A constant roar of drunken voices permeated the tavern. The cheers for Ricco died to a murmur before finally moving on to heated discussion regarding societal changes, revolution enthusiastically impregnating minds. The killing of the bull raised Ricco, the squire of Man Tower, to the status of a local legend. Being the squire of Man Tower produced a large reputation alone, yet now Ricco’s stature caused him fame. The bull was known, removed from the arena due to its experience and ferociousness. The awfulness of the bull grew in dimension the more its death was expounded upon. Ricco’s single handed killing would be told for generations to come.

Ricco relished the attention, yet evaded excessive glorification. He clarified that concern for his friend provided the necessary courage to confront the bull. He did what any man would do for a good friend. Sipping wine, Rufino, knew a new life. He enjoyed the environment of the tavern. His fears abolished, at least to the degree of extreme paranoia, he sipped the wine, in great excess of the amount consumed by his friend, purchased by others for Ricco killing the bull.

Rufino spent the day cleaning up. The stables provided soap and a warm bath, a luxury he had not known for weeks. Ricco acquired new clothes for him and a crutch of superior quality. Most valued, Ricco presented a short sword and scabbard, as well as a French troubadour hat. Exuberant with a head drowning in wine, Rufino became a little arrogant as he felt a man of the world, speaking to strangers as if he was something he was not. Ricco did not mind as he recalled the despondent state he found his childhood friend suffering. In fact, he saw the inebriated swagger as a sign of his friend returning to the confidence he displayed in previous years. A transformation so sudden may not have permanency embedded, however the effects of a joyful nature, even for a drunken well-dressed moment, superseded gloom and misery. Temporary splendor relinquished fear.

“My master I feel will not return this night. Hopefully in the morning we can speak to him.”

“Do you truly think he will consider taking me on as a servant? He will find me useless.”

“You are what you believe you are. You must offer your service with courage. He despises weakness. You were the bravest of us boys. You still have that in you Rufino. I use to fear you.”

“That was when I was trying to kill you and strong. I have changed, becoming paranoid and weak. I am nothing but a cripple.”

“No. Stop pitying yourself.”

Rufino stared in amazement at his friend. Did his friend truly believe he was something more than he considered himself to be? Courage and boldness began to emerge with the confidence of his friend, and the swagger he embraced through the lifting of too much wine. He recalled his insane bravery as a child, always willing to attempt the most preposterous of thefts or deeds. He reveled in the astonishment of the other boys regarding his audacity.
Suddenly, from out of the crowd of strangers, a body dropped itself at the drinking table shared by Ricco and Rufino. Collapsing from his feet due to drunkenness, a man clumsily seated himself. Attempting to collect himself, resting his fallen head upon an outstretched arm, the man appeared woeful. Distinct in dress as he sported foreign fashions, Ricco previously noticed the individual within the tavern crowd. His clothes spoke of the Outremer. He moved about as his master did; stealthily one amongst others, yet distinct in appearance and conviction, mystery shrouding persona. He felt it necessary to dive underneath the obvious. Drunkenness, dominated the stranger.

Ricco spoke. “All friends are welcome.”

Fearful, Rufino closely studied the man, worrying he pursued a vendetta against him. He placed his hand upon his short sword, yet it gave him no relief. The man was obviously a seasoned fighter. His disposition and a large scar traced across his right cheek made the fact evident. Though elderly, the stranger was still a dangerous man of war. There was a calmness that announced confident experience in his ability to defend and attack.
The stranger lifted his eyes, while his recumbent head remained supported. Focusing upon Ricco, he raised his head, commanding his body to an upright seated position. “You are the one who killed the bull. It was remarkable. I witnessed your amazing feat. Let me buy you a drink.” The man screamed out for the tavern girl, ordering wine for the table. “I have not seen the remarkable since leaving the Holy Land.”

“You are a crusader?”

