The Art of Borrowing Instruments- 1/?

I went to go pick up my car at the club Berrigan and I had so hastily vacated. The day was shit and I had no hope of it getting better.

After a 2 mile walk in the rain I was relieved to see my car. It wasn't pretty, fairly dinged up but I knew it was warm inside. I hopped in and couldn't help but laugh at my bad mood. I was so angry it was unbelievable. But I was warm and didn't care. I looked on the seat next to me- A stack of flyers for that nights show sat soaking. The soft top had a leak. I didn't have a trumpet.

I had spent the day calling every horn player I knew. Most were out of town or playing that night themselves.

' Hey you got a spare horn I could use man? I'll owe ya one, real big I'll owe ya one! ' Id plead

' Look man im puttin it to good use! I keep my eyes on the things I care about. Close. Get your shit together man! '

Bastards.

I sat in my shorts and undershirt the whole day- Dialing. Mary was at work, and after leaving on such a sour note I wondered if she was coming back. I had started to wonder this more and more often.

At about 3 PM I began to panic. No leads what so ever. This was my portion of our household's income at stake here, and I didn't have the tools for the job. I had called everyone I knew-Nothing, and decided to hit the streets. I leapt to my feet and threw on the first rags I could find; A pair of Cheap wool slacks that fit too loose, A wine stained sweater (white making the wine look as some gapping wound) and a cap- Never lose your cap. I suppose, never lose your trumpet aswell. But first and foremost- Never lose your cap.

Grab the keys-

Swing open the door-

A glance left-

A glance right-

Then the realization.

My car is still at the fucking club.

'Fuck me...' I went and grabbed a bigger coat.

Now I sat in the car looking at the soaking loaf of wasted flyers (20 cents- drain-o) and wondering what the hell I was going to do about the show. It was in 3 hours and at this point I was going to have to start choreographing a dance or learning to sing a song- We needed the check. As If things between Mary and I weren't desperate enough, coming home empty handed was surely going to send it all to hell. I laughed again, nervous. The rain started in again with more force than ever. I had landed just in time. I heard a screech of tires and a big white van barreled wildly into the lot- right in front of my car. I was blocked in.

'Oh great those fuckin' gangsters are gonna have their way with me!' I thought. I might have said it out loud. ' Yes.'

The back doors swung open and I was shocked to see 4 large blacks jumping out. Relieved again. I laugh. 

They were scrambling to unload their gear. A band. 'Well Goddamn, I bet they got a trumpet.' I stepped out into a rain that seemed to disappear, deflected by my newfound hope.

'Hey boys need a hand with all that?' I offered with a wave. They were surprised to hear me shouting only feet away from them. The rain was coming down hard enough that seeing inside the car was an impossibility.

'Yeah man! thanks!' The fattest one said. Their green suits were turning black with wetness.

I was handed two drum cases and I mainlined for the back door. The same door I was shoved out of, with a gun in my hand. It was a different door now- It was a safety from the storm. It might have meant a trumpet, but I wasn't sure yet. I had tried to get a look into the van- to see if i could make one out. No dice.

I made it into the ballroom and set the cases down by the side of the stage. I took a second to shake off my dripping limbs.

'Ey you! you left somethin' here last night!' An old phlegmy voice called from across the hall. I looked up and saw a tough old bastard in an apron waddling toward me with a few trays under his arm. He was short- Maybe 5 foot 2, but he was clearly made of stone.

' Whats that?' I inquired- it hit me later than it should have but before he could reply I gasped.    ' No fuckin' way you've got my trumpet don't you!?' 

'Yeah, found it in the back room, Surprised those hooligans haven't sold the thing by now. They steal glasses, they steal silverware, they steal the damn tablecloths.' The man motioned toward the other side of the stage with his head. ' It's over there.'

I started off for it, sweating bullets. That was too close. The Little man made an awful guttural sound and stomped his foot. I turned and he was looking up at me without expression. I reached into my pocket and handed him the 3 dollars I had on me. He laughed at it and walked away. Fuck em'. I went after the trumpet. I picket it up and its weight was just what my hand- my arm- craved to feel.

The Black men had finished bringing in their gear and were all crowded by the door passing around a cigarette. They waved me over.

'Here pal, thanks for the help.' the shortest one said. He was the leader I could tell. Brimming with charisma. He handed me the cigarette.

The drive home was perfect. I smiled the whole way.

I was excited to see Mary. I could cheer her up. I knew it.

