Love is my Destiny

Title Page

LOVE IS MY DESTINY

A FICTION TRAGEDY

By

Paul Kelly

Publisher Information

Love Is My Destiny

Published in 2011 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Paul Kelly

The right of Paul Kelly to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Quote

"For love is without contradiction. The dove will not fly backwards, nor will the river Flow upstream. The emerald is not red, nor the ruby green and the saffron amethyst is a folly ... and no greater love hath any man than that he lay down his life for his friend.

A priest is a man . . . and he can fall in love like any other man, It’s what he does about it that matters . . .

This is a story about the true vocation of the catholic priesthood with the vows that unite the priest to almighty god . . . With particular emphasis on his vow of celibacy . . . And purity of living for god and for God alone . . .

Foreword

Scotland, the Highlands, 1920

It was in the year 1920, in the Scottish Highland village of Bolarne, situated at the foot of Glen Maurkyre, near Shornagh, that Anna waited longingly for the birth of her child. It was early in the afternoon and the sun battled in her effort to shine through the dark and heavy clouds that cast a blanket shadow across the earth, deep into the meadows and scaling the heather-clan mountain region where occasionally her rays would shyly break through. The transformation of her golden touch sparked life into the deep purple and russet heather as it swayed in abandon amidst the thick, coarse highland gorse. This was the nature of the land that Anna loved.

The cottage was dark, apart from the faint light of a paraffin lamp in the far corner of the bedroom. Anna lay in her wooden bed, bathed in the perspiration of her toil; her silken fair hair, darkened and pressed close to her head from the sweat that gave her relief from her pain. Miguel, her husband, watched anxiously by her side, pressing his forehead into the palm of her clammy hand and the village nurse stood by.

Push, Anna. Push hard lass. It won’t be long now.

Anna obeyed eager to see the child that had been so long the object of her yearnings.

Ah! I see the head.

Nurse Ogilvy’s face lit up as she prepared to perform the delicate duties of her midwifery training.

Wonderful, Anna ... Truly wonderful. Push lass push, she urged and within a few painful seconds, a little boy was born.

Nurse Ogilvy took the child aside to wash him, having cut the umbilical cord with caring tender hands, releasing the little one to a world of his own, but her face was less that radiant as the moments passed, for the little boy, although well coloured and breathing, would not cry.

She slapped him gently in the hopes of a sad little echo of a whimper, but to no avail. She tried again, taking care not to forget her patient in her efforts, but with the same result.

My God, the child is mute, she whispered and Miguel stirred by Anna’s side.

Nurse, nurse, he cried, come quickly please and he stood aside in alarm as his wife convulsed into a second spasm of agony.

What is it Anna? Where is the pain? Tell me? nurse Ogilvy demanded, but Anna simply smiled through her torment and her eyes were ecstatic.

Another ... there is another, she gasped.

Nurse Ogilvy looked from her patient to the husband in confusion as Anna continued to writhe in pain whilst Miguel and the nurse looked on in amazement.

The little boy who had already been born was by now safely wrapped in a warm towel and tucked into his cot, but the little cherub lay still and in silence.

It was nearly an hour before Anna flexed her muscles and strained to bring her twin child into the world and after a last tremendous effort she lay back in triumphant exhaustion. It was at that very moment, a cry came from the nearby cot and Anna’s little one gave proof to the world that he did indeed have a voice.

The nurse took the baby boy from his cot and placed him in his mother’s arms And the other child ... Please nurse, my other one, Anna pleaded, as nurse Ogilvy stroked the patient’s damp forehead.

Rest now, lass. It’s all over now, she said, but the patient continued to mutter, But the other one, nurse please ... The other one, she pleaded in distress as nurse Ogilvy sighed ...Anna, there was only one child. There were never two," the nurse replied and Anna’s eyes went wide as her lips started to quiver.

But I ...

Anna lay back exhausted and Miguel took the child from her arms as she fell into a deep sleep

***

Anna and her husband walked the five miles that it took to reach the Church of Our Lady of Grace, to have the infant baptized two weeks after the birth.