Drunkenly making a face of disgust, the man made gestures, attempting to bring Ricco and Rufino into his confidence. “I was a crusader, a Templar Knight. It goes bad in the Outremer, the Land Beyond, the Holy Land. I have spent the last thirty years there. Now I wish to return to my homeland, although I do not know what I seek there for I lost my soul fighting for Christ. I left a youth, even younger than you, the mighty killer of the bull. Theseus they are calling you, and rightly so for your deed was a mighty one, justifiably comparable to the killing of the Cretan minotaur. I saw your deed with my own eyes”.

“Tell me of your crusading. Such knowledge stirs my soul.”

“Knowledge? What is knowledge? The way we know? If matters are not conducted with the illumination of Christ all is foolishness. Vanity of vanities. The light that is Christ must shine upon knowledge if it is to transform into wisdom. If personal edification, or the enrichment of thy neighbor, is not the goal then all is lost, no matter how much is learned. Are you a curiosity seeker? If you aspire for knowledge for knowledge’s sake you set yourself up to play the fool. A reputation amongst learned men, is that your intention? You want others to think of you as a genius? That is nothing, pure vanity, binding you to the throne of Satan. Possibly you yearn for materialistic gain. The servant of greed, do you seek to enhance the mind for personal gain? Do you reckon there is a fortune to be made if I tell you secrets regarding the Holy Land? Let us be clear on your motivation. Possibly, you desire nothing more than entertainment. If you are a seeker of righteousness, that which broadens charity, then enlightenment is your desire. Prudence will be your reward; edification a gift for your neighbor. Merely to shine is futile; merely to burn is not enough; to burn and to shine is the state of perfection.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Understanding is not as important as hearing. Allow the words to settle within your heart. It is enough.”

The tavern girl arrived with a jug of wine which the man steeply drank from before pouring shares for his tablemates. Sloppily tossing coins to the server, the man dismissed the girl as he prepared for more words. Before speaking, he swallowed more of the wine.

“The religious life called me in my youth. Father Bernard, the Mellifluous One, the one whose voice was like that of honey, captured me with his sanctity. There was nowhere for me except Clairvaux, the Valley of Light. The white habit of the Cistercians enthralled my heart. The life of the contemplative existed as a beatific dream amongst the confusion and nightmare of existence. Guiding, Father Bernard provided the necessary love and wisdom; his words and example serving to deepen life, touching upon the divine. God could be experienced here and now. The embracing of poverty, chastity, and obedience were keys to opening hidden, cryptic doors. Acquiescing to the tutelage of Father Bernard, all of creation began revealing. The grass growing so green screamed of the creator, reverberating with the resounding joy of being. Mountains adored. Water flowed, Christ abounding in its penetrating waves and trailing wake; my bliss like a dolphin porpoising. Internally, an expansion burst forth through silent adoration, appeasement allowing poetry to blossom, only to be forgotten with the ceasing of prayer.”

“The fools now attack the memory of Father Bernard. They have no idea, just as they have no insight into matters in Outremer. In obedience to superiors, Father Bernard preached as only he knew how, in complete compliance with his love and knowledge of God. Emboldened by the conviction that through such love and wisdom all things were possible, he saw no limitations. His weakness was his dedication to reclusion and his obedience to superiors. A mystic able to attain union with God, worldly matters were not his realm. He sincerely never wanted to be a man of influence. His superiors demanded it. Contemplation, secluded prayer, a man set apart, lovingly enamored with acute awareness of the Trinity, devoted to Our Holy Mother, believing love to be the essence of creation, Father Bernard passionately desired only to be left alone with God at Clairvaux. The world never obliged. Can you imagine him traveling throughout lands promoting a worldly war? Under obedience, he would do anything a superior asked, yet still the situation more than possesses a bit of the absurd. He did not take matters personal. He only obeyed the will of God and the will of superiors. A man of great reputation, reputation meant nothing to him. The failed crusade so many are willing to curse him for never came close to defining his character. It was such a diminutive part of his being. Those who truly knew him found it ridiculous to associate such a holy man to such a disaster. You cannot send criminals: thieves and murderers off to war in the name of Christ and expect them to be more than what they genuinely are. Authenticity outweighs the words of a wise holy man. Entering war as corrupt men, the soldiers of the failed crusade warred as corrupt men.”