I had the trumpet.

ive pushed off, now im sailing far away

where ill land i dont know it dosnt matter anyway

you know i had to leave

 i had to go

when i held on the storms would never cease

i would end up lost for days, i would end up lost for weeks

 one day i just let go

and now i swim as if it was a part of me

but every boat has a sturdy anchor chained by iron to the hull

   sometimes you hold me sometimes you let me go

ill carry the weight

that can hold

you were the one thing no i couldnt let go

but im widdlin' the wood away, im chislin at the stone

at the stone

tryin to find a way to set you free

but ive got to work my fingers to the bone

its gettn hard its gettin rough its got me down

it seems were all shit outa work just sittn around

well theres one thing that weve got and we do it an awefull lot

oh we can sing we can shout sing it loud

we can sing we can sing oh mama 

we can sing, about our troubles and our strife

we can sing spend our last two cents on whiskey

we can sing right through the night

i been sittn on my front porch half the day

thinkin of a way to waste my time away

so i pickup my guitar set up right behind the bar

and we all sing we all sing our cares away

The Power of Faith

1- How to Speak When Spoken To.

'Should we double check it?' The fat wino belched from deep within his robes.

'It is the word of our God there will be no double checking' The stone faced Cardinal replied. Dipping his finger into the jar of ink on the desk before him- to the first bend. He looked into the eyes of the Wino.' Have you got any clue how disrespectful it is to revise these words? these are the words we live by. Without these words you are nothing, we are nothing. Do you suggest we shit on the prospect of our redemption? This is all there is.'

'But you've changed several-' The Wino began.

'I have changed nothing you waste!' The cardinal rose from his desk and bent over the portly- Monk, his finger dripping black.' I receive the very word of GOD YOU WASTE! I am a vessel- you are an ant. I have clarifiedyou see. That is what you so dully mistake for change. Go to your quarters and wait. This will not be going unnoticed.'

The Wino turned without a word and exited. He hid his cowardly face until the door to his room was closed and promptly let fly the tears of his faith. A gesture to his God, he was sorry and dumb.

The Cardinal sat back in his chair and ran his finger across the parchment before him. The beginnings of a letter to the monks family. The draft was never finished- Just ended by his black trail. It was folded and sealed. The Cardinal used black wax and affixed a small black bow- beneath the wax as he pressed it on.

The Cardinal stood once more and gazed down the hall leading to his door. The black finger hung at his side.

2- The Gospel

'What makes your heart shake Monk?' The Cardinal said from outside the monk's quarters, with a firm and resonant voice. It reeked of suppressed anger. Its' tone begged to be sincere but was borne of hatred. A hatred the Cardinal knew as direction. His purpose was his god.

The monk was shaken and his tears ceased to flow. Now it was fear.' Whats that?' He offerers. The door still closed.

'From what ocean do you draw the water for your tears Monk?' The Cardinal spoke louder than before as he began tapping his black knuckle on the wooden door.

'G-god's ocean!' The Wino replied jumping to his feet and scrambling to open the door. 

The door now being open, the Wino was frozen by the sight of the Cardinal. The only light they shared other than a small candle at the Wino's bedside was a torch burning in the hallway directly behind this red and grinning holy ghoul. The black finger still hung between the two of them.

'And why would a god as pure as our own be so generous as to waste his valued seas on the tears of a drunk? Of a fool? Of a coward? Sit.' 

The finger rose to Direct the Monk.

Without any effort the Monk stepped back and lowered himself onto the edge of his bed.Not once pulling his eyes away from this perfectly black finger, now looking down at him.

'I've come to offer you a chance to hide yourself from god, and leave the monastery.' The Cardinal explained lowering his arm. He took a step into the small room.

'Oh no I truly and honestly wish to serve the lord! Really Im sorry for my-' The Monk pleaded, with hope in his eyes. He did not want to be cast aside, away from his god's comforting light.

' This is the only way you can serve your god my son.' The Cardinal said, his Face erupting into a sweet and gentle thing. He took two more steps and knelt before the Monk. They were now at eye level with one another. 'You see son, we are men of the faith, we want the same things.'

The Monk was at first disturbed by this sudden change in the Cardinal's demeanor but quickly began to feel some hope. Some chance. He smiled.

' Now we both know you aren't the most productive Prayer, and it seems you take to the bottle far more often then you do to the scripture.' The Cardinal spoke with a hint of forgiveness.' You just aren't the sort of soul our god wishes to have carrying out his will. Do you see?'

'I see' the foolish and hopeful Monk replied, taking these words as gospel. This was coming from his god's messenger.

