The Street Had No Name

Chapter 20

SOMEWHERE, In Its Own Time

Vicarel rose with the first light. Surprisingly he felt refreshed, although his sleep had been punctuated with periods where he was completely awake, listening to the noises of a strange world, his spirit was bright and temperament good. For reasons that he could not explain, he felt at home here. Albeit he didn’t really know where here was; at home; well that’s how he felt. His bed under the waggon, the smell of the straw, the gentle softness of the air against his face and the sleeping rough, all seemed to trigger some inner contentment he had never felt before or if before, not for one hell of a long time.

Sakara was already ensconced at her pride of place, the fire was rekindled and ready for breakfast cooking; the camp was stirring with the awakening of the new day. She saw the young priest and waved her hand in a beckoning motion.

“Come here priest, we need to talk some more”

So he did. This woman, although senior in years was not someone you took lightly. Vicarel pulled himself out from under the waggon, folded the blanket and stretched into the new day.

The company were busying themselves with the well-rehearsed chores of the early morning. In the distance he could hear the cries and laughter of the children, down in the direction of the little beach where he had meet these people the afternoon prior. From the largest waggon, painted red and yellow with a row of orange suns down the side came the sound of women’s voices and Vicarel found himself start as he realised his expectation to see her again. The old woman called him again, highlighting his distraction.

“Priest come over here” her voice was filled with a pleasant tone, sounding to Vicarel like he would have expected a Grandmother to sound had he have known family.

He sat beside Sakara. She patted his knee absentmindedly, the bracelets and bangles jingling in a soft pleasant way.

“I do not know your given name priest” She asked and Vicarel replied Peter. “Good, then Pieder it will be.” His name sounded strange and very sweet on the old woman’s tongue, Vicarel liked the sound immediately.

She focused on him, in a way that was more through him than at him and nodded her head and paused. “Tell me about yourself Pieder”

Normally Vicarel was loath to discuss his life with anyone. One of the attractions of the order had been the abstract of rebirth. In moments of musing he had often thought to himself that it would have been either the Jesuits or the Foreign Legion that attracted him as a man, at a time when he could take control of his life and establish himself. He never spoke of it much but felt here and now, it was completely something he wanted to do.

So Father Peter Vicarel, Priest and Teacher of the Jesuit Order, sat with an old woman, in a place he had no idea where, and told her of the trials that were his time on earth. Told him of his childhood as an orphan, spent with one family or another, spend on nameless streets with now faceless people, spent alone, a wall of disinterest thrown around him.

Of the times of early manhood, drawn into a life of petty crime and rebellion and finally, with the aid of the one true friend he had, finding a place in the order, becoming his current self. This took a while as Sakara would stop him and ask questions, pass comments and then silently allow him to continue.

Presently, breakfast was served and to Peter’s delight, she was there and passed him the bowl of sweet smelling porridge. As Sakara directed proceedings, he ascertained that her name was Rosa; Vicarel was convinced she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her dark eyes shown with a brightness he had never seen before, her skin was as white as the purest silk, her forehead high and features soft. With the framing of her face by her dark hair, she looked like a Di Vinci study. Vicarel could have watched Rosa forever.

“Pieder,” Sakara’s voice intruded into the tunnel that had become his reality, all focus on Rosa, “do you know of your parents?”

Vicarel shook his head. God, how he wished he could answer differently. How often, as a child had he lay in a bed late at night and imagine that it was all a mistake, that tomorrow, his mother and father would arrive and take him. It was never to be and Vicarel spent his childhood in strange beds, always with crisp clean sheets, alone. “No ma’am, I don’t.” he said in a soft voice. The old woman smiled gently and touched his cheek with her forefinger running it gently down, tracing his jaw. She said a soft word, a word he should never have understood and yet he nodded. It meant “son” no, it meant, “baby son” the way one would say bubba or babe.

“Did you know you were Romi Pieder?” the old woman asked. Asked a young man that did not know, possibly, except for the events of the past few days, would never have known. Asked a young man with a tortured soul and offered, if he wanted, the chance to return to his roots. What’s more, this young man was special. Of that Sakara, Drabarni for the clan, fortune-teller and magician of note, was sure. This Priest was not aware and she knew enough to make sure that the awakening was not too abrupt, but he would be made so. Now, with the events of recent times, he was needed. Providence or faith was a strange bookkeeper; its ledgers followed a strange double entry. Here, it had served up an odd answer to certain prayers.

Sakara smiled inwardly, at two things, first, the likelihood of the events and second, the way the young man was looking at Rosa. Her granddaughter was a beautiful person, not just beautiful, and this young fellow was far from a bad match. Time would tell.