“In the undermining of Father Bernard, never under estimate the influence of Cluny. The religious men of Cluny despised Father Bernard. In their excess, in their fur coats and finery, the poverty and simplicity of Father Bernard irritated them. His detachment, his embracing of littleness, was an affront, disturbing to a degree of creating a rationalizing backlash. Engaging in subterfuge, there was a constant intellectual and ideological aggressiveness towards Clairvaux. The Cistercians, attempting to return monasticism to the ideals of St Benedict, were scrutinized as unnecessary by the established orders. When wickedness creeps into the ways of those posturing as righteous, an authentic man of holiness becomes an offense. Cluny is a bastardized capital of a religious empire, a central governing body controlling nearly fifteen hundred monasteries. Emperors, popes, and kings seek the counsel and favor of Cluny not in regards to the spiritual. It’s the temporal Cluny lords over. Its esteemed influence is savored and exploited by the Benedictines who have grown secular in concern, Christ weary in years waiting. St Benedict never had such a monstrosity in mind when he established his order. The Cistercians, as a whole, are a scourge to the overindulgent lifestyle modeled at Cluny. How appropriate the Benedictines devote their efforts to St Peter, the brash impetuous rock Christ built the Church upon—one who denied Christ during his darkest hour, while the Cistercians consecrate their ways to the Holy Mother, the Arc of the Temple, the Bearer of Christ, the one whose body nurtured Our Lord, the Lady of Sorrows whose heart would be pierced by a sword. Father Bernard was foremost in his adornment of the Mother of God. I recall precisely his words:

“She, I say, is that resplendent and radiant star, placed as a necessary beacon above life’s great and spacious sea…. When the storms of temptation burst upon thee, when thou seest thyself driven upon the rocks of tribulation, look up at the star…. When buffeted by the billows of pride, or ambition, or hatred, or jealousy, look up at the star…. Should anger, or avarice, or carnal desires violently assail the little vessal of thy soul, look up at the star…. If troubled on account of the heinousness of thy sins, confounded at the filthy state of thy conscience…beginning to sink into the bottomless gulf of sadness and to be absorbed in the abyss of despair…then think of Mary…. Let not her name depart from thy lips….”

The stranger, halting in words, overcoming his drunken state the more he spoke of his monastic days, allowed silence to reign. Ricco and Rufino sat spellbound. The man was a natural storyteller. The two witnessing thought the man from nowhere with stories from everywhere should be upon a stage telling his tales.

“I should have never left Clairvaux, yet when Father Bernard preached about the merits of fighting as a soldier of Christ, I could not restrain my young mind. With Father Bernard’s uncle Andrew, I joined the Templar Knights. The further I moved away from Clairvaux, the further I moved away from God. My prayer life became a burden. Praying with the knights was not the same as praying at Clairvaux. Onus in nature, I fought with all my might just to say the simplest prayers. I cannot explain the overwhelming mental sloth and anti-social behavior dominating my darkness. My Body, trained and prepped to be a forceful knight, was ready for battle. However, the battle of ideas raging within me, I was losing badly. Everything seemed out of synch. Event after event proclaimed doom. In Constantinople, we only met with Christians divided.

“Greeted with apprehension, no sincere welcome provided, it was obvious the Byzantine men did not trust us, nor want us near their city. Rumors abounded they were making alliances with the Turks in order to assure our defeat. Promised reclaimed lands taken during the first crusade were never returned to Byzantine hands. The wealthy city of Antioch was finally wrested violently away from western control by Byzantine forces. Christians are fighting Christians in the Holy Land. Muslims are fighting Muslims in the Holy Land. Secret treaties and alliances can only be speculated upon, opposing forces joining in order to rid a common enemy. The Muslims known distantly are not reality. They are not all Turks. There are Arabs, many cultural sects, including the Kurds from whom a new leader, Saladin, arises.”

