Green water has turned steel with winter...
     A dusting of snow lies upon the confection of Venice. The rivulets move in criss-crossing labyrinths of intersecting bridges -- like veins of metamorphic crystals embedded in white marble.
     Her swelling numbers, her congregation of admirers, has ebbed. Once more, the strada and the bridges, the campi and the gondolas, belong to the people of Venice. Those, who stay here even when the sun has departed.
     And winter came suddenly. Dusting of snow now decoration for the coming celebration of Christ's Mass. Gondoliers huddle and taxis now are the preferred travel companions.
     O Castello...
     Crowded by palazzi and churches, keeper of Napoleon's royal gardens, neighbor of Saint Mark's Square, it bears the brunt of winter's wind. While Saint Mark's horses and the lions that guard the gate of Venice are frosted white upon the gold, your magnificant homes are thickly covered. Your courtyards blanketed. Your inhabitants dreaming of summer...
     Trumpets of angels!
     The echoes of concerts past still sound, for those with the heart and ears to listen. La Pieta. Church. Music hall. Guardian of lost children. She stands at the edge of the Canale di San Marco, her facade facing the water, facing the onslaught. The gondolas docked, bobbing, along the piers at the end of her fondamenta are unattended. Not a gondolier in sight.
     No, they... unlike myself... have sense...
      I have taken the back ways, the maze of small walkways and smaller bridges. Past the smell of bread baking -- truly, the very best definition of 'warmth' -- and the sound of a television set as I move past a cafe. I have come to speak with the ghosts of Monteverdi and Vivaldi. And to listen to the dreams of children. This way... the only way... to find my own...
     He is alone, this figure moving in the snow. A black and grey image moving up the stairs to La Pieta. Gloved hands -- ah, those gloves! Knitted here in venice, thick and warm! -- reach to open the door. Dark curls are dusted white. Long scarf of thick grey and black stripes are frosted. The coat moves as the wind wills it, scattering snow as he moves.
     He brings it in with him...
     On his boots as he meanders in...
     His face tilts upward, eyes stretching to see the vaulted ceiling. And the sounds of the storm fall to sudden nothing. There is only the church and he...

     Hope.
     Hope upon hope. A wish for the World. For those who inhabit it. Peace. Love. Joy. Perserverence. Comfort. Ascension.
     Hope.
     There are a few loitering towards the front of the dilapidated church. Perhaps La Pieta has seen better days. Perhaps not. Maybe it has always been like this, out here at the edge, where eyes do not look. Where money does not come.
     An older woman dutifully wipes windows at an alcove to the left of the altar, careful not to disrupt a small scaffolding where some repairs are taking place. An older man, perhaps her husband, works at cleaning the floors -- the stone and tile have seen much this day.
     Not so far away...doors leading to other rooms. A rectory. Living areas. The open hall.
     An adjacent orphanage.
     But the children are already in bed this night. Warm light spills from an open door behind the sacristy, behind the blessed communions' home.
     From the rafters and walls? Signs of the time. Christmas comes even to La Pieta. Altar wreath is the focus, tattered silk greens used for ages. Violet candles stand from evergreen circle, awaiting a pink finale. Crumpled holly and childrens' colored poinsettias are gathered here and there, providing rich color in the most inexpensive of ways. A Hanukkah menorah stands on a side table, plastic gelt glittering at its base.
     Yet, there is no sadness here. Utterly none.
     The elderly woman looks up from her wipings, narrowing her gaze at someone who might come in at this time.
     "Benvenuto," she calls, scarf on her head, black dress on her form. "La buoa sera, pu noi li aiuta cara persona?"

     Hope...
     Hope upon hope...
     How could the soul not soar? There, the two organs. The wrought-iron choirstalls. The vaulted ceiling. How music would sound here. Still, how it would sound here. How could the soul not soar to think that the trumpets shall sound again...
     The voice of God can be heard here. Even in perfect silence...
     How could I, Father, be therefore sad?
     And the orphanage. The children who for centuries now have held this church up, where it may have fallen otherwise. They study music here, even as they once did. Who is so wounded in the heart that he could not sigh with such knowledge. Who would be so steadfast in sorrow or anxiety or worry, as to not see how perfect it is. That the dreams of children could be stronger stuff than any stone...
     His cheeks have reddened, blood rushed to the surface to warm him. And frost has begun to melt, wetting the wool and knit he wears. A layer of sweater and trousers, both black. An undershirt of grey. A long coat of black. Grey gloves. Grey and black scarf. He looks like a philosophy student of old, wearing the dark clothes of the scholar, yes?
     The kind voice echoes like music. Like music had and may so again, and from the vaulted ceilings and the choirstalls, the organs, Kit turns, grey eyes dropping to his elderly companions. Ah, what better companions? The beauty of a time-touched face. He smiles -- oh, it has been days! -- and turns to her, a nod of his head. Dark curls bounce with the motion. "Buoa sera. Spero che non sia troppo tardi? Sono venuto parlare con Vivaldi matrice un istante..." And he smiles again, a little. O, just a little. His eyes drifting downward to his hands. Gloves tugged off, they flutter in a slight motion of his hands. Already, he has picked up the gesticulation of this land. "E per uscire del freddo. Ora so perche sono quello unico che cammino stasera la citta!" Kit shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling the rocks he has stowed there. "Cosi tanto neve!" And he laughs.
     So much snow...

