Snowfall in Venice

Prologue

SNOWFALL IN VENICE

CORTINA, ITALY - THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, SOMEWHERE IN THE DOLOMITE MOUNTAINS

The starving man knew he was almost dead. His body knew it, too. Only human resilience kept him moving forward down the mountain slope, plodding knee-deep through the freshly fallen snow. He had made good progress—more than he ever thought possible when he first set out on this futile trek from the lonely cabin high in the woods.

He was almost within sight of the swinging bridge when he finally reached the limit of his endurance. A comfortable bed of soft white snow beckoned him to rest, even if only for a brief respite. He slowly lay on his back, letting the falling snowflakes gently cover him with a thick blanket of white. As the numbness gradually invaded his body, a sense of peacefulness ensued. His last coherent thought before the darkness overtook him:

"Forgive me, Father, I meant well, but I know I have done wrong. I may have failed, but at least my sin was only trying to help the less fortunate of your flock."

As the relentless snowfall continued to descend from the heavens the man's inert form soon became no longer visible to the naked eye. The silence of his snowy grave would not be disturbed for several days. Then one of the mini avalanches so prone to this area would sweep down the mountain-side in the dark of night. It would carry the frozen body of the hermit, in a wave of rolling ice and snow, deep into the lonely canyon that lay waiting for him, far below the old swinging bridge.