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G-r-r-r...! By: Robert Donald Locke |
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g r r r...! by ... ROGER ARCOT
He had borne the thousand and one injuries with humility and
charity. But the insults! These were more than he could suffer....
Gr r r! There he goes again! Brother Ambrose could scarce restrain the
hatred that seethed and churned in his breast, as his smallish eyes
followed Brother Lorenzo headed once more for his beloved geraniums, the
inevitable watering pot gripped in both hands, the inevitable devotions
rising in a whispered stream from his saintly lips. The very fact the
man lived was a mockery to human justice: God's blood, but if thoughts
could only kill. Ave, Virgo! The thousand and one injuries of Fray Lorenzo he had borne as a
Christian monk should, with humility and charity. But the insults, aye,
the insults to faith and reason! They were more than a generous Father
could expect His most adoring servant to suffer, weren't they? To have
to sit next to the man, for instance, at evening meal and hear his silly
prattle of the weather. Next year's crop of cork: we can scarcely expect
oak galls, he says. Isn't petroselinum the name for parsley? (No,
it's Greek, you swine. And what's the Greek name for Swine's Snout? I
could hurl it at you, like the Pope hurling anathema.) Salve tibi! It
sticks in one's craw to bless him with the rest. Would God our cloister
numbered thirty and nine instead of forty. For days now, for weeks, Brother Ambrose had witnessed and endured the
false piety of the man. How he'd ever got admitted to the order in the
first place beat all supposition. It must have been his sanctimonious
apple cheeks or (Heaven forbid such simony), some rich relative greased
the palm of the Prior. Saint, forsooth! Brother Ambrose recalled just a week previous; they had been outside the
walls, a round dozen of the brothers, gathering the first few bushels of
grapes to make the good Benedictine wine. And all men tended to their
duty in the vineyard save who? Save lecherous Lorenzo, whose job was to
attend the press. Picked the assignment himself, most likely, so he
could ogle the brown thighs and browner ankles of Dolores squatting on
the Convent bank, gitana slut with her flashing eyes and hint of sweet
delight in those cherry red lips and coquettish tossing shoulders. A man
could see she was child of the devil, flesh to tempt to eternal
hellfire. But how skillful Brother Lorenzo had been in keeping the glow in his
dead eye from being seen by the others! Only Ambrose had known it was
there. Invisible to even the world, perhaps; but lurking just the same
in Lorenzo's feverishly disguised brain. Si , there and lusting beyond
a doubt. By one's faith, the blue black hair of Dolores would make any
weak man itch; and the stories that had floated on the breeze that day,
livelily exchanged between her and that roguish Sanchicha, the
lavandera ; Lorenzo must surely have lapped them all up like a hungry
spaniel, though he cleverly turned his head away so you would not guess.
After all, Ambrose, scarcely a step closer, could recall clearly every
word of the bawdy tales! Back to the table again; and Brother Ambrose once more noticed how Fray
Lorenzo never let his fork and knife lie crosswise, an obvious tribute
he, himself, always made in Our Senor's praise. Nor did Lorenzo honor
the Trinity by drinking his orange pulp in three quiet sips; rather (the
Arian heretic) he drained it at a gulp. Now, he was out trimming his
myrtle bush. And touching up his roses. Gr r r, again! Watching his enemy putter away in the deepening twilight
that followed the decline of the Andalusian sun, Brother Ambrose
recalled the other traps he had lain to trip the hypocrite... Continue reading book >>
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Fantasy |
Literature |
Short stories |
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