“Religiously, they are divided between Sunnis and Shiites. The irreversible division is deep, inflicting death and violence amongst those we perceive as united. Dynasty upon dynasty, Muslims battle amongst each other for power. The Abbasid dynasty shifted the balance of the Islamic faith, centering its strength in Persia, moving away from Damascus, building the city of Baghdad near the joining of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. Shiite dominance suffered a severe blow with the violent ascension of the Abbasids. Maintaining the sanctity of lineal descent, the belief that only true decedents of the Prophet could lead, they preached support of Ali, grandson of Muhammad’s youngest uncle Abd-al Mutalib, husband to Muhammad’s daughter Fatima. The Abbasid’s staunch orthodox Shiite position allowed them to attain power. Secure in their ruling position, they turned on their former allies, instituting violent repressive measures, ordering imprisonment and executions; the ultimate insult occurring when they denied their extremist roots, declaring themselves Sunnis.

“Alexandria. Shiite power use to reside in Egypt, the city of Cairo, through the Fatimid Caliphate, the ones responsible for the destruction of the Holy Sepulcher. Now there is Saladin, a Kurd ruling Egypt, a wander rooted in Damascus, an interesting man to be watched, one dedicated solely to jihad. His ability to appease ideologically and traditionally antagonistic Islamic sects threatens Christian concerns in Outremer. True Islamic unification is impossible, however the joining of forces in confronting Christian intrusion is a possibility Saladin remarkably seems capable of accomplishing. The authority he commands is noteworthy. He derives his position of superiority through dedication, intelligence and the rewarding of those willing to fight for him. He takes no spoils from conquering, allowing all acquired possessions and wealth to be dispersed amongst the common soldier and throughout the Islamic world. As a unifying leader, he lives in poverty, a state reaping respect from followers. Saladin’s power is the mightiest through the loyalties he garners from his soldiers. A true leader his men love him, proudly fighting and dying for him, willing to see their loved comrades perish under his command”.

“Muslims and Christians both suffer greatest from internal fighting. The Byzantines fear Rome, as Rome fears them. The Islamic world is even more divided. The weakness that comes from a lack of unified force allows the opposing side to take advantage. It is how Eddessa was seized by Zengi, a Sunni who orchestrated the first serious defeat of Christian forces since losing Jerusalem. In the Outremer, nothing makes sense to the mind that passionately donned the white robe marked by the red cross of the Templar Knights. The red badge of martyrdom proudly resting upon the white robe of purity knew not what it was bound for. The mind inspired by the glorious idealism preached by Father Bernard stood not a chance amongst the complexities of the Outremer. Pure holy water poured into mud becomes mud. Clairvaux is a reality away.”

“I found it interesting during the warring of Outremer that both Christian and Muslim, respecting a foe of intelligence, strength and integrity, would approach one who established himself as mighty upon the battlefield through negotiation. If a man distinquished himself upon the battlefield as vastly superior the other side demanded to speak with him under truce. Observing the workings of God within the battle skills of a foe brave, true, and undefeatable, both Christian and Muslims would discuss the matter, concluding the gifted one of war was blessed, yet, as a man, confused in regards to loyalty and faith. It was not possible God would grant one of such power to the other side. It was the personal fault of the man he did not recognize his true place in life. Both sides would seek the powerful opponent out, welcoming him into their camp, attempting to convince him of the error of his thought, conducting intense debates of faith, evangelizing with the greatest effort to bring the one of strength into their camp. Neither side willing to admit God existed within the opposing camp.