The Cardinal reached beneath his cape and produced a long narrow cylindrical dagger with a point on the end and no edge. Tears welled in the Monks eyes but he fought them.' Hold your tears Monk, you musnt be greedy. Take this in your Hand and pull it inward. You will be forgiven and no longer upset your god. Our god.'

The monk reached out and grabbed the dagger. He shook all over. Handling the spike a moment he managed it into both his hands, with the tip leaning on his gut. ' This is what our god wishes?' He asked with a weak voice.

The Cardinal nods.

With the blessing of his god, the Monk plunged the dagger deep within making no sound. The Cardinal cupped the back of the Monk's head as he slowly fell backward. He bled all he could and was gone.

 When the breathing stopped the Cardinal's face returned to its sculpted and naturally cold form. After sliding his hand out from beneath the Wino's head he stood and looked upward. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath.

The Cardinal's mind buzzed with the energy of a god that can only be pleased by perfection.

He lets the breath out.

Balance.

The rest of the evening was spent by the fire. Stirring his jar of ink.

3- The Pines of Rome

'Take this letter to the home of poor Brother Isaac's Mother and Father' The Cardinal said with sincerity- clutching the letter. He lowered it from his heart to the hands of the Monastery's messenger, Peter. Peter was not a Prayer, but had landed at the Monastery after his parents were murdered in their family home. The killers escaped unscathed and Peter was left at 12 years old- in a house drenched by the blood of his Kin. The Leaders of his community saw it fit to give the boy over to the church. Though his family had achieved significant status and accumulated vast wealth, they were never god fearing and taught Peter nothing of the Christ or any other deity. But somehow, Peter felt an attraction to serve this place. This entity he was introduced to. Since Peter had no information about the actual beliefs or customs of the church, he would have to catch up before serving his god on an intellectual level. After the boy was absorbed by the church and began living at the monastery, his inherited assets were awarded to the newly appointed Cardinal Adalfieri. 

Adalfieri had been appointed as a 'Lay Cardinal'  and was assigned to give special attention to this same monastery. It was a surprise to the resident monks when he arrived for they had received no notice or warning.

He introduced himself as having ' Vested interests in this monastery, in service of our lord, and in restoring purity to a wayward house of worship and knowledge.' The Monks worried.

'Peter I know you will be hasty, you have always made the distance to the town and back in 2 days. Can I trust you will be swift?' The Cardinal inquired releasing the letter to the boy, only half his height.

'Ofcourse!' Peter barked at attention.' The rain has let up, but I fear it will only be a few more hours before it starts again' He said looking behind him at the grey cracked sky. Not a single shard of blue was able to penetrate its mask. It had been raining for 2 days and as Peter was about to embark, he was thankful he could enjoy the weathers first respite.

'You've made the journey in the rain before haven't you? Surely it isn't to much to ask of a healthy young boy?' The Cardinal send bending down and patting Peter's shoulder. He then leaned in and whispered something Peter couldn't quite hear. Peter wasn't compelled to ask the Cardinal for a clarification and before he knew it he was stomping through the mud, on the familiar road into the town.

Peter had experienced these sort of lapses in time before but wasn't all too worried by them. It felt natural and without having to conjure any sort of justification, it seemed as if this was a way of life not uncommonly led by all of the monastery. Peter was blind.

Looking down at the letter in his hands, Peter saw the first drop of rain. Falling and landing next to the black ribbon affixed with wax. The drop rested on the paper a moment and then traveled inward. By the time the two had fused the letter was dotted by a dozen more drops and Peter hid it beneath his coat.

Peter looked around him at the soaking wilderness that surrounded the monastery and wondered if these trees looked anything like the pines of Rome. He wondered about his god, and he wondered about the poor Mother and Father who he was delivering the letter to. Brother Isaac was kind and Peter was sure his family was aswell.

Peter wondered about his own family

and the rain never stopped.

 4- Brother Isaac

The rain kept pouring on into the night, getting worse maybe, and all at once  Peter's path was drowned by an overflowing creek. What had once been a calmly running stream was now 8 feet wide and rushing just fast enough to knock the boy off his feet.

He stood at the bank of the rapids, hands on his waist with his face askew, twisting to produce some solution tot his problem. The sides of the now quite narrow path Peter was traveling on were of no boon to his plight. To his left dropped a rocky embankment, almost vertical enough to be considered a cliff. Here the torrent fell off in an unbounded waterfall. Not peaceful, it was a rush job thrust upon the normally serene setting by a truly blood thirsty storm. 