Miguel was elated, but Anna walked with a troubled heart. The joy of her soul was now incarnate in her arms in the form of a humble male child, but her peace was not without disturbance.

What have ye decided tae call the wee bairn? the old priest asked, smiling a welcome to the new member of his flock. Miguel looked at Anna and smiled shyly as his wife debated with the name. Fernando, Miguel, Alphonso Zambrano, she replied and the priest looked across the top of his spectacles..

Och, to be sure, ye have enough names there for two wee laddies, let alone one, he commented affectionately as Anna glanced at the crucifix above the high altar and her eyes were gentle with a renewed peace to her state.

Yes Father ... enough for two, she whispered, enough for two . .

The little boy cried lustily when the baptismal unction touched his fair brow. It was the cry that would produce the finest voice in the whole of the glen ... and even farther, for he was born to sing as naturally and as beautifully as he grew into manhood, in wisdom and in love.

‘LOVE IS MY DESTINY’ is not particularly a love story, but it is a story of a particular love. If you have never loved ... never REALLY loved ... then you will be wasting your time in reading this narration. For love knows no bounds, no borders, no restrictions in logic, no religion, no colour and no class.

The river of love flows where it will ... That is nature ... That is DESTINY.

Love

Love is truth, love is kind …love is patient; patient of criticism, but defiant of human intolerance.

Love is accepting and forgiving. Love is pure.

Love is the snow-white dove as she pierces the clouds, To rest on the blanch-tipped, heather-clad mountains, The dove that descends to earth, to glide with grace, In the wind that bends the yellow corn.

Love is without contradiction, The dove will not fly backwards, nor will the river flow upstream, The emerald is not red, nor the ruby green, And the saffron amethyst is a folly.

Love is swift and straight, as the shaft from the arrow, LOVE IS TRUTH.

When man is visited by the white dove, no explanation is necessary, But to him, whom she visits not, no explanation will suffice.

Chapter One

Seventeen Years Later

THE WIND BLEW low and strong over the earth and the dark purple clouds scurried across the reddening sky like tattered dusters, ignoring the muted protests of the thick Highland gorse and the heavy coarse grass, as it spread its venom, to press the land into subjection. The sound of the wind, so familiar in the Highlands of Scotland was today somewhat foreboding. The wind was afraid.

Fern stood silently in the room where his mother lay. He wanted to cry, but although overwhelmed with grief, there were no tears. The bridge of his nose ached, and his head was heavy; as if someone had punched him hard between the eyes as he gazed through a mist again at the coffin.

Her face was gentle and serene and she was at rest at last, but his mind was fertile with questions ... questions without answers …

Are you still at school? A voice from nearby could be heard and as Fern turned around slowly, the priest had put his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

School … school? Yes, I am still at school, he replied and the priest could find no more to say, as he gently squeezed the boy’s arm.

I’ll be around if you need me. Take care, he said and left the room. Fern remained by the coffin for what seemed to be hours until the undertaker replaced the lid and a dimension of light in his young life went out. He left the room; his mind in confusion.

***

So strange, it seemed that the hills should look the same; that the sun should shine as brightly and that the wind should continue to whistle through the trees. The birds chirped merrily in the hedgerow and in the distance, he could hear the roar of the waterfall. Nothing had changed. Nothing would admit to his mother being with him no more as Fern sighed longingly and walked on with heavy tread. He trudged through the meadow and up into the hills, onwards to the forest where the huge trees darkened the earth with cooling dampness and the sun fought to penetrate in spangled spasms, until after some time, he approached the waterfall and sat down. This was the spot he loved and where he would sit for hours to marvel at the majesty of such power and might. This gigantic; screeching deluge of aqueous diamonds that fell thunderously before him, screaming in daily protest in defiance of the world… spitting and screeching to be recognised for the majestic tsunami he was ... No humility here, thought Fern, and yet, he knew this same torrential giant as a caring loving friend, to guard the secrets of his mind and to drown the sorrows of his heart on his not infrequent visits to this place of such familiar mad chaotic crescendo. Here was a giant who guarded jealously his innermost feelings and this moment was as real as his heart was heavy.

