The Templar’s Bowl
by
Peter “Lou” D’Alessio
Copyright © 2011
Chapter 2: My Father was a Man of the Sea
‘Thompson’
I have known such things as men are not usually made party to. Yet for the entire world I cannot tell you why. I was born in the year of Our Lord 1930, with use of neither hand nor foot and of little air to spare for speech, my lips often unable to contain the waters of my mouth, a great pain to my mother and shame to my father. In those days the natures of illness and the ill was not clearly known and often hidden, the common man not knowing any better. When the world fell to war, my father, whether to walk away from such a situation as I, or from some higher sense of duty, did readily offer himself for service in Canada, the land of his birth. By God’s grace, it was not permitted to him, a greater need to fill.
It is so easy to say wage war, but not easy to actually do so. Armies must be fed, and men who do not fight must feed them. My father was a man of the sea. From our home in the city of Province Town he had, as had his father and his father’s father before him, brought many a ship to the fishing grounds off of Halifax, bringing back bounty and booty from the treasure chest of the colder water; halibut, cod, and other fish. With war, it was requested of him to serve, not with the great Royal Navy, but to join with our brother country and the land of his birth, Canada, and Master ships for such operations needed to feed an army and the people of a nation at war. It was not an easy task. U-boats patrolled our waters, Germany’s black shadow falling across us.
And so it was that in 1940, my father gathered his wife, his daughter of four years, and his sickly son and transplanted all on Canadian soil to be closer to the cold seas his family had known to sail for so long.
It was a bleak time at first, as I recall. The oldest and grandest house on the Coast of Linenber County had been given to us to dwell in, as befitted the head of this great assault of the sea, I suppose. Old it was, the east wing foundation on the order I was to learn of almost three hundred years, perhaps more. The draw-well even older, and sailors walking the hill to their homes or to their boats still used it. Since first built, the simple box house was not allowed to die, but built and expanded. This spot, off the beaten path, made the house barely visible from the road and offered a breathtaking view of the bay, seas, and nearby islands. The north and west wing were merely two centuries old or so. And they were said by the locals to be haunted, nobody being certain by what...or whom. At least, these are the things I have since been told. The east wing faced the sea, and I could sit by the great windows in the parlor and watch small trawlers pass by, for there were many fishing routes that ran by.
I could observe clusters of boys in small boats row out to an island to inspect a strange hole that dropped a hundred feet or more downward. There are 360 islands in Mahone Bay, and yet this one—barely three quarters of a mile long—had from time to time been the hub for all activity in Nova Scotia. It was close enough to the mainland that I could see boys trying to throw stones to reach it. In the early ’60s, someone would bridge the distance and bring heavy excavation machines to the island to widen the growing hole that men had dug. It was said that if a man could find his way past the fifty feet of water that had mysteriously flooded it, a great treasure sat patiently for the return of its owner. And again, nobody was quite certain by whose hands such a wonder had been built, though Captain Kidd and Blackbeard were the sentimental favorites. I did not know in those days of the affiliation of that wondrous pit and our east wing—it was line-of-site, perfectly straight ahead.
I was not such a bad or difficult child as one might expect. I had managed great affection from my mother and sister. Ahh, my sister. As loving a soul as ever walked in our world. Her eyes were bluer and softer than the calmest sea, and her manner most pleasantly conveyed, given her tender age; and much to our surprise, given that young age, she suddenly began speaking fluid French at the supper table. While there were many Canadians from Quebec in father’s employ whose French was good, it took a while to fathom her meanings, as the French she spoke (as we were eventually to learn) was that of the twelfth century. Little by little, they perceived what the sounds were.
“Is this not the holy place?” she would humbly ask of my mother. “I must fetch my husband and bring him to see this, too!” When questioned as to the location of said husband by our Canadian friends, she proceed to list streets and alleyways, past where Notre Dame Cathedral stands today, to a small but thriving butcher’s shop... at least it was thriving in 1199.
Suffice it to say, it had become of great concern to my parents. They had just ended almost a decade of bringing one child from doctor to doctor, (namely me, and I was glad to have that mantle taken from me) and now they were doing it all again. Having been listed as “terminal”, whatever that meant, I had been freed the torments of the healers, but found myself more and more left to the care of Lewis, a kindly but ancient house servant, as my parents carted my poor sister about from psychiatrist to psychiatrist. I am still of the opinion today that doctors of the mind and doctors of the body are of equal ignorance and uselessness.
