“Uh…” I don’t really know where to start. And I’m kind of warm, actually, with my navy blazer trapping the heat of the sun.I’m just fishing a handkerchief out of my inner jacket pocket when Father Mendez waves at me and strolls over.
“There he is!” He takes my hand and shakes it. “So glad you could make it, Callahan.”
“Of course.” I mean it. I’m glad I came, as strange as it feels to be here. After everything I’ve seen. And done. I stuff my handkerchief back in my pocket as a guy with a big black camera sidles over and raises it at Father Mendez and the kids. I duck my head and step to the side, trying to get out of the frame, but Father Mendez grips me by the elbow. Nods me back into the group.
Oh. Not just a picture. A picturewith me.
There’s food, lemonade and sandwiches and stuff, people milling around as the kids scream and chase each other through the hedges. I shake hands with people I recognize, or who recognize me, nodding thanks, smiling, enjoying for just a moment the warm air that smells like flowers. It’s a change. A nice change. I find myself drifting back towards the garden, through the rows of hedges, staring at the plants, one by one.
Almost like I don’t want to leave.
I’m looking at a shrub, long brown branches and small white flowers, a warm breeze against the back of my neck, when I hear a familiar voice.
“The medicinal garden.” Father Mendez again, crunching up the pebble path and stands beside me, nodding. “Will cure what ails you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Hawthorn.”
Too late, I realize there’s a little plaque that says as much. Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) Medicinal plant — cardiotonic. Well, I feel dumb.
But if Father Mendez notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Budding horticulturalist, are you?” He grins. “Get it? Budding?”
“Oh, yeah.” I make myself smile. “Maybe.”
He tamps out his own amusement and straightens his posture, bringing him almost to the top of my shoulder. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, if you have a moment, Callahan. A very distinguished guest.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Um, sure.”
I’m not in any particular rush to get back, I guess. Especially when it’s so nice out. I feel like lingering.
I follow Father Mendez to the side of the church, the big metal doors into the linoleum hallway that always smells like incense and Elmer’s glue, and then to the rectory, the office with the matted brown carpet and bumpy yellow glass in the windows and those old-fashioned illustrations of Bible stories framed on the walls—engravings, from like the forties or something.
In the middle of the room, before the desk, is a single figure. Robed. Hooded. White.
As we enter, he stands, and bows his masked head.
“A guest, from St. Vincent’s Monastery,” Father Mendez says, the slightest touch of awe in his voice. “I take it you have a connection with the order, at Caliburn?”
I feel cold. Stiff. Like I’ve turned to stone. All I can do is nod.
“Well, turns out our mysterious benefactors were not such a mystery after all,” Father Mendez goes on, interlacing his fingers with a shrug and smile. “They are in the business of spreading a sort of endowment throughout the church worldwide, of which we were lucky enough to be featured. And then, when they heard we had a Caliburn student from our parish, they were of course so eager to meet you.”
“Of course,” I echo.
The brother stands there, upright and still, hands within his sleeves, like a living chess piece. I wonder if I’m supposed to shake his hand, or…I don’t know, bow or kiss his ring or something? The only other actual encounter I’ve had with the White Brothers was…
I shiver, thinking of that day at the Black Table.
Intense. I guess.
But then the moment passes, and the brother seems to spring to life, gesturing for me to sit as he steps back to his own seat.
“Please,” he says to me, then nods at Father Mendez. “Great thanks,mon père.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” Father Mendez dips his head, puffing out his chest a bit as he rises. “I believe the paper needs a quote.”
The door clicks shut behind us.
“A beautiful day for a beautiful garden,” he remarks. His English is good, even if it’s a little muffled from the mask. “Isn’t it?”