I am so lonely. So very much alone and afraid, he sighed, uttering the words in search of response, awaiting an answer ... a solution to stem his agony, but in the stillness, the proud giant continued to roar complacently.

***

The months that passed were long and pensive, and Fern’s stepfather grew even more retired from him. Fern knew there was never much feeling between Stephen Lockton and his mother; that there was a strained, if acceptable toleration, if such a term could be used for their union in marriage but at this period in his young life, he would have appreciated some help and understanding of the situation. Fern’s mother had married Stephen Lockton after his natural father had died, when he was three years of age and Stephen had never shown him very much affection although Fern was in no doubt that he was a good and upright man. His stepfather’s vocation as a Minister of the Episcopalian Church had occupied all of his time and energy. The marriage had never produced children …Nevertheless Fern wondered why, when obviously there had never been an easy flow of affection between his mother and this man of God, that no harsh words were ever used either; no flare of tempers… and yet, he had always been conscious of an emptiness about the whole affair; an emptiness of despair in his own heart; a heart which desperately demanded and generated a love that was strong and compelling, yet incomprehensible in so many ways to himself. It was at moments of thought like these that he felt the inadequacy of his seventeen years.

Chapter Two

I’M GOING INTO SHORNAGH, want a lift? called the priest. Father Spinelli’s old square box Austin car had seen better days and he had bought it third-hand, but it provided the necessary transport required for the status of a country parish priest and he repeated his request, but it seemed that Fern had not heard him.

Want a lift? he called again as Fern kicked a stone across the dusty road.

No thank you ... I’m just out for a walk, the boy replied and the priest looked a little sad.

I’ll be glad of your company, he patronised, please? he went on and Fern, inwardly pleased that someone should acknowledge him, jumped into the car, glad in his heart that he had found someone with whom he could talk.

My name is Peter, Peter Spinelli, what’s yours?

The young priest already knew the answer to his question but he wanted to be kind.

Fern ... Fernando ... Fernando ... Lockton, the boy answered reluctantly as Peter’s brakes grinded irritatingly as he drove off in jerky movements.

However did you get a name like Fernando?

Fern stretched himself on the seat as they drove on.

"My father was Spanish. My name should be Zambrano as that is my family name. I was baptised Fernando Miguel Alphonso Zambrano, but my mother remarried when I was very little and my own father died. You may know my stepfather, Stephen Lockton; he is the Minister at the Episcopalian Church on the hill.

Of course, I know your step father. I was sorry about your mother’s death Fern, and I hope you feel better now.

Fern was surprised at the priest’s remark about his mother, as he looked intently into the car mirror.

Of course ... I remember. You are the person ... the minister who attended my mother’s funeral. I thought your face was familiar, he said in a soft voice and there were a few moments of silence before either spoke again. Yes, I have got used to the fact that I will never see her again, but it is sometimes very hard, Fern spoke again quietly and gazed out from the car window as Peter swerved to avoid a passing motorist.

I know. I had the same situation when I was very young ... well a teenager actually, just like you are and my own mother died, but tell me, how do you happen to be so fair, if you are of Spanish origin?

Fern blushed visibly and smiled.

My mother was a Scot ... and a lovely one at that, he added with pride and the young priest laughed as they drove on.

Well, I have a few visits to make in Shornagh, Peter added as if by afterthought, and then I’m due back home again in the afternoon. If you like, I can see you later and we’ll have a cup of tea and something to eat. What do you think?

That would be nice, if you don’t think I would be a trouble. I mean, I can quite easily get home on my own.

Peter’s gears made a peculiar sound as he changed down.