     The woman laughs, not unhappy in her menial task. "But," her Italian comes, "I know not this Vivaldi?" her grey-scarfed head tilts. Rags twist around her hand, coming to rest at her stomach. "Only here now is Fra Spero," Brother and teacher of hope, "...and he takes his tea," she motions to the rear room with the light, "...for the night. The others have their duties," she nods, not sure what those may be, but trusting they have much to do.

     I remember your concerto in D for guitar the most of all, Master Vivaldi...
     It makes me think of rain...
     It reminds me of simple joy. Simple beauty. It is a song to live by...
     But it is Hope I most need...
     Hands deep in coat pockets, Kit rocks toe-to-heel, sharing your laughter. "I come to pay my respects to the spirit of the music that has lived here. Vivaldi. Monteverdi..." Grey eyes lift to the light, the passage way indicated there directing his gaze. "Do you think Fra Spero would mind," so soft he begins, "... a late visitor?"
     Venice is not without its lonely sons and daughters. Those who go from caffe to caffe. From church to church. Making the rounds with distraction and prayer. He is not the only one who has asked. He cannot be the only one. Surely, that cannot be true. Hands deep in his pockets, Kit grasps the bits of obsidian and basalt -- keepsakes -- and a fragment of marble -- a recent discovery. "Sono il promettente, speranza di ricerca," the dark-curled, grey-eyed young man speaks.

     The woman nods, twisting to motion at the rear room. Go on. He will not mind. A smile comes again, and already the rags unfurl from her fingers, preparing to return to tonight's labor. "Buon sera," she bobs, leaving men to their nightly visits.

     "Grazie..."
     He says as he moves toward that light, a hand lifted, glove grasped. A salute. A wave...
     "Avere una buoa sera..."
     Voices echo. His. Hers. Softening. Announcing. A chorus of fading words moving from wall to wall before drifting to the floor. And his steps, moving from the outer church to the inner sanctum of priestly quarters.
     Fra Spero. Brother Hope. I have been brought this way, I think, to see you...
     A dark-curled head peeks around a doorway's opened space. Grey eyes that make him physically stark -- for should his eyes not be brown, with hair so dark? Or blue? Or green? But grey...
     Like quicksilver and lightning...
     "Fra Spero," the figure says, "spero che non stia interrompendo." Twisting, he half pivots toward the outer area, "La cara donna... ha pensato che sia difficolta..."

     It is indeed a small study, perhaps office for suppliants who come for conversation, benediction, absolution. The man who turns about is in his late-thirties, though eyes reflect something much older.
     He stands immediately, Fra Spero, in his dusty brown corduroys and plaid brown and tan shirt. He is not spectacular, this one, but it is not on this plane that he shines.
     Elseworld, he is Leuriel, Angel of Hope, First of the Menunim, Friend of Sleepers, and Seneschal of La Pieta for the Archangel Blandine.
     Here? He is an aging man, with brown hair and blue eyes.
     "Cio e lontano dai Corridoi, e esso non, Annunzia? Osservate bene..." he smiles, lines flourishing his face, teeth brilliant. He chuckles and quickly crosses the room, grabbing your hand and shaking it. "Benvenuto al nostro poco spazio." More laughter, his eyes narrowing in it. A jovial fellow, he steps back to admire you. "Venire sederlo, unire in t!"
     The office is modest. A writing desk with a small light has seen better days. Familiar theme. There is a wood chair upon which Fra Spero sits, another for a guest. That is where the tray is, pot and cups...cups...resting warm. Only a few feet away, a worn sofa with green and yellow upholstery. Once, it was in a grand house. Now, it serves even greater purposes.
     "Che cosa li pensano al nostro isolotto di Archangel di speranza?" Humor there. But Fra Spero glows when 'hope' is murmured.
     In fact, the walls resonate with it, as does he...