My father had determined that while my outer shell was little more than a semi-lifeless form, my mind was as keen as any other child—that had taken some doing on my part, and some very attentive reactions to the war news on the radio. His greatest concession to my need to join life was the modification of my chair. He had his engineers install a miniature electric engine attached to a small car battery between the wheels and, by leaning on pads at each elbow, I could move at almost a mile an hour—either forward or back! I could now roll, almost at will, to the great windows, freeing my soul and enabling me to hunt in my mind for Captain Kidd’s great treasure. I could not truly turn, but I discovered that a ’heavy’ lean would allow me, with a little patience, to angle my chair to the position I wished.
And herein lies my story.
It was a lonely time in my life. Often, for no reason I could understand, breathing became nearly impossible. My father or mother or perhaps old Lewis would oftimes snatch me from my chair and cast over my face a rubber mask that forced oxygen back into my lazy lungs. It was becoming to me of great concern—and to my mother.
What did I know of God? I knew nothing of religion. My parents were Catholics, but it ended there. I knew the name of God only by my mother’s prayers as she begged Him for another day of life as I lay in bed, feigning sleep.
On a warm late-spring night, I sat by my windows watching the darkness invade the mighty Atlantic. My parents had flown with my sister to Boston—she was now good for the Lord’s Prayer and at least two sets of Rosary per day in almost perfect antique French—and old Lewis had mercifully fallen asleep in a distant wing. My mind was very far away, wondering if it might not be such a bad thing to stop asking this God fellow for another day. At about the tenth hour, near as I can recall, there arose the faintest trace of singing off in a distant place. It was barely audible and only voices, but I knew it readily as music of some sort.
I saw but shadows, as the moon was a quarter. As the sound moved closer, I could see dark forms moving in unison towards the front of the house. Fishermen! I thought... but boats were going out this time of year, not in. It had crossed my mind to roll the hallway for Lewis, but I was filled with a child’s innocent curiosity and decided I was up for an adventure. It was past my bedtime anyway, and father’s anger would be aimed at Lewis! Why not strike while the iron is hot!
I rolled quietly to the screen door at the corner of the east wing and paused. I had experimented before. Several sudden bumps would cause the latch to spring, and a sudden burst of speed, such as my tiny engine could afford, would allow me to charge though to the outer deck.
As with all great assault plans, there were several problems to be considered. Once through the screen door, there was no going back! If Lewis didn’t wake and come looking for me, I was in for a cold and possibly wet night with who-knows-what roaming the Canadian countryside. Further, should I miscalculate my ability to brake, I might fly off the deck, barely eight feet across, and be trapped beneath my chair unable to call for help. While the deck stood only a few inches high off the ground, it was enough to tumble my chair.
But the voices were so close, and while there seemed to be a deep sadness to the sound, it was so sweet I felt myself being filled with a great need to find the sound’s origin—three, maybe four men chanting as with one voice in a language I had never heard before. It drummed on and soon I knew I had to see what caused it, and the forms were right in front of me.
BUMP! BUMP! I drove my chair into the door, and on the third try it sprang open. I burst through the door and as I crossed over the deck, two dark forms turned at me. I only remember the eyes, their eyes, peering and widening in fear as I charged forward. I leaned hard on the pads which stopped me—or perhaps not! I plunged, angling wildly on one wheel, and flew right off the deck, driving a wedge between the two dark shapes. With a crash, I fell backwards, the sudden shock driving the air from within me. I lay there, gasping and shaking.
The forms too had fallen, but in an instant one form seemed to spring from the ground and turn in my direction. He reached to his side and I heard metal slide against metal. The form, dark and with an angry face, now loomed over me with a sword drawn over his head, ready to strike me in two. I heard him groan in strain as fishermen do when they pull full nets in—and saw the sword coming down on me! I could do no more than convulse in terror, driving even more air from my small frame.
As surely as the sun would rise without me tomorrow, I was going to die tonight! But as the weapon passed the form’s head, a hand came from nowhere and pulled the weapon back.
“Christ’s wounds, Hamet!” said a gentle but at the same time firm voice. “Your foe is a child! See how he shakes and how his limbs are formed? He has the same dropsy that took my brother to God’s sight.” The eyes of my attacker widened again. Above his shoulder a shock of hair fell, and a massive hand reached down to grab at me. It pushed past my assailant and was brought down on my chest, softly putting pressure on my ribs. “Easy, boy,” the voice spoke, “it will pass.”
But it wasn’t passing. I was choking for air that refused to come into my body. As he rhythmically pushed at my chest, a third form appeared. He was thick-necked and thick-chested, and seemed strong enough to tear a tree from the ground, but his touch was gentler that any touch I have ever known. “Move aside, Brother,” he said, and the shade hovering over me pulled back. I was doing no better, but the touch of this being and the strength of his face calmed me down some. He worked my ribs for several moments to help my lungs gather air, but saw little change. “Hamet, bring your bowl, I can do no more!” he said at last.
