Enter Abby

So, I am to enter ...

a decade ago, when I started writting prodigiously,
I was inpired by a monk set on establishing a new order.
They would be wandering priest/hermits well versed in
language, self-defence, medicine, etc. in order to aid the
oppressed. They woyd be called "Knights of St.John".
I wrote several stories for him to use to explain his vision --
appropriate here, perhaps.

papa
...........................................................


NIGHT FALL

He half expected the huge iron gate to creak and then clang shut like the door of an ancient keep, but it only whispered in the shadows, until it's own long, darkly projected fingers lent stretching texture to the sunlit tile floor. As he turned back to the monk who had gestured him to enter, he listened for the click of a lock -- none came; nor did the questions he had expected from his protectors, for the silent, robed figure had vanished. Only the fountain remained -- majestic in its simplicity, and solidly rooted in the earth. Sanctuary!

As he turned to inspect the arboreal portico, the tinkling softness of the falling water calmed and nurtured him. The massive stones of the walls were rough-hewn but fitted together perfectly in random, yet somehow purposeful fashion. The scent of familiar herbs betrayed the identity of the many small plants surrounding the fountain and the base of the gnarled wisteria that wrestled with the twisted trunk of an ancient Russian Olive tree. The waters of the fountain beckoned him, glistening in the late afternoon sun. A slight depression in one of the massive boulders created a waist high pool from which the magic waters seemed to pulse and ebb in rhythm with the throbbing in his temples.

He plunged his hand into the tranquil surface and bent to lift the pure drops to his lips. The face that glowered back at him from the reflecting depths seemed that of a stranger. He drank - and examined the stranger carefully. The three-day growth of beard scarcely hid the bruises on chin and cheek from the chase, beating and fall he had taken yesterday - only yesterday? It had been a long trip. He closed his eyes against the pain and drank again - deeply. Open! The terrible visage was still there - he had never looked worse, but could not pull away from the reflected gaze. Behind him, the passing crimson clouds were likewise reflected in amazing clarity. Between the two, support beams of the open roof formed a cross behind his head and pressed down - down until his breath became short.
"Come," said a quiet voice and he was instantly released. The Priest stood alone by the archway in the northern wall.

Gordon knew that he was in the presence of a Knight! Even without the pictures and the stories, the commanding presence of the pilgrim monk alone would have placed him apart from other men. There were others who wore habits of white with brown edges. People of many lands and races had shaved heads and sun-parched skin. But only a Knight of Saint John carried the light of his favor, his God, in a bright yellow cross over his heart and down his robe, looking more like a sword than the crucifix in his belt. When the priest turned toward the exit, Gordon could see the simple wooden cross stitched into the back of the robe, the hand carved symbol that would mark the spot where the Knight had fallen in the defense of faith and the souls of strangers. Gordon followed him through the arch.

To the right of the dimly lit hallway loggia was a small chapel-shrine, framed in an arch low enough to require an average man to stoop. The Knight’s long hickory staff prevented his entry at all. He genuflected before the crucifix and flickering candle that matched the fading sunset - red and gold and silent and magnificent. Gordon bowed his head.

"Are you not a Catholic," asked the monk in a voice far too gentle for such a powerful presence?
"Why yes - yes of course," stammered Gordon, "but I am still outside."
"The Way of the Cross is not from outside to inside, my friend," whispered the aging Knight, "or even from here in the arch to there in the garden. It is a journey you started in your heart long ago. You will travel through two long nights of darkness - I can not go with you. You may never reach the other end."
"Who will guide me," replied the trembling young man, "what should I take with me?" Gordon fell to his knees.
"He will guide you! You will carry your Cross!"
Gordon crawled forward. His battered suitcase by the gate now only a useless memory, and his former life set with the dying sun.