A Place To Bloom

Called

I'd never defiled myself with a girl. I still hadn't—lines were not crossed.

"You Caleb?"

I ended my prayer and turned to the visitor. It was a man of state. He stood beneath the wooden door frame dressed in mail armor with a red sash over one shoulder bearing the gold-woven lettering that identified him as a servant of the Count. He stood, holding out a small, folded piece of paper.

"I am he."

"You're called to arms. Take your sword, your bow, and set out for Carthia at once."

I took the paper and opened it. "I have neither sword nor bow, and where is Carthia?"

The man took a deep breath and groaned. "I'm the messenger."

With that, he turned and clomped his heavy boots across the wood floor of the church on his way out. Then, as quick as he could pass, a face peeked out from the last doorway. She darted out and flitted over to me; her simple white robe bounced spritely as she came. "What was that about?"

"I've been called to arms."

"No!" Sarina's black eyes locked onto mine and her face sank. "You mustn't!"

"I have a duty..."

"No! You can't go! We... we'll run away together..."

The thought of it made me smile, to run away with Sarina, dance together on a rainbow bridge across the sky, sleep atop a castle suite overlooking the sea where the sound of rumbling waves massage your ears into a dreamy sleep. Together we would dine on the finest riches, drink wine together on the rooftop, and live out our lives away from it all.

She threw her arms about me, I rested my chin atop her head, and so we embraced. I turned my head to take in the tiny curls of her hair in my cheek as she pulled me in close to her body and squeezed.

We stayed there a good while until the old friar came out shuffling along on his cane.

"Ahh," his voice creaked as if it were one with the floor. "Sarina, is the dough being proofed for this evening?"

She pulled away from me. "Not yet, Father."

"The poor come for alms. Will there be no bread to give them?"

"I'm sorry, Father. Caleb has been called to arms."

He stared at me a moment and nodded his withered chin slowly before speaking again. "I knew this day would come."

"He can't go!" Sarina protested.

The old man took her hand in his. "I know, child, but Caleb is a grown man now. T'is a sacred duty. He must serve..."

"NO!!!" She threw his hand aside and stormed off, away from the kitchen and out of the church entirely.

"Sarina!" I tried calling after her.

"Let her be; she needs time with this." He shook his head with a smile and added, "that girl adores you."

I tried to laugh that off. "We're just friends."

The old man raised one eyebrow high above the other and stared at me a moment before shaking his head. "Come. I have something for you."

The old friar's private study was a world cast in yellow through amber windows set in a hashed frame. Rows and rows of books and curiosities filled the shelves opposite his desk, a simple wooden plank set atop four legs that wobbled in one corner no matter how much paper you tried to set under them. Beneath that, Father hammered at a loose floorboard until it gave, and he lifted it up. From there, he reached down into the darkness to pull out a long mass of gray, withered cloth beset with faded red ribbon spiraled about the length of it, and at one end it gave the shape of a cross beneath.