“In battle, there are special men of presence, never showing fear, always slashing and fighting to the heart of the battle, their individual effort able to turn the tide of a clash of many. Such men never converted to the other side. It still did not stop others from trying to convert them. When given the choice of death or conversion to the enemy, these men chose death. It was the reason the Muslims feared the Knights Templar. The knights feared nothing. Ten knights would ride upon a force twenty times their number. Countless stories can be told of the knights sending an opposing army vastly superior in number scrambling. Consecrated to their cause, confident in their training and fighting skills, they rode upon their opponent with a complete disregard for death. It was why the Muslims would never allow a captured Templar to be released. Other men were sold into slavery or freed for ransom, however such action was foolish regarding a Templar Knight. It was comparable to attempting to tame a grown lion. I admire the statues of the Romans, adoring their depicting of a powerful resting lion licking his paws. The strength of the beast, tempered at the moment, could not be denied in the beast’s most docile moments. The Muslims were correct that it is only proper to execute a captured Templar Knight.

“Even the Assassins feared the Templar Knights. The Assassins, based in unclimbable mountains amidst the castle Alamut—the Eagle’s Nest, arose as an extremist Shiite sect intent upon hastening in the millennium. Brought into existence by the mysterious Old Man of the Mountains, they were intent upon taking the battle to leaders. Instead of hordes of common men meeting in conflict, the Assassins would take the fight directly to men determined to establish themselves as leaders and commanders. The fear of death entered the courts of powerbrokers. Political and religious differences resolved with a minimal loss of life. Overcoming the Sunni majority and the influence of Seljuk Turks, whom they viewed as evil spirits, jinn, the Assassins established themselves as a mysterious force of vindication, supernatural powers always playing within their mystique, the embodiment of a deadly dark Islamic shadowself being embraced. To respect and fear the Assassins became a reality for those rising to positions of power within the Islamic faith. The Assassins struck stealthy and where they were least expected. Bringing death they accepted death. There is a famous story of a mother of an assassin’s mother celebrating with joy when her son set out upon his mission, and then mourning when he returned. Her son completed his mission, yet he returned with his life, instead of entering paradise through a glorious death. The mother wept for her living son.

“The Assassins are a great force of influence in the Outremer. They have established an army, a mass movement, can be stopped by the eliminating of its leader. The Templar Knights dismayed the Assassins. The Assassins came to realize that the eliminating of a Templar leader created a void that was quickly filled. Leaders did not define the body. The Templar Knights were a snake with many heads. Where a snake could be killed by the cutting off of its head, the Templar Knights proved to be a beast of a different nature. They were not dependent upon the strength of an individual leader.

“Let me go back to loyalty. The Outremer is known for testing the faith and loyalty of a man. If I claim to be a Christian, will I die for my faith given a conscious choice? A man being given the choice of death, or life, either as a slave or convert of the faith he committed to oppose, is a startling thing to observe. Results are even more astounding as most men who choose life, in many cases renouncing the faith of their upbringing, tend to remain loyal to their death, avoiding the choice of return, submitting to the escape of death they convince themselves their decision was not based upon cowardliness. Their authentic and integrity based illumination of destiny surrendered to the will of God. It was imperative they remained alive with intense insight of conversion forcefully impregnated in their soul. It is the opposite with men granted freedom, either through ransom or mercy. Disregarding promises made upon release, freed men return to their sword, vowing bloody revenge.

“Then finally there is the most mistrusted of men slithering about in the Outremer. Men who turn against those they were raised amongst for personal gain, or through outrage, or simply due to an overabundance of pride, and jealousy. Such men, no matter how much of an advantage they bring, are always observed with suspicion. Never are they truly trusted. They are men of no loyalty; bitter, hateful, self-absorbed men, needing to rise above their surroundings through any means possible. Their abominations isolate them. It is only a matter of time before such men turn against new alliances. Loyalty endures a mocking. The Outremer always presents such compounded and intricate possibilities.”

“During our venturing into the land, even the weather foretold of disaster, constant overcast skies and rain following us upon our journey. The nights were so unnaturally cold. The Seljuk Turks harassed our movements and defeated us in direct confrontations. The siege of Damascus would be an embarrassing failure. The effort fell apart within five days. Our leadership never came together, ignoring the advice of local Franks as they advised us not to attack the friendly city. Fingers of blame pointed in every direction, the majority pointing at the Byzantines for their alliances with the Muslims. The honor, integrity, and glory I sought as a Templar Knight never came close to materializing.”

