Communion
There must be some sign, thought Marco Polo, some clue I have missed. The trail cannot end here. Not after all this time. Not when I am so close.
The people on the cobblestone street passed him by as a stream a stone. Several eyed him suspiciously, quickening their steps.
They should be nervous, he thought, pulling his dusty hood back from his head, revealing hair that had remained mostly black into his old age.
Light footsteps quickly drew closer behind him. He turned—and was nearly knocked off his feet.
“Hold now, little man,” he said with a chuckle, putting a steadying hand atop the head of the small boy who had just slammed into his leg. “Why such haste?”
The boy, wearing a simple yellow shirt, brown shorts, and no shoes, made no reply, but stared up with wide, dark eyes.
Marco dropped to a knee and lightly grasped the boy by the shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
The boy’s mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His large eyes peered up from beneath thick strands of brown hair. Marco looked into those young eyes and saw the mischievousness mirroring back.
Eyes make the best tongues, he thought.
The boy was holding a thin loaf of bread with a chunk missing from one end. Suspiciously, one of the boy’s cheeks was puffed out like an overstuffed pocket.
He has stolen this bread, thought Marco.
His dark brows creased with disapproval. But then, looking at the boy’s innocent face, he could not help but laugh. A good, medicinal sort of laugh. He had not been around a child for a long time, too long for the health of the soul.
Children are our link to a past we can never reclaim, he thought, and to a future we can never know. We need them at least as much as they need us.
“Well, go ahead,” he said. “Swallow.”
The boy gulped dryly.
Marco stood and searched the streets for any injured party giving chase. As he did so, he moved a hand toward the moneysack secured to his belt. During his long journey through life, he had become a rich man, and sometimes—though rarely—his money had proven useful. Perhaps he could put things right by offering to purchase the loaf on the child’s behalf. The boy reminded Marco of himself at that age, and he felt inclined to help himself out of a jam.
When he next glanced down, the boy had lifted his hand. Inside the tiny raised fist was a chunk of bread.
Marco smiled and shook his head.
“No, no. You keep it…” He nodded over the child’s head. “If you can.”
The boy turned to see what the tall, old man was nodding toward.
Another old man, this one shorter and stouter and dressed in black robes, was pausing for breath on the other side of the street, hands on his knees, his eyes scanning the vicinity. The boy stuck the proffered chunk of bread into his mouth and sprang into a run, heading in the opposite direction from the canals. Soon, his quick steps had taken him around the corner of the nearby tavern and out of sight.
The man in the black robes trotted across the street and, still out of breath, laid a chubby hand on Marco’s arm.
“Lose something, padre?” Marco asked before the man could speak.
“The boy…” heaved the priest. “Did you—did he come this way?”
“Aye. This way he came, certain enough.”
“Which way did he go?”
“The salient fact, padre, is not the direction of his path, but the quickness of his step.”
“Indeed,” said the priest, patting Marco’s arm. “If only we could keep the spring in our step during the winter of our lives.”
“He has something of yours, the boy?”
“My wrath. And soon enough my vengeance.”
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
“And I am but an instrument of the Lord,” shot back the priest.
“Now, padre… is that how the good news is spread in these parts today? With holy men partaking in vengeful reprisals?”
“I skew toward the Old Testament morality, myself,” said the priest with a wink and a grin more suited to pirate than priest.
“That would not have been the communion bread in those little paws?” asked Marco.
“That it was, my son. The holy loaf, itself. Now what will the congregation do?”
“Could you not buy some replacement bread? Perhaps I could contribute toward the purchase. What of this tavern here? Might they have something?”
“The tavern? This tavern is a place of iniquity!” The priest stared at the tavern another moment, moistening his lips with his tongue, then added, “Besides, they only sale cakes.”
“Well, what of cake, then? Your congregation might enjoy that for a change.”
“Cake? For the holy communion?”
“Aye.”
“And perhaps they could wash it down with a bit of hard cider, then? Mother Mary, am I the last sane man in Venice?”