     And how well Kit fits to this theme. This motif. Of work needing to be done. Of an old structure needing... a helping hand. Of little things that have seen better days. He is the very spirit of this place. You can see him in the walls and the lamp.
     But then, of course, that stands to Reason...
     Hand to your hand, and his second to cover it. A vigorous shaking and Kit smiles again. O wistfulness! To beam such ethereal light! To know in this flesh what I know in my own realm. I suffer, Fra Spero, from my own translation...
     "Sono il piu affettuoso degli spazi piccoli," Kit says, and so he says warmly, that smile curving, "...O Speranza del Fratello della, sono i miei posti favoriti di tutti. Piu piccolo il migliore."
     You can fit a universe upon the head of a pin and know the secret of the infinite cosmos in a single particle of pollen...
     He draws in a breath and he exhales, and with it goes the smile. "Dovrei molto gradire ripartire il vostro te," Kit offers, and he gestures to the seat, his hands lowering finally from the vigorous welcoming. "Posso?"
     You must see it, even as I feel it. The ... trouble that sits on me. O, say some of my fellows -- you've courted it for years, Galadriel. Now that it has found you, what? You wish it away. The young man sits, his question of tea and sitting coming even as you offer it. And the exhale again.
     "E i Corridoi in tutti i modi che importano," Marlowe murmurs, his hands gesturing lightly as he speaks lightly. "I am finding Venice to my liking. But winter has scared off the birds. I am already wishing for spring." And as he settles down, his eyes drift to his hands, his arms resting on the arms of the chair. A lift of silver-flecked grey and the Herald wants to smile. "I am... seeking my fortune in a new country, Fra Spero," I like that nickname, Brother, it suits you.

     Fra Spero agrees frantically, head bobbing as you speak. Hand touches yours, as if he would give another series of shakes, and then the thin man takes his seat across from you, turning to pour.
     "You are so right..." Fra Spero blinks and turns, looking much like a fish. "Mr. Marlowe? What...do you like to be called?"

     I always thought Imp fit me well, but then the implications...
     O, the implications...
     "I stole a man's name," like a raven would steal a shiny ring, "...I have wondered if I should change it. I have been told that just because something is lying about doesn't mean one can take it up." And who said I never remembered my confessions? "I don't know what I should be called. Galad is good, nice and Biblical sounding. Usually... I just leave it at Kit. You can call me whatever name you think suits me. I'm always keen to see how that sort of thing turns out..."
     Some things about the Herald have not changed...
     Though accenting...
     Though complexion...
     Though energy may come and go...
     The rapid-fire tongue and swirling dialogue has not altered one iota! One of the Universal Constants...
     "I am to get an assignment? I need a purpose..." What cherub doesn't? And this one, of all cherubim?

     Fra Spero's tea dribbles as you ask him your question. Again, he looks up, brow arching on his long face. "You will decide what you like to be called," he says simply, fingers on the lid of his teapot. Now done, the pot is replaced upon the tray. "As for...assignments," Fra Spero frowns faintly, picking up his cup.
     "You will decide upon that also." He cradles the handmade cup in his hand, tipping it up to his lips.
     A grin. Piping up after the pause. "It is too early to speak of such things, angel," Fra Spero says. "Have your tea."

     "My mind is... altogether crammed," comes the apology, soft and warm, falling with a smile as he reaches for his tea. A hand-made cup, the common ceramic found everywhere in Venice. Eyes watch the liquid, reddish-brownish stuff, "Kit," he pipes up with a sudden grin, the grin is worn as well you know. A decision made. The other, greater decision -- What I Shall Do To Be Worthy -- ah, this has no immediate answer. "I am getting settled. I am very happy with my little corner. It is a small space," Kit smiles, sipping at the tea, "... with a great many windows."
     Another sip. Another moment. Another thought. "It is a fitting place for Dreams and Hope, Venice. Like its colored glass. There is something about this place that makes it want to... sparkle."
     Another sip...
     "Do they still play music here? Oh, they should," he continues, answering his own question. Or his own hope.

     Ah, Menunim. Known for their silent passings on the world. And this one in particular? The Guardian of Hope? He seems the very embodiment of it all. If things are, as they Are, his voice comes in the subconsious. Hope brought through Dream, Hope brought in Silence.
     Fra Spero looks up again, grinning at the notion of sparkling. Brows wiggle and his blue eyes glance at your cup, then your own gaze.
     Less talk. More tea, angel. Be...still...

Posted by rowan at May 17, 2003 12:03 PM