Call me Peter and I’ll be back at this car park in two hours. You’ll be ready for a cuppa by that time, I’m sure, he added cheerfully and Fern agreed before he left the car and strolled along the road towards the village bookshop where he loved to browse among the books and to allow his imagination to run wild wherever it would. He was always available to travel anywhere in his mind and in that way; he was very well travelled indeed. Fern went into the bookshop humming a tune as he studied the shelves, heavily crammed with travel books of all kinds.

His thoughts went out to Spain ... to the land of his real father’s boyhood days and how different they would have been from his own, he thought ... Miguel, Alphonso Zambrano ... Fern imagined a carefree youth, not very tall and with a shock of black hair who must have had brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, he concluded. The priest was right. However did he turn out the way he was and spontaneously his thoughts returned to his mother, to the thought of her fair skin and blue eyes, with flaxen hair so soft that it blew in abandon with the wind. He saw again, so vividly, the cool soft lips that needed no colour and the blush in her cheeks. He envied his father, having had the love of such a beautiful lady, but then, what was he really like?

He must have been very special for his mother to love him and not for the first time, he wished he had known his father. His biological father ... He wished he could be with him now. He wished ... yes, he wished, but life was always so full of wishes ... and especially now.

***

Father Spinelli was waiting at the car park when Fern arrived.

I’m just gasping for some tea, aren’t you? the priest enquired impatiently and without waiting for an answer, he ushered Fern into the cafe and they sat down. The welcoming tea made them both feel better and Fern told Peter about the bookshop and how he enjoyed reading, especially about travel, as he looked again at the priest with renewed interest. Peter had a way of looking directly into the eyes of the person to whom he was speaking and Fern had noticed this several times.

You must have travelled a lot, Father, he said, having regard for the priest’s foreign name.

Not very much, said Peter, between mouthfuls of homemade cherry cake, Rome twice and once to Milan, where my parents started out, but they both loved Scotland and therefore they chose to live here after they got married. I was born here in Scotland, you see. Have you ever been to Italy, Fern?

Fern guided some crumbs from his lips into his mouth with his finger, mumbling as he grinned widely.

I didn’t think Spinelli was a Scottish name, he chuckled "and no, I’ve never been out of Scotland. Edinburgh a few times and, oh yes ...

Inverness once," he gabbled and the priest was about to speak again when Fern interrupted.

I’d love to go ... sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted you, Father ... er, Peter.

No you haven’t interrupted me at all. Carry on, where would you like to go? Peter asked and Fern sipped the remainder of his tea as he replaced his cup in its saucer.

I have always wanted to go to Spain, and to Italy. To Spain because of my father of course…

And Italy? asked Peter, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

I have heard that it is the best country for voice training, replied Fern and Peter slurped his tea as he listened to his new young friend with interest.

Whatever do you want to have your voice trained to do? he enquired quizzically and Fern humped his shoulders as he rolled his eyes.

I love to sing and I would like to have full voice training, if I could.

Sing? repeated the priest, I didn’t know you were a singer.

Fern puckered his brow.

I’m not really, but I would love to be, one day. I am presently training in the church choir with Mr. Mahon. He is the Choir Master.

This is something I must hear, Peter patronised again smiling, but Fern felt that he was hogging the conversation and quickly changed the subject.

Do you have a hobby, Peter? he asked and the priest drained his cup.

Not quite. This is my first parish since my ordination and I haven’t got myself totally settled in yet, but I do play a few notes on the organ, and I mean, a FEW notes, he replied and Fern became very self-conscious about his presumption. He wished he had not spoken about singing to his friend, as he observed the priest closely when he thought he was not being seen. He liked him. Peter was young ...about twenty three or four, he thought. His hair was very dark and he had a ‘blue’ chin, the obvious shadow of his morning shave, and the envy of Fern. ‘Blue chins’ were in. He had remarkably white even teeth, and his eyes were blue; very deep blue and very deep set. His faintly Scottish accent gave a particularly attractive tone to his already melodious voice and he laughed a lot whenever he spoke, but for all of those qualities, Fern was apprehensive ... There was a sense of loneliness about this man; of distinct singularity, despite his charm and seemingly extrovert mannerism. He felt there was a sadness surrounding him, although he was one of the happiest people he had ever met. This contradiction puzzled Fern and he knew he could never ask for reason or explanation of his thoughts as he fumbled clumsily for something more to say.

