Angelology(93)

“The site is here,” I said, dragging a finger over the map, along a wedge of mountains

signified by dark blue ink. “We should have no trouble crossing.”

“Yet,” one of my brothers said, his unkempt beard brushing the table as he reached across

it, “how can we be certain this is the correct location?”

“There have been sightings,” I attested.

“There have been sightings in the past,” Brother Francis said. “Peasants see with different

eyes. Their visions most often lead to nothing.”

“Villagers claim to have seen the creatures.”

“If we follow the fantastic stories of mountain peasants, we will be traveling to every

village in Anatolia.”

“In my humble opinion, it is worth our attention,” I replied. “According to our brothers in

Thrace, the mouth of the cave cuts away sharply into an abyss. Deep below, there flows an

underground river, much as it is described by legend. Villagers claim to have heard

emanations at the edge of the abyss.”

“Emanations?”

“Music,” I said, striving to remain cautious in my assertions. “The villagers hold feasts at

the mouth of the cave so that they might hear the sound, however faint, rising from the cavern.

They say the music has an unusual power over the villagers. The sick are made well. The

blind see. The crippled walk.”

“This is most wondrous,” Brother Francis said.

“The music rises from the depths of the earth, and it will lead us forth.”

Despite my confidence in our cause, my hand trembles at the dangers of the abyss. Years of

preparation have bolstered my will, and still I fear the prospect of failure looming over me.

How past failures haunt my memory! How my lost brothers visit my thoughts! My enduring

faith drives me forward, and the balm of God’s grace soothes my troubled soul.9 Tomorrow,

we descend the gorge at sunrise.

VI

As the world turns back to the sun, so the corrupted earth returns to the light of Grace. As the

stars illumine the dark sky, so the children of God will one day rise through the haze of

injustice, free at last of evil masters.

VII

In the darkness of my despair, I turn to Boethius as an eye turns to a flame—my Lord, my

excellence hath been lost to the Tartarean Cave.10

VIII 11

I am a man forsaken. Through burned lips I speak, my voice ringing hollow in my ears. My

body lies broken; my charred flesh oozes with gaping sores. Hope, that ethereal and airy angel

upon whose wings I rose to meet my wretched fate, is crushed evermore. Only my will to

relate the horror I have seen drives me to open my cankered, scorched lips. For you, future

seeker of freedom, future acolyte of justice, I tell of my misfortune.

The morning of our journey broke cold and clear. As is my custom, I woke many hours

before sunrise and, leaving the others to their slumber, found my way to the hearth of the small

house. The mistress of the house busied herself about the humble space, breaking twigs for the

fire. A pot of barley bubbled above the flames. Endeavoring to make myself useful, I offered

to stir the mixture, warming myself over the fire as I did so. How the memories of my

childhood flooded upon me as I stood over the hearth. Fifty years ago, I was a boy with arms

as thin as saplings, assisting my mother in this same domestic task, listening to her hum as she

wrung clothing in basins of clean water. My mother-how long had it been since I had thought

of her goodness? And my father, with his love of the Book and his devotion to our Lord—how

had I lived so many years without recalling his gentleness?

These thoughts dissipated as my brothers, perhaps smelling their breakfast cooking,

descended to the hearth. Together, we ate. In the light of the fire, we packed our sacks: rope,

chisel, and hammer, vellum and ink, a sharp knife made of a fine alloy, and a roll of cotton

cloth, for bandages. With the sun’s rising, we bade our hosts good-bye and set out to meet our

guide.

At the far end of the village, where the path wound into an ever-rising stairway of stony

crags, the shepherd waited, a large woven sack over his shoulder and a polished walking

stick in his hand. Nodding good morning, he turned and walked up the mountain, his body

compact and solid as a goat’s. His manner struck me as exceedingly terse, and his expression

remained so somber that I expected him to forfeit his duties and abandon us upon the path.

Yet, he walked on, slow and steady, leading our party to the gorge.

Perhaps because the morning had grown warm and our breakfast had been pleasant, we

commenced our journey in good spirits. The brothers talked among themselves, cataloging the

wildflowers growing along the path and commenting upon the strange variety of trees—birch