“You sound as if you dislike the idea of your congregation enjoying its sacraments, padre. Perhaps the tavern keeper could bake you some bad cake, then.”
“Preposterous, sir. One cannot have cake for communion.” The priest wiped his round face with a kerchief taken from some hidden pocket in his robe and looked up at the sun with bitter reproach.
“Well, it was only a suggestion. Good luck to you, padre.”
Marco bowed his head and began to turn. The priest stopped him with a hand against his chest.
“Hold, friend,” he said, examining the grizzled face closely. “You are a stranger here, no?”
“No, and yes.”
“You look familiar…” The priest squinted. “Have we met before?”
“In truth, padre—” Marco’s attention was distracted by something behind the priest. “At last!”
The priest turned but saw only an empty side-street—until the stranger leapt into his field of vision, hurling himself toward the alley. The priest shot a glance behind him to make certain it was actually the same old man who had just been standing next to him. He was moving as nimbly as a man a third his age!
Something odd-feeling then began creeping up the priest’s back. It crawled up his neck and began scratching at the back of his head, producing a tickling sensation. As he watched the stranger disappear into the alley’s shadows, he realized what it was.
Curiosity. An emotion he had grown unaccustomed to feeling. He began walking—first slowly, then more briskly—toward the alley.
A few moments later, he emerged into bright sunlight at the far end of the dark passage and espied the stranger standing high upon a balcony, gazing toward the sparkling canals.
“What is it?” he called up to the stranger. “What did you see?”
Marco stepped over the balcony’s railing and onto its outer ledge, then lowered himself so that he was dangling from his hands before dropping spryly to the ground.
“Nothing,” said Marco dejectedly.
The priest was more sure now than ever that he recognized the stranger, and he sidled closer for a better look. “By what name are you known, good sir?”
“I have been called many things, padre, but Marco Polo is chief among them. At least in my presence.”
The priest slapped a knee. “Bless me! Do you not remember me, Umberto, Marco Polo?”
“Are you certain we have met, friend? I do think I would remember someone whose last two names are the same as my best two.”
“No, no. Do you, Marco Polo, not remember me, Umberto, your childhood playmate?”
Marco smiled. “Of course I remember you, Umberto, son of Eumaeus. I was only playing with your well-remembered gullibility.”
“I’m a priest now,” said Umberto, gesturing toward his black robes, “as you can see.”
“Speak of the devil…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“And I thank you,” said Marco. “Perhaps God will be more likely to pardon my sins with one of His priests interceding on my behalf. Ah, but if only I could pardon myself, then I might agree that Hell is a just place after all.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand you, my old friend.”
“Forgive me, padre. I have traveled much, and sometimes I speak in tongues. You have heard of the phenomenon, I suppose.”
“Ah, I remember your wit well, Marco Polo. Some minds never change.”
“I thought so once… but I changed my mind.”
“Yes, well… You look healthy. What have you been doing for all these years?”
Marco was examining the nearest intersection as a hunter might examine the ground for tracks and answered over his shoulder. “It is a long story, padre.”
“Well, why don’t you walk back with me to the—”
“Aha!” shouted Marco.
Umberto watched Marco run down the street and considered the mid-morning meal still sitting on the table where he had been about to enjoy it when he had caught sight of that little miscreant running off with the future flesh of the Savior. He shrugged and began forward. It was not every day one got the chance to chase a ghost from the past.
In the twists and turns of the alleys and backstreets of Venice, Umberto came close to losing Marco several times and was only able to stay more or less in sight of him because of the intermittent stops Marco made in his effort to pick up the subtle trail he was apparently following. Twice, in fact, Marco had doubled back, passing the priest going in the opposite direction.
At last, Umberto came upon Marco pacing a narrow road running alongside a greasy-looking channel, a scowl on his black-and-gray-bearded face.
“I have lost her, padre. For the moment. But I’m gaining on her.”
“Her?” said Umberto. “Aren’t you a little old to be gallivanting after some woman?”
“I am a lot old, my friend,” said Marco, unhappily feeling his heart beating at a gallop and his lungs pumping like squeaky forge bellows.
