a hand to Daryl's shoulder, patted it. 'As I said, there are certain pressures here that Father Michael is concerned with at present. Other places will not be so under pressure...
'If you would like some place with the same way of doing things as we have here, somewhere in the countryside, as you seem to need, a place to retreat and to heal within...yes, we do have brother monasteries that will allow retreats. Most are in Canada, however.'
Daryl had not expected that. But, he should have, it seemed fully half the brothers here were French. But, if it truly was sequestered somewhere far from the madding crowd...perhaps.
'Shall I ask around for you?' Brother Sebastian offered. 'I'll put word out that you are seeking some where peaceful and away from the cities, oui?'
Daryl smiled then. 'Oui.'
That had been this morning. So, Daryl was to throw in his lot with some strange monks somewhere in the Canadian wilderness. Soon. The very thought both thrilled and terrified him.
And made him sad with longing for Sister Cecilia, with whom he would never sing Dancing Day again...
'"Oh, my love, my love..."' Daryl sang softly as he picked up his bow.
He noodled about a bit, trying to get back into the comfort zone of knowing his instrument. He noticed then, near the statue of Mary, a lone pink rose, bravely blooming still.
For some odd reason, this brought to mind the old Rogers and Hammerstein tune of "Edelweiss"; though he wouldn't find that bloom in this New World garden. It was a song of loss and longing, however.
'"Bless my homeland forever..."' Daryl sang, wondering where in the world his 'homeland' was? He felt hounded on all sides, even here in this 'retreat', he couldn't find peace.
He regarded the statue of Maryam. Beautiful, she was, and yet she seemed so...far away, 'virgin' and untouchable.
Daryl felt adrift in a religion so heavily laden with males, patriarchs, priests... They allowed a Virgin, but this God of Abraham had no consort, the Shekinah, the Matronit, lost and wandering since the Temple's destruction. Daryl supposed that was why Yahweh was such a grouch.
Man was meant to become god; as was woman, to become the goddess she was meant to be, and together, they would find union with the Infinite.
'"The kingdom of God is within you," had not the New Testament promised?
He had worshipped Anara wholly; body, mind and spirit. He wished to do the same with Sister Cecilia, he knew. Daryl supposed he was a born pagan, and to him, God was a woman.
But a Virgin, a cold statue...left him cold.
He put bow to strings and poured out his loneliness and longing. Like the howl of the lone wolf.
Father Michael sat at his office desk, going over accounts and trying to see if Daryl's gift actually might cover a new barn roof. However, his concentration was interrupted, as he thought he heard...violin music?
Not just any fiddling about, either. This sounded quite...transportive. Some virtuoso was at work here, clearly.
He stood, and walked over to the old mullioned window, cranking it open to the gardens outside. He noticed the brothers working in the herb garden had also paused in their labors, and were rapt, listening.
Sweet came the sounds on the wind, and yet held a note of sadness, such as would bring a tear to the eye. It seemed a song of longing, and loss...for something once held dear, but had now been irretrievably revoked.
Father Michael sighed. He supposed that was his doing.
He fingered the rosary in his pocket, knowing the great burden his office carried, the great Secret that was buried at the monastery here, under his keeping.
'Mea culpa,' he whispered, head bowed.
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