I always thought that ... that people with dark hair ... had brown eye…. he stammered, knowing his remark to be feeble; somewhat trite, and he was surprised at his own proclamation of how nature should be, but the priest smiled broadly.

Well now ... There we do have something in common, Blondie, don’t we? he giggled I have your eyes and you have mine. said Peter, hoping that Fern would accept his observation as the joke it was meant to be, but Fern looked intently at the priest before he spoke again. He reflected slowly, but he did not reply to Peter’s jest. Yes, his eyes were brown, he concluded.

Do you have any other brothers or sisters, Fern? Peter went on, hoping he had not offended the boy, but Fern simply smiled.

No ... Do you?

"No ... So there, we have something else in common.

***

The skies clouded over as they drove back to Bolarne and Fern fell asleep as the engine purred methodically, if more noisily than Peter would have wished.

We’re here, the voice interrupted his slumber and Fern yawned.

I’m sorry to have fallen asleep, Father.

My name is Peter ... and you needed that sleep, otherwise you would have kept awake, besides I usually send my congregation to sleep when I preach.

Peter eyed Fern mischievously and they both laughed.

Thank you for a very nice afternoon, Peter, and for the tea also. I’m glad now that I came with you.

Perhaps we can do it again soon. I’m off duty every Thursday, Peter smiled as he spoke.

That would be nice ... Bye Peter.

Bye Fern and thanks again….

***

But the following Thursday when Fern called at the Presbytery, Peterwas not there, The housekeeper told him that the priest had gone into Edinburgh to collect some vestments that were being repaired and that he was not expected back until late that evening. Fern thanked her and made his way back home. He went via the waterfall.

Well old friend, I’m here on my own again, he murmured as he squatted near the water spray, but keeping a dry distance away. You seem to be just as wild and noisy as ever, he moaned and the waterfall roared in agreement.

I’ve made a friend of a most unusual person. He’s a priest, a Catholic priest. They don’t marry, do they? he enquired of the Giant before him, but the roaring just continued, busily.

Protestant Ministers are allowed to marry, he said aloud as a spray of fine mist touched his face and he quickly sprang to his feet.

Protestants…Catholics he asked himself, Stephen and Peter ...My mother ... Why, why?

His eyes were wide and the realisation of his thoughts electrified him.

What was a Catholic priest doing at his mother’s funeral? It had not occurred to him before that Stephen had not taken part in the service, but Fern had thought it was because he was too upset and had someone else to perform the ceremony, but WHY a Catholic priest?

He raced through the fields on his way home, slashing his shins against the coarse unyielding gorse; soaking his trousers with the morning dew and when eventually he arrived back at the Manse, he went straight to his room and threw himself on the bed. His mind was puzzled with the thoughts that pursued him and he slept very little that night.

***

Peter looked up from the pew where he was kneeling to say his Daily Office of Prayers and where a slight figure had sat down beside him, but the priest continued to pray for a few moments longer and after some time, he made the Sign of the Cross as he closed his breviary… Not a word had been spoken, as Peter looked at Fern.

Nice to see you again …how are you.

Fern’s face was unsmiling.

I’m all right, and you.

Fine, but I’m sure you didn’t come here just to enquire about my health, did you.

Peter felt there was something worrying his young friend, as Fern looked intently at him with troubled eyes.

What is the matter, Fern?

The boy wet his lips and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

There is something I would like to ask you please?

Yes …and what is that?

Fern shook the hair from his forehead with a single flick of his head and stared into Peter’s face.

Did you know my mother when she was alive?

Peter did not answer immediately. His eyes were apprehensive.

Not greatly, he said at last, though I’m sure she was a lovely lady, why?

You attended the funeral service ... why did you do that when she was not a Catholic.