My attacker had changed his course of action. He had sheathed his weapon and, from beneath the very tattered robe he wore, drew a small bowl of a dark reddish color out of a leather bag. As he knelt nearer, I could feel deep sorrow—not mine, but his. “I am indeed sorry, lad.” He spoke in a kindly manner, and pressed his bowl into my hand. “My temper has always wroth nothing but sorrow.” Again, in a language unfamiliar to me, he spoke two words, which were spoken back by his companions.
By what means my resurrection transpired, I am not sure. As he rocked me in his arms, the moon seemed to turn full and I felt air filling my lungs. With heaving sighs, I was returning to the domain of the living.
“Be at peace, Hamet,” the third voice said. “Thy faith saves you and the boy!”
Liebenstein’s machine had run out of tape a while back, but he had not even noticed. McGovern had stopped his master’s flow of reflection with a pot of coffee, freshly brewed. Though it was still quite a warm night, it was the needed pause that the mind requires to re-center itself. Liebenstein tapped his finger pensively on the table. There were certain questions in his mind as to how tightly Thompson might be wrapped. He could not question Thompson’s veracity. He most certainly believed what he had said. And there were two six-foot tall Jesuits who most certainly believed his tale!
“Doc,” he said with more that a little restraint, “Doc, I... are you going to ask me to believe that your life was saved by three medieval crusaders? In Canada? In the twentieth century?”
“No. My life was spared by God through the intercession of a Scottish Monk in the service of the Poor Fellow Knights of the Temple of Solomon... and two Templar Knights.”
“Well, that certainly makes a difference!”
“Relax a bit, my friend,” Thompson whispered as coffee was poured to his guest. “Faith is always a hard thing to prove. You’re not a prisoner here. Beaumond’s design didn’t even include a dungeon.” Thompson’s attempt at a grin warmed the agnostic. “If you’d rather, I can give you a great lecture on Chaucer.”
The reporter rested his head on his fist. “Hell, man! The door’s been opened!”
As I lay there exhausted, the moon returned to its quarter. I could feel strong hands on my shoulder pulling me backwards and upright into a sitting position against a chain-mailed chest under a tattered robe. The one they had called Hamet had regained his composure and was, with great care, placing his little bowl back into the leather bag he had drawn it from.
“Brother Theo,” the voice behind me called, “fetch the lad’s conveyance, and be quick, please.”
The one named Theo was already bent over the chair, poking and prodding the engine, spinning the thinly-spoked wheels. He craned around at us. “By beardless Saint Venatius!” he boomed. “Never in all my years have I seen such a wondrous machine! Brother Geofray! Behold!” He pressed the elbow pad and the wheels spun as the engine whirred. “Ha! God has given feet to men with no legs!” Though he himself was heavily bearded, a wide grin appeared onto what I supposed was his chin. I had never seen teeth gleam in the moonlight before, and was amused—and, for the first time since my misadventure had begun, I was not afraid.
“God be praised, Theo. Now be a good lad and lift it upright so this young fellow might properly be of our company. Then please, go to the well and fill the cup with water.”
As the bearded one moved to obey, I felt strong arms reach beneath my legs and across my back. Hamet raised me off the ground and carried me to my chair. With great gentility he slid his arms away and I settled into my seat.
“Aye, lad, I was sore afeared I’d ended your life for ye! I thought you to be a demon. Lucky for you, our good Brother Beaumond stayed my hand and showed me the error of my evil temper. And a good man he be for that! After almost nine hundred years, I might not have remembered the Last Rites!”
My newfound friends found humor in that, and while I wasn’t quite sure of what they were talking about, I tried to smile too. The best I could muster was the chattering of teeth as the cool night air tried to take advantage of the evening’s events. Seeing my distress, the tall blonde-haired man rose from the stump upon which he’d been sitting and moved towards me. As he approached, he lifted the woolen mantle that he cloaked himself with and wrapped it carefully about me.
“There now,” Hamet said, “see what a good fellow our Beaumond is! Once already he has saved you from being severed in two, and here he saves you again! Can’t have you dying of a simple ague, t’would be a waste of a perfectly good miracle!”
I looked at the one called Beaumond. He was tall and straight as an arrow. I could see that he was not dressed as my father or his fishermen were. His clothing seemed to be made of small metal circles, and atop it was a fine white over-garment, with a large red "t" over the left breast. It was like the clothing I’d seen King Richard wearing when my father had wheeled me into a theatre to see the movie Robin Hood. From Beaumond’s belt hung a great, wide sword and on his feet, some type of spur.