Umberto looked around to get is bearings. “Good Lord, we’ve come nearly full circle. There’s the tavern.”
“Aye, full circle, indeed, padre. Back to my birthplace, back to the very beginning of the hunt.”
The priest noticed the wild look in his old playmate’s eyes. “Marco… dear friend… how long have you been walking about in this sun?”
“Alas. I walk in shadow still.”
“Why don’t we pause for a refreshing beverage? You must be exhausted. Let us take a seat at the tavern.”
“I thought the tavern was a den of iniquity.”
“Isn’t the world, my son?”
“I suppose a quick respite would not hurt,” said Marco. “If I am winded, so too is she. And a little wine would fortify me.”
“And some bread,” added Umberto. “And cheese, of course.”
They two old men walked to the tavern and sat at one of its outside tables, Umberto making sure to put Marco in the shade.
“Getting an early start of it today, eh padre?” said the server when she came over. She was a middle-aged woman with thick, wheat-colored hair tied behind her neck by a long black ribbon.
Umberto glanced at Marco, who winked back at him. “Uhm, yes, well… God has given us this day to make the most it, my son,” responded the priest. “Give us a bottle of the house, Juanita, and a plate of nutcakes with some cheese, please.”
“Of course, padre.”
“So, tell me,” began Umberto after the server had left them, “who is this woman who has you chasing her all over the city at your advanced age?”
Marco’s dark eyes turned inward. “I hunt a female, aye, padre. But not of human stock.”
So, his thinking is addled, thought Umberto. “No? Well then, what sort of female is she?”
“You would not believe me if I told you.”
“I would not be so sure of that, my son. The whole world of human passions has flowed through my confessional booth. Believe me, I have heard it all. Nothing surprises me anymore. Nothing.”
Marco put both elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Padre… Umberto… It is a dragon I seek.”
“A dragon!”
Several faces turned toward their table.
Umberto lowered his voice. “You speak in metaphor, perhaps, old friend.”
“Perhaps there is metaphor in this world, padre, and maybe nothing is without its symbolic reading. But metaphor or no, dragon she be.”
The priest thought for a moment, then allowed his old buccaneer grin to spread. “Aye, now I see how it is. This female of yours, she has treated you badly, no? Been a monster to you. A dragon of a woman, you could say.”
Marco leaned back in his chair, a sad expression on his face.
“Here we are,” said Juanita as she set the platter of cakes and cheese in the middle of the table and filled their cups with wine.
As she was turning to leave, Umberto tapped her shoulder and, with a nod toward the wine bottle, gestured toward the table.
Juanita smiled and placed the bottle next to the platter. “Of course, padre.”
The server moved on to the next table, and Umberto took a large gulp from his cup and helped himself to a cake and some cheese. “A woman has been the reason for the start of many a journey, Marco Polo,” he said. “Sometimes to get closer to one… sometimes to get farther away. Am I right?”
The priest stuffed a small block of cheese into a mouth already nearly full with cake.
“The start of the journey…” murmured Marco, his eyes fixed on his cup but his gaze turned inward. “The chase has gone on for so long… I am not certain I can still recall what form the beast then took.”
“What are you saying? That this dragon is capable of shifting shapes?”
“Aye, that she is.”
“So, the tales are true of beasts that can change forms.”
“Aye, padre. No tale is told that does not some truth hold.”
“Well, what forms has this dragon taken?” asked Umberto, spilling a bit of red wine upon his chin as he drained his cup. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe and reached for the bottle. “Besides the form of womankind, I mean.”
“You ask of its former forms? Well, in my youth, it was usually Adventure or Beauty. As I grew older, it often became Fame or Fortune. Now, both of us grown old and worn, the chase has slowed to a crawl. Unless she is forced to, she no longer bothers to change forms at all.”
“Ah, speaking of changing forms, I see the color of your words alter before my eyes. Language is but a chameleon to you still, Marco Polo.”
“Speech is but the echo a thought cast upon the wind.”