“I would spend over thirty years in the Outremer seeking to fulfill my ambitions as a soldier of Christ. My waywardness would know no bounds. Lost was my reward. I served in Jerusalem for several years, never feeling inspired by the supposedly holiest of cities. The City of David and Christ’s crucifixion did not invigorate my piety or prayer life. I searched desperately, falling in with a renegade band of Knights Templar recognized by some as the wisest of men. Knowing scripture and the ways of surreptitious prayers, the men were always expounding covertly.

“As a group, we defected, abandoning our rank, and people. The secrets amongst the men were beyond my reckoning. I became involved in spiritual intrigue: exploring reincarnation, metempsychosis, divination, trance states, prophetic visions, the raising of personal energy through interior portals for the sake of enlightenment, communicating with the dead and spirits, the manipulating of death; any and all forms of occultism were explored. We responded to the overwhelming nature of the Outremer by attempting to surpass all the limitations of being human, embracing all forms of thought in a cohesive illumination of individual brilliance.

“We walked around barefoot, wearing our white Templar gown with the red cross removed. We tried to wrap our minds around everything. We emptied ourselves. We shared our clandestine camp with men of all types: Gnostic pursuers, Neoplatonic philosophers, Hindu mystics, Sufi whirling dervishes, Islamic occultist, Shiite Ismailites, cabbalistic investigators of creation through the revealing of supernatural words and numbers, Zoroastrian dualist. Nor were the sciences ignored. Astronomy, mathematics, and geometry were explored. Over twenty years, we assaulted reality. Eventually, as a group, we became insane, relying upon intoxicants and alcohol to achieve transcendental states. Sensual pleasure devastated members of our group. Orgies became common. Pederasty reared its nasty head.”

“We had lost our way. When self-absorption becomes a communal rite into the mysteries of life everything becomes justifiable. Nothing really means anything. Words and ideas are manipulated, over-used and rationalizing. Rhetoric usurps truth. If one could say something convincingly, receiving support or debate branching off into other realms, it was enough, venturing into areas that consequences easily establish as damaging meant nothing. The heart and conscience are easily ignored within a crowd of the corrupt. It becomes possible to avoid the reality of distorted disposition. I, as well as the others, knew we were going insane, yet as a group we charged onward, our progression into immorality and the sensational ever expanding. We would even laugh about the matter. Enough never became enough, and in fact too much only left us wanting more. We could not get our fill.”

The stranger, now refusing drink, appeared as if he drank nothing throughout the night. Exhaustively, he had opened his soul, a confession, a self-examining man, honesty mobilized. Rufino and Ricco sensed a hesitation in speech. The man was preparing to share something extraordinary.

“I have not shared this with others. Why I speak to you two I do not know. It feels right. Where are you staying?”

“Stables, only a short walk away. Our master is away. We wait for his return.”

“Let us go there. I will pay you to allow me to stay with you. There is something I want to confess. I cannot do it here in the ruckus and revelry of the tavern.”

“Let us go.”

Having made a sleeping mat for their guest, Ricco laid down upon his own. The stranger prostrated himself upon the mat, before turning to his side. Rufino sat upright upon his sleeping mat. He and Ricco waited patiently for the stranger’s words. When he started speaking, the words came so deep from his being it spooked them. The stranger was releasing and relinquishing.

