The Book of Q

here and there to bring the place to life-table, chairs, oaken chest lost to the shadows. Otherwise, the room slept in a kind of stasis, even the candlelight unwilling to flicker.

No response.

He moved farther in. He noticed a staircase along the left wall, uneven boards rammed into the stone, no railing, naked steps, barely wide enough for one. More light from above. He headed across the room and made his way up.

Reaching the second floor, he came upon the hohxa eating quietly in front of a flimsy wooden table, an equally ancient chair supporting what Pearse could only describe as one of the thinnest bodies he had ever seen. The man wore a brimless hat far back on his head, the panoply of colors having faded to a dull brown, a few threads of blue and red still visible at the crown. No less aged, a vest hung loose on his shoulders, a striped long-sleeved shirt-no collar-beneath. He kept his legs tucked neatly under the chair, his back and head stooped painfully over the bowl, a gnarled hand clutching at a wedge of bread that seemed more prop than meal. He squeezed at it repeatedly as he brought the spoon to his lips, always careful to scoop up the excess from his chin before plunging in for another helping. When the bowl was all but empty, he mopped the bread across the last few drops, then slowly began to gnaw at the soggy crust.

Only when Pearse had drawn to within a few feet of him did he look up.

“You’ve misplaced your boy,” he said.

“Yes,” Pearse answered, not exactly sure what protocol demanded.

“Nice little fellow,” said the hohxa. “Clever. You don’t seem too worried.”

Pearse realized he wasn’t. Again, no answer why. “I’m not.”

“Good. Do you want some soup? I have plenty.”

“Actually-”

“You want the boy.”

Pearse nodded. There was something oddly serene to the little man and his bread, much like his house, both broken beyond repair, yet somehow comfortable in their easy deterioration.

With significant effort, he pulled himself up, his back only marginally straighter, a quick adjustment of the hat as he shuffled to the far end of the room.

“You’re the priest, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m the priest.”

“Strange how it all comes together, isn’t it?”

Pearse had no idea what the man meant; he nodded.

“It’s important for children to see this. You could learn something.” He slowly pulled back the edge of a curtain to reveal a tiny alcove, the smell of incense and camphor oil at once stronger. “This isn’t something to protect them from.”

Inside, Pavle’s body lay on a bier, shrouded under three large white linen sheets. At his side sat Ivo, hands in his lap, baseball in hands, his back to the curtain.

“He wanted to know,” said the holy man in a whisper. “And when they’re curious, you have to tell them.”

Pearse started in, but the hohxa held his arm.

“We sat together for a while. He wanted to stay. I told him to come out and eat when he was ready.”

The hohxa released his arm; Pearse pulled the curtain farther to the side and stepped into the alcove as the man returned to the table. As quietly as he could, Pearse crouched by Ivo’s side.

For perhaps half a minute, he said nothing. Ivo seemed content to sit, as well. “Pretty brave coming here by yourself,” Pearse said at last.

Ivo nodded, his eyes still on the covered body.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was holding the boy’s fascination, beyond the obvious. He decided not to press it. Another few seconds, and Ivo finally turned to him. “It’s different from last time.”

Pearse nodded slowly.

“When you don’t know someone,” said Ivo, looking back at the body, “it’s different.”

Petra evidently hadn’t told him everything about their stay in the country during the Mostar bombings. Again he waited.

“It doesn’t make me as sad this time. Is that bad?”

“I don’t think so,” said Pearse. “It doesn’t make me as sad, either.”

Ivo turned to him. “You didn’t know Radisav.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. But I’ve known other people. When your Mommy and Salko and I fought in the war.”

Ivo thought about it, then nodded. “I guess so. But you didn’t know Radisav.”

Pearse shook his head. “No, I didn’t know him.”

“It makes me sad when I think of him.”

Very hesitantly, Pearse placed his hand on Ivo’s shoulder. The two sat for several minutes. Finally, Ivo stood up. “It’s just different,” he said, clutching the ball in his left hand. With the other, he reached out to the shrouded body, placing his hand on it, a little boy’s need to touch.

Pearse’s natural instinct was to say a prayer. He quietly stood and crossed himself. Probably best, though, not to say a paternoster with a Muslim holy man nearby, especially given the events surrounding the young man’s death. For some reason, the image of Ivo’s outstretched hand reminded Pearse of the five-line couplets, the Ribadeneyra verse never too far from his thoughts, even at a moment like this. Somehow, the prayer seemed strangely appropriate.

With his eyes on Ivo, and not quite knowing why, Pearse began to speak the Latin, words for a young man he had known only in final whispers: “‘So do I stretch out my two hands toward You, all to be formed in the orbit of light.’” Ivo turned back and smiled. He took Pearse’s hand, then looked again at the body.

Ivo began to sing the Latin: “‘When I am sent to the contest with darkness, knowing that You can assist me in sight.’”

Pearse stopped. Ivo stopped as well, again the smile as he looked up at Pearse.

“I know that song,” Ivo said. “Salko sings it with me. ‘The fragrance of life is always within me, O living water, O child of light….’”

Pearse stared down at the little face, his body suddenly numb. His mind frozen.

Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.

SPIRITUS six

Pearse steadied himself, watching as Ivo sang. He heard nothing but a dull humming in his ears.

“So do I stretch out my two hands toward You,

All to be formed in the orbit of light.…”

Ivo turned to him; the boy was saying something. Pearse tried to hear, even as the walls seemed to constrict, the air heavier with each breath. Still, Ivo stared up at him.

“When I am sent to the contest with darkness

Knowing that You can assist me in sight….”

Pearse felt his hand press against the wall, the chill of the stone offering an instant of release. The tiny voice broke through: “… if you know it?”

Pearse drove his nails into the stone, the pain forcing air into his lungs. The walls began to retreat, another chance to hear the boy.

“Why don’t you sing if you know it?” Ivo repeated.

Pearse felt himself nod. The five-line entries. A child’s first prayer. So obvious.

From somewhere within the haze, he found the words. “‘The fragrance of life is always within me.’”