The Frontier Saint

Chapter One

Chapter One

They lay east and west of the city. Those guardians, whose shadows announce dawn and dusk. The valley between them everchanging, fluctuating at man's whim. A valley of life that exalts itself. The valley lies between its two guardians, the mountains, the Rocky Mountains. Man's imprint on the valley leaves markers. Some, honoring the guardians. Others, futilely stand in competition. Those guardians stay on guard, herding their indecisive flocks.

Amid the everchanging urban center, stood Saint Michael's Cathedral. The cathedral, the diocese building, and the rectory all built on the same block. All of it built at the foot of the Rockies, a particular slope facing south- towards the rest of the valley. The headquarters of the diocese looked like a stout, red brick office building, paling in comparison to the gothic cathedral beside it. The rectory, a three-story Victorian house, much like the houses that surrounded it, served as the home to the clergy of St. Michael's parish. Whether by human design or destiny, the clergy were left with the choicest views of the valley, the city skyline- and the guardians to the east and west.

Father Guzman leaned against his window to admire the sunset. The cathedral on his right, the city skyline some blocks away on the left, and beyond that, the sun setting on the mountain range that towered above the west side of the valley. Something about sunsets called to him, particularly on Thursdays. The coming weekend would be full of masses, reunions with his parishioners, invitations to family dinners, intentions, and blessings. The sunsets served as his brief meditations, his briefings with the creator.

His admiration of the sunset broke with the mechanical, disjointed buzz of the doorbell. An old doorbell, with the scratch of a smoker's voice. Father Guzman looked away from the sunset to his doorway. Though it would be unexpected to have unannounced guests on a Thursday night, he knew one of the men in the house would answer. Father Guzman returned his gaze to the sunset- hoping he could savor the view, even if for a moment longer. Much to his annoyance, his meditation was once again interrupted, this time by the ring of the corded phone on his desk. He savored one last glance of the sunset, before walking over to answer.

"Yes?" Father Guzman sighed.

"Father, we have a couple of guests who wish to speak to you. Shall I tell them you're busy?" Father Rasmussen asked.

The old priest smirked, as he usually did before a sarcastic remark, "well, that depends. Who is it?" he chuckled.

"They say they're hopeful converts, but they wish to speak to you as they have grave spiritual concerns." Father Rasmussen explained.

Father Guzman paused. People approached him with spiritual concerns all the time, but there was a time and place for such questions. There were whole evenings dedicated to these discussions, whether about spirituality, the church, or even life. Even after mass, Father Guzman found himself answering questions of all concerns and subjects.

"Very well, send them up." Father Guzman acquiesced, putting the old phone to rest.

Welcoming hopeful converts was nothing new for the old priest. Most curious onlookers would sit through a mass, and then talk to Father Guzman, which tended to seal the deal on conversion. As Thursdays tended to be when he had some more free time, he figured he would receive the guests in his office. He made the short walk from his office to the top of the stairs, the sleeve on his black cardigan helping him glide along the railing. The rectory was a large Victorian house, which was connected to Saint Michael's, rather haphazardly, as the hallway between the two buildings was constructed mostly with glass. The rectory had a myriad of rooms, three floors, a basement, an old kitchen- the kind unquestionably organized by men, the offices of the clergy, and a parlor for entertaining guests. The dark teal wallpaper did well to distract from the unfinished hardwood floor. Paintings of the clergy who served at Saint Michael's adorned the walls. Father Guzman reached the top of the landing and waited. He heard the grouped footsteps of Father Rasmussen and the guests approaching, eventually coming into his view.