“Yes, well…” The priest eyed Marco appraisingly. Perhaps there was more than mere senility at work here. Could his old friend actually be insane? “You say she rarely changes form any longer. What guise does she presently maintain?”
“Truth. Always Truth.”
Umberto, his elbow on the table, held out a fat finger from his suspended cup. “And you believe, once you have caught this woman, this dragon lady, that you will then know the truth?”
“Aye.”
“Do you believe that finding this… truth will somehow bring you peace?”
“At least a piece of peace, aye.”
“My son, if peace is the goal of your quest, I can tell you how to achieve that this very day.”
Marco set his cup down hard on the wooden table, sloshing some of its red contents over the rim. “And how is that?”
“The place you must search for peace is here.” Umberto thumbed his chest. “It is only within our own souls that we can find the peace we crave. For it is there, inside each of us, that God has placed a treasure map to Heaven. It is only by following this map—that is, by submitting to God’s intended course for us—that we are led to that most priceless of treasure troves, loving communion with our creator.”
“If there was ever a treasure map in my soul, padre, it has long been washed out to sea.”
“Cynicism merely bites the hand that feeds it, dear Marco. You must have patience, my friend—”
“Patience may be your friend, but not mine.”
“Patience must be exercised by all God’s children.”
“Patients need more than exercise, padre. Diseases of the soul must be attended-to by one who possesses the cure, along with the compassion and skill to administer it.”
“The cure for what ails you, my friend, is Faith, and the patience that comes with Faith. In due time, the answers you seek will be revealed. Do not tempt God’s great patience with your lack thereof.”
“I would not tempt the patients of God, great or small. They suffer enough.” Marco could tell from the priest’s expression that he had gone too far. “Oh, I’m sorry, Umberto. I do not mean to burden your soul with my blasphemies. It’s just… these doubts of mine… They ride my back like blocks of granite, casting a shadow over the whole of my life, over the hole of my life.”
“You cannot give into such doubts, Marco. You must consider the divinity manifest in each of our lives. Think of what you are saying.”
“Think, you say… What good does it do a mere man to think when we are cursed with only enough intelligence to whet our appetites for true intelligence? When we are given such a small torch to light away along a dark and foreign path?”
“But, my son—”
“I suppose it is my destiny to walk the foreign path alone, knowing I can never reach its end.”
“No man is destined to be an eternal stranger, Marco Polo. God created us as social beings. He intends fellowship for us, comradery… family. Why, no wonder your mind… uhm…”
“Has cracked?” suggested Marco.
“Is disturbed,” said the priest. “Going without society, without love… We are not constituted for it, my son. Why, attempting to live without the fellowship of our fellow man is as dangerous as attempting to live without food or—”
Marco held up his hand, his dark eyes shifting sideways.
The priest dropped his voice to a whisper. “What is it?”
“I thought I saw something, from the corner of my eye.”
Umberto glanced to his side but saw nothing.
“That is almost the only way to spot her, you know,” said Marco. “Out of the corner of the eye. “
“Oh, yes,” said Umberto, untensing himself. “Your dragon. From the corner of the eye, you say?”
“Yes. Often, it is only from the corner of the eye that stars and dragons and other beautiful Truths can be best glimpsed.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” asked Marco, turning suddenly toward the priest. “Do you see, Umberto?”
The old priest did not answer but regarded Marco closely. Whatever the condition of his friend’s mental state, his agitation was real and palpable. And it was making Umberto nervous. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising—
What was that? Had he seen something in his peripheral vision? A passing shadow?
A woman’s scream pierced the air.
Marco leapt from his chair, tipping it over. He threw some coins on the table and glanced at Umberto, a question in his eyes.
Umberto read the question easily: Is this goodbye?
The priest spoke while standing, extending a thick finger from the wide sleeve of his garment. “That way! I saw something!”
Marco smiled his large, gray-flecked grin and turned and sprang in the direction Umberto had pointed. The priest started after him, then remembered the bottle of wine, reached back, took the bottle, drank it to the dregs, shrugged at the server, and, wiping his chin with his sleeve, bolted after his childhood friend, determined to give chase to the chaser, following as quickly as his wine-filled gullet would allow.