Peter wondered, 'what hand does my god have in this?' and prayed a moment.

To the right side of the path rose a slope nearly as steep as the drop to the left. The slope was covered in a layer of leaves and mud which was now threatening to slide downward onto the trail blocking Peter's way in either direction.

After compiling all of his pros and cons, Peter decided he could risk trying to make it across the mess of a stream. 'If i make it into town tonight I can sleep in the church, start a fire and warm up.' The prospect of a warm fire gave Peter the final push he needed to make his attempt. 

He once again inspected the turbulent aquatic terrain looking for the best way across. It was all basically the same and Peter settled for a full charge across. Straight line. Pushing off of the edge of solid earth with his left foot, his right was shot down into the freezing cold rapids- to his waist. Upon reaching the bottom, his right foot slid immediately from its landing spot on the mossiest of stones. 

Submersion.

Black.

He awoke with water in his nose. This was a feeling he had always dreaded. Such constant discomfort could drive him mad. After coming to terms with the plight of his nose (in what to a perfectly conscious person would seem to be a quarter of a second- to the delirious Peter seemed to be an hour or so) Peter came to be aware of his surroundings. He was not yet warm but was no longer being beaten with the lashes of winter. That devil storm. He was laying down and covered by blankets, he knew this feeling and it lifted his spirits greatly. No longer possessing the fear of opening his eyes and dispelling some dream, he awoke to a warmly light wooden celling. He blinks. His eyes have cleared and in the corner of his newly found vision sits a woman.

'Your alive! Its a wonder!' The woman says. Peter could hear that she was old. He could see her as she stood and hovered over him. She had silver hair and a face shaped like an old vegetable. 

'Ive made you soup, whenever you feel as-though you're able to sit up you ought to have some.' She Began moving away, into the room. ' You're very lucky we found you there! How did you manage to land yourself in the stream?'

Peter spoke with a stifled voice,'I was coming down to deliver a letter. I wanted to make it to town.'

'Well you made it boy, I wouldn't suggest the same rout next time' The old woman replied. 'My husband found you washed up against a rock right near the small bridge leading into town, Over the stream. Said you were just a stranded noodle.' She said followed by a laugh.

Peter sat up to inspect the room and capitalize on warm soup. He was still very cold, keeping with him some of the chill he had accrued floating down the stream. He swung his legs off of the bed in which he was laid to find his feet had no feeling in them. ' Miss-' He called to her, starring at the dead feet. 'My feet don't work.' Peter had grown up fast but this was that childish fear, all consuming and real.

'Don't worry, they have to warm up slowly, soon well put them in warm water.' The Old Woman picked up the soup and started toward Peter. ' Now why were you coming down again? Do you come from the Monastery? Awfully young, Do you come from there?' She sounded genuinely interested.

' Yes that is where I'm coming from' Peter said not caring, accepting the soup in his hands, and with all of his mind. This was his focus. It was probably too hot for normal hands to hold, the woman used a rag, but Peter cupped the bottom without a wince. There was no spoon so he sipped from the bowl. It warmed him instantly and his face went flush.

'My son is stuck up in that damned monastery on some tangent. The menace conducting that operation ought to be hung.' The woman said. Peter did not flinch but continued with his soup. ' How did they steal you away eh?' She asked cocking her head.

Peter looked up.' Well my parents were killed so I was sent to there to live. It really isn't so bad.' And for what Peter knew, it wasn't.

'We couldn't pay our proper tax on account of the hard times so they took our boy. Said he had to work doing labor for that monastery for a year. At the end of the year that Cardinal had him thinking he was on a mission from god. Now they call him Brother'

Peter looked up from his bowl.' What was his name, there's a chance I know him. I know a lot of the Brothers up there.' Finishing and taking another sip. 

'They call him Brother Isaac.' She said sitting on the bed beside Peter. ' He is Brother Isaac now. That Cardinal changed him somehow. Got into his head. Better hope he hasn't gotten into yours. You really ought to leave that place.You can stay with us. We have raised a boy before.'

She leaned in. She wanted a son again.

Peter forced the sip of soup down his now clenched and nervous throat. This was the mother of that poor wino who killed himself. He looked over at his jacket resting by the wood oven, knowing inside was the death notice of this sweet woman's son. He knew she deserved to know but did not want to be the one to tell her.

The sound of the rain grew louder a moment as the door to the outside swung open and a thoroughly coated man stumbled in. ' Your awake boy! amazing! He's alive!'

Peter Wondered about god.