“Now in the darkness, I tell you of my final night in the Outremer. I spent the day smoking hashish we purchased from strange traders traveling through the lands. Mysterious in background, the men would visit periodically. They stayed a short time, smoking, yet told us nothing about themselves. As the sunset, I drifted into a comatose state, my body paralyzed, my mind filling with strange visions and images. Culminating in a scorching inferno, I found myself overwhelmed by an intense heat. I could not move. There were strange geometric shapes about, squares and circles, the circle coupling with the square, a center point emerging, bursting into rays of blinding light. Suffering agonizing pain, I fell deeper and deeper into the burning until I landed upon horribly smelling mud. The stench was so potent and awful I could taste it in my mouth. A filthy puddle formed. Something surfaced upon the muddy water. It was a dead baby with wings, a cherub without life. Desperately, I wanted to breathe life into the little angel. As I attempted to pick it up, something horrible happened. The body of the cherub dissolved into slime, slipping and pouring through my fingers until it liquesced at the end of its descent, mixing with the dirty water until no traces of the baby angel could be discerned. Rain showered from above. The rain was warm, salty upon my lips. It was not rain. It was tears. The vision wounded me, piercing my heart. Futilely, I understood my soul was dead, lost in my sordid experiences in the Outremer. It was not only I. I was ultimately alone. I thought of Father Bernard, crying and pleading for his assistance, while knowing the distance between myself and goodness to be so great even Father Bernard would never be able to transcend. I could not call upon Christ, nor his mother. Tormented, my mind grasped for solutions. A drastic conclusion was reached. Our efforts as a group must be halted. The darkness of the night came upon my soul. I felt shadows entering my body as I retrieved my knife. I could do nothing to cease the trance overpowering me. In silence and efficiency, I opened the throats of all thirteen of my companions. None stirred during my killing effort.”

Silence held firm. Ricco asked the stranger. “Now you wish to return home?”

“Yes. I seek a return home. Clairvaux. There was a good Templar Knight, not all went bad like my companions and myself. It is so multifarious when you fight in the Outremer. War is not the greatest strife. To obediently lose your life in the service of superiors, is a blessing compared to the other ghastly options. The battle within and without the Outremer transcends war. It is complete, ruthless, callous and brutal spiritual warfare. Where will I go? I will try to reenter the contemplative life. The Templar Knight I reflect upon is the third master of the order Evrard des Barres. As a leader, he collapsed under the weight of his command, unable to bear the burdens of leading warfare. He begged for mercy, expelling all of his energy in a plea to return to the contemplative. He was placed in a position of power, yet he was a man who despised power. Naturally, his worldly efforts failed. The contemplative life was his only refuge. Before he parted from the Outremer, he begged my forgiveness. Such heartfelt sincerity he poured forth. I pleaded that he must tell me what to do. He became nervous, acting crazy, trying to answer. All he could speak was a further imploring for forgiveness, confessing he was unsure about everything.”

Ricco spoke. “Your burdens are great brother.”

“All I have done has been inflicted by myself. Do not venture to the Outremer. It is a place of vast complexities, entangling all who dare to tread its land. God’s domain it is, however Satan lurks throughout, Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. My life was ruined by grand worldly ambitions. Convinced my destiny was to live out a great glorious drama, I abandoned simplicity and prayer for a confused catastrophic adventure. The wise, Father Bernard amongst them, understand the supreme fineries of life exist within elementary restraint, the acceptance of mundane routine, and the adoration of uncomplicated, lucid, being; prayer and meditation the tools of practice.”

The stranger ended his words. Ricco and Rufino drifted into sleep reflecting upon the murdering deed of their guest. In the morning, Ricco awoke to sounds outside the stable, upon the street. Harsh, aggressive voices reached his ears, dogs barked distantly, wakening to the day. There was a scuffle. Violence erupting, the sounds became screams. A man was being beat by a sizable group of men, a tough group pouncing. He looked to the sleeping mat of his guest only to discover the stranger was gone. A dreadful premonition entered his mind. He made his way to the stable window. Observing, he discovered the body of his guest lying lifeless in a pool of his own blood. No one else could be seen.

Rufino joined him at the window, speaking. “It appears his deeds have caught up to him.”

“I feel we were meant to speak to that man Rufino.”

“I was miserable before you found me, yet still my condition was nothing compared to this man. His sadness, despair, his palpable hopelessness, I will not recover from.”

“He is a messenger. We will travel to the Holy Land. His words, stories, and death we must always keep in our heart and mind”.