enthusiasm he believed he needed to inspire the heathen.
I could identify with the Brother Ferreira’s frustration. I wanted to enjoy my work but had difficulty focusing. When the translation became bogged down in some arcane word that escaped all my research efforts, I found myself slipping away to a place I didn’t want to visit. My mind was churning butter, as my grandmother used to say. I couldn’t stop turning over the mystery that was Dr. Ashland Stewart. Why did it bother me so much that he was clearly avoiding me? I could chalk that one up to pride. The more vexing question was why the thought of this man’s rugged hands and piercing eyes send a chill through me that I hadn’t experienced in a long time?
Like the monk, my own world felt too constricted. I needed to escape, if only for a short time.
~*~
The day was crisp but the chilly breeze coming off the lake was tempered by the bright sun overhead. I headed down a steep hill past the student union where a scattering of undergraduates braved the cold to eat lunch outdoors. I had planned to be gone only fifteen or twenty minutes but the feeling of forward momentum, putting one foot in front of the other, hearing the soft crunch of gravel under my tennis shoes, was like therapy.
I followed the well-maintained path as it wound its way towards the lakefront. I loved this part of campus even though it had the artificial feel of a golf course. It was seldom crowded, except at the peak of summer, and far away from the constant rumble of the city. The only aural intrusion came from the shouts of a lacrosse game in a distant field. The girls in white and purple scampering back and forth across the turf reminded me of a flock of geese herded by small children.
The lake today was a soothing shade of lavender. Two boats bobbed in the distance, specks on the vast expanse of water. The path straightened, paralleling the lake. Enormous uneven blocks of white stone were piled up against the shore as if tossed there by a petulant giant. The water lay below them; gentle waves pushed against their cold rigidity. I knew that in a severe storm those blocks would be helpless in holding back the churning surf.
A few stones bore graffiti, though it was surprisingly scarce. Either the school’s grounds crew was diligent about keeping them unmarked or the students had outgrown their need to memorialize their presence here. The two tags I spotted strained for cleverness: “John sort of likes Mary” and “Evrthing is Wrong.”
I almost passed the solitary figure without a second glance. His back was to me and his face was hidden under a wide-brimmed black hat that reminded me of a jungle explorer. He had made his way to a spot far down on the rocks, a reclusive shadow against the immense lake.
I wondered later whether it was coincidence or fate that caused him to reach out a hand as I passed and gather up a small pebble, tossing it absentmindedly into the surf. As he turned his head I immediately recognized his profile—the firm, confident jaw, and the nose that seemed almost like an afterthought below those commanding eyes.
I was certain he hadn’t seen me. I could have easily turned away or hurried on undiscovered. Instead, like a blind person turned towards inexplicable warmth, my feet remained rooted on the gravel, drawn in by a new mystery—why was he here? Why did he look so vulnerable and pensive? I didn’t want to intrude on his private thoughts, which likely concerned some vexing problem in his work, but at the same time, I wanted to be inside his head, if only for a moment.
But it was annoyance that finally pushed me to step forward, hoisting myself onto the first large block. At least that’s what I told myself. I was tired of his indifference. I had been working under his supposed supervision for almost a month. The least he could do is acknowledge me occasionally.
Climbing down the rocks took some effort. I had to jump over the gaps while keeping my
I could identify with the Brother Ferreira’s frustration. I wanted to enjoy my work but had difficulty focusing. When the translation became bogged down in some arcane word that escaped all my research efforts, I found myself slipping away to a place I didn’t want to visit. My mind was churning butter, as my grandmother used to say. I couldn’t stop turning over the mystery that was Dr. Ashland Stewart. Why did it bother me so much that he was clearly avoiding me? I could chalk that one up to pride. The more vexing question was why the thought of this man’s rugged hands and piercing eyes send a chill through me that I hadn’t experienced in a long time?
Like the monk, my own world felt too constricted. I needed to escape, if only for a short time.
~*~
The day was crisp but the chilly breeze coming off the lake was tempered by the bright sun overhead. I headed down a steep hill past the student union where a scattering of undergraduates braved the cold to eat lunch outdoors. I had planned to be gone only fifteen or twenty minutes but the feeling of forward momentum, putting one foot in front of the other, hearing the soft crunch of gravel under my tennis shoes, was like therapy.
I followed the well-maintained path as it wound its way towards the lakefront. I loved this part of campus even though it had the artificial feel of a golf course. It was seldom crowded, except at the peak of summer, and far away from the constant rumble of the city. The only aural intrusion came from the shouts of a lacrosse game in a distant field. The girls in white and purple scampering back and forth across the turf reminded me of a flock of geese herded by small children.
The lake today was a soothing shade of lavender. Two boats bobbed in the distance, specks on the vast expanse of water. The path straightened, paralleling the lake. Enormous uneven blocks of white stone were piled up against the shore as if tossed there by a petulant giant. The water lay below them; gentle waves pushed against their cold rigidity. I knew that in a severe storm those blocks would be helpless in holding back the churning surf.
A few stones bore graffiti, though it was surprisingly scarce. Either the school’s grounds crew was diligent about keeping them unmarked or the students had outgrown their need to memorialize their presence here. The two tags I spotted strained for cleverness: “John sort of likes Mary” and “Evrthing is Wrong.”
I almost passed the solitary figure without a second glance. His back was to me and his face was hidden under a wide-brimmed black hat that reminded me of a jungle explorer. He had made his way to a spot far down on the rocks, a reclusive shadow against the immense lake.
I wondered later whether it was coincidence or fate that caused him to reach out a hand as I passed and gather up a small pebble, tossing it absentmindedly into the surf. As he turned his head I immediately recognized his profile—the firm, confident jaw, and the nose that seemed almost like an afterthought below those commanding eyes.
I was certain he hadn’t seen me. I could have easily turned away or hurried on undiscovered. Instead, like a blind person turned towards inexplicable warmth, my feet remained rooted on the gravel, drawn in by a new mystery—why was he here? Why did he look so vulnerable and pensive? I didn’t want to intrude on his private thoughts, which likely concerned some vexing problem in his work, but at the same time, I wanted to be inside his head, if only for a moment.
But it was annoyance that finally pushed me to step forward, hoisting myself onto the first large block. At least that’s what I told myself. I was tired of his indifference. I had been working under his supposed supervision for almost a month. The least he could do is acknowledge me occasionally.
Climbing down the rocks took some effort. I had to jump over the gaps while keeping my
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