“Now tell us, boy,” the Knight asked, “by what name are we to know you?”
Now, not all that many people had ever asked me a direct question that actually required an answer! My speech was little more than an assemblage of grunts and droolings and I did my best to avoid it. But as I felt my eyes blinking and my head bobbing up and down to try and forced the words out, Hamet reached out and put his hand upon my shoulder.
“Speak from the heart, boy, and your words will be known to us!”
“Richard Thompson, sir. Richard!” I heard the usual grunts and groans, but the words seemed to materialize as if pulled from the very air about me.
“Well, young master Richard... a very noble name, one to be proud of. Now tell me, how is it you come to see us when others cannot? AH! Forgive me!” He smiled a warming type of smile that told me clearly I had made a friend. “I am Friar Hamet McCorvy of Clan McCorvy, Chaplain to these humble Poor Fellow Knights of the Temple of Solomon. I have the knowing of things to heal sick bodies, taught to me in great secrecy by the doctors of an Emir of the Palestine, the great and terrible Tuffin Ah Halamin!” He had been kneeling on one knee in front of my chair to meet me at eye level, but now he pushed himself back and lay prostrate before me. “A’Halimin! A’HALAMEEEN!” he wailed, as if giving homage to a great ruler. “He who moves mountains from his path, and sweeps through the desert as a wind!” He looked up, grinning broadly, and pulled up in front of me again.
“I was also sent to the Pope’s court!” Hamet’s head turned quickly left to right as if he was looking around to see if there was someone other than our company listening. Looking at me again with an even broader grin, he said, “The Pope was not nearly as much fun as Halamin, God forgive me! It’s true!” And he winked an eye. “I have things to heal the soul, and know tales of val’rous knights. Much I have seen in almost a millennium!”
“HO!” cried the thick man, as he handed the old cup of water from the draw well to Hamet, who held it to my lips. The well had been there forever with its bucket and little cup, but I’d never had water from the old well. It was cold and crisp and I drank willingly, and it seemed to revive me as the heavy man continued talking. “Listen to the Scot!” He laughed and strode forward to lift Hamet from the spot he was kneeling as if he was no more than a stuffed pillow. He did not kneel in front of me, but stood with hands on hips, his head back and chest puffed out. In the thin moon’s pale light I could see he was garbed in nearly the same fashion as the blonde knight. “I, lad,” he puffed, flicking his thumb at his chest, “I, Master Richard, am Brother Theo! Theobor of Hambor. I knew no Emirs, but these hands...” he stretch out two massive paws for my inspection in the thin moonlight, “these hands did serve Molay himself as sculptor and builder in stone! Molay, the last Great Grand Master of the Temple! Upon the altar I had built to Christ’s glory at my Master’s command, the last of the Templars in the Holy Lands were consecrated unto the service of God! Many clever engines have I...” He paused. Hamet stood at his shoulder, scowling a bit. “Hmmm, I suppose I could be a bit more ’umble.” He knelt to one knee and leaned in closely to me. “Forgive me, boy, for the poor example I set. My seven hundred years have not taught me nearly enough to be worthy of the great task set upon us. I am true glad, young Richard, that you are not harmed, and I bless thee in God’s name, lad.”
“I bless thee, also in His Name.” My weakly supported neck half-turned towards the voice. “I, Geofray Beaumond, second son of the Regent of Burgundy, Emissary to the court of Salah al Din, engineer in the service of Richard Coeur de Lion of England and of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon, and Templar Knight. To what end you have been sent to us, I do not know—but I believe, as with all things under Our Lord’s eye, there is purpose for you. Here! With us!” Beaumond had walked alongside my chair. His hand rested on my forehead. “Keep thy faith, my young brother, God has placed his hand on you through our Hamet and granted to you another day of life. I have not talked to a living man in eight hundred years, nor have any of us, the world of men having past our time. I know there is purpose for you, here!” He hoisted my chair and lifted me back onto the deck.
From inside the house, I heard old Lewis calling my name. My mother’s voice joined the search. I had turned to look at the door, and when I swung my head back to look at Beaumond, they were gone.
My mother had returned to find Lewis frantically searching for me, running from room to room. She found me, in short enough time, on the porch watching stars shoot over the sea, wrapped warmly in Beaumond’s mantle.
The mantle remained a source of speculation for many years. When Beth tried to throw her arms about me, an ancient set of Rosary Beads fell from a hidden pocket into her hands.