The priest looked around him. How could he answer Fern’s question when there was so much anxiety and unrest in the boy’s face. He bit his lip and tapped his fingers on his prayer book.

I thought you knew Fern ... Your mother was a Catholic.

Fern sat rigidly in the pew and gazed at the altar in front of him. He was silent and the air was crisp with tension. A statue of the Virgin smiled down at him meekly and he closed his eyes in disgust.

I did not know, he whispered involuntarily, she never told me that she was. Peter could feel the anxiety in the boy’s voice and wanted so much to help him. He sighed and his fingers went even more impetuously at the breviary.

Fern, religion is not something that people discuss very often. Your father ... your biological father was a Catholic and so was your mother. You were baptised a Catholic and so that makes you one of us, he said, but Fern could find no words to say. He drew in his breath and closed his eyes more tightly as Peter continued to speak. There is no problem, Fern. When your mother died …I was asked by Stephen to conduct the service and arrange for the burial. It was your mother’s last request and had I not received those instructions I would not have been there. He turned to face Fern, but the boy’s face was blank. He appeared distant. Fern, are you all right? Is there anything at all I can say to make you feel better?

Peter put out his hand to touch the boy as he spoke, but Fern moved away hastily.

I’m all right Father, he said softly, but there was a distant air in the tone of his voice. I would just like to be on my own, he said as he turned away from the priest but Peter was worried.

It’s alright Fern. I promise you, everything is all right, he spluttered, but Fern turned around angrily and stared at the priest.

It is NOT alright, he barked ... "I don’t want to be a Catholic...

I don’t choose that way of life. Stephen Lockton is not a Catholic, is he?"

Peter clutched his breviary with his left hand as he genuflected before the High Altar and crossed himself with his right hand. He understood the need for Fern to be on his own and he made his way towards the Sacristy… But as he walked away and passed the kneeling figure of the boy, he wanted to touch him; to re-assure him that he was his friend and that he had nothing to fear, but he judged it best to leave the matter as it was, at least for the time being.

The following Thursday, Fern did not call at the Presbytery, nor did he call again for quite some time to come.

***

Fern was sitting on the riverbank with his fishing rod at an angle, but without success of a bite when suddenly he became aware of the shadow of someone beside him.

Are we talking this morning? Peter whispered gently as he approached and Fern looked up. The sun made him squint.

Hello Father, he said with a wry look on his face.

Why the formality…? I told you to call me Peter.

Fern flicked his line and dug his heels into the earth.

I didn’t know then that you were…who you are or rather, that my mother was what you say she was ...or anything, he stammered.

Does it make any difference to our friendship, Fern? We are both still the same people as we were before you asked me any questions about your mother ... Fern, listen to me.

Peter moved closer and his foot slid on the mud. He replaced it on firmer ground.

Religion is irrelevant. It does not matter what you are. Catholic, Protestant or Jew …you are what you are and you should try to be the best person for it. A man’s religion should help him to be true to himself and to get to know who and what he is. We are all children of the same God.

There was a long silence between the two men as Fern stared into the water.

I just feel that you are estranged from me in some way, he mumbled and Peter sighed.

That’s probably because you think that all Catholics have horns, and more so Catholic priests. It’s all right to be a friend of a priest as long as you are on the same side of the fence ... is that it.

Fern began to bite his lip. He was cold.

I can’t get a bite this morning, he diverted.

Neither can I apparently said Peter and Fern laughed as he looked up again through the sunlight and his eyes narrowed as he raised his arm to shield his sight.

You’re very quick and I’m sorry to have seemed so insensitive, Fern said quietly, with a certain reticence as Peter slowly extended the hand of companionship towards him. There was an awkward pause before the boy accepted the gesture of friendship readily ... almost greedily. But how was he to know that this handshake would change the whole of his young life and that even as he held the priest’s hand in his own, there was a warmth between them; a sanguinary bond; a union that would not be deflected by the flesh that separated them ... or by the different religions that they followed. The moment created a sense of mystery beyond Fern’s comprehension that made him shudder for a