When Marco finally stopped, it was at a thin strip of woodlands separating the heart of Venice from the surrounding farmland.
Arriving at Marco’s side, the priest struggled breathlessly to speak. “Wait, wait, my son! Bandits. Bandits roam these woods!”
“I will be careful,” said Marco, stepping forward into the gloom of the woods, the dry leaves crunching beneath his boots.
Umberto hung back, surveying the light-dappled shadows shifting beneath the trees like the dark waters of a troubled stream. There were a thousand hiding places for bandits in these woods, he thought, and a thousand directions from which an old priest could be jumped.
A shadow fell over him, startling him. Looking up, he saw a single cloud floating across the sky. The drifting, solitary cloud made him think of Marco Polo and his lonely, itinerant life, and he was sad for him.
“Marco,” he whispered into the woods. “Marco!”
Branches swayed in the wind. Shadows crawled over the ground. But there was no sign of his friend. Straightening himself, he made the sign of the cross and moved forward.
“Marco!” he shouted.
“Polo!” came the voice from behind him as a hand clamped upon his shoulder. “That is my name, padre. The whole forest knows it now.”
“MotherMaryJoseph and all the angels! You gave me a fright.”
A twig snapped close-by.
Marco dropped to the ground, and Umberto, as quickly as he was able, did likewise.
Marco put his finger to his lips, a needless gesture, as Umberto had no intention of making a sound. They listened several moments to the rustlings of leaves and the sound of birdsong.
There! A strange noise. An eerie, rumbling roar.
Marco leapt to his feet and ran toward the sound.
“I—I will keep guard here,” said Umberto, standing and dusting himself off.
He began reciting the Lord’s Prayer but stopped when he heard the low, mournful roar returning. This time, he was better able to judge its precise direction. Treading as quietly as he could over the dead leaves, he followed the sound until he came upon two young trees growing closely together. The wind was causing them to brush against each other, producing the mournful sound he had been hearing.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Then, behind him! The sound of movement. Swiftly, he spun to face it.
“I’ve lost her again,” said Marco coming up beside him. “But she is close-by.”
Marco saw a slightly pained expression come into his old friend’s round face. Then the priest turned and walked behind a large tree.
“Umberto! Where are you going?”
“Dragon or no,” replied the priest, lifting his robes. “I’ve got to piss.”
When Umberto returned to where Marco was standing, he found that the excitement in the great traveler’s face had vanished. Instead, he looked sad. And much closer to his actual age than he had before.
“How now?” said Umberto, feeling pleasantly surprised at how much more relaxed he was feeling. Maybe it was the wine having its effect. Or maybe it was the urination. Or maybe, just maybe, he was getting used to this dragon-hunting stuff.
“We should rest for a moment,” said Marco as he put his back against a tree and slid down into a sitting position. He looked very weary.
Umberto seated himself similarly a quarter-way around the big tree, interlocking the fingers of his hands over his protruding stomach. “So, this dragon of yours,” he said after a yawn. “Why does she not simply fly away or scorch you to ashes with her fiery breath?”
“This is an oriental dragon, padre,” answered Marco with some condescension. “A real animal. You’re thinking of something else entirely, the West’s mythological dragon.”
“Oh, I see,” said Umberto, drowsily humoring his friend.
“Fire-breathing dragons are mere tales of fancy, like the stories told of fairies or trolls. But oriental dragons are real. Or at least, they were. Now there is just the one.”
“So, Marco Polo gives chase to the last dragon in the world.”
“Aye. And a beautiful creature she be, padre. Long and slender of body, of goodly size. And wise. Dragons are the very repository of wisdom on this Earth. Sadly, when my majestic lady dies, much of the wisdom of the ages will die with her.”
“And just how does such a beastie get to be so smart?”
“Ah, that’s the most remarkable fact about dragons of them all. More fantastic than any make-believe story of fiery breath. Each dragon-child is born with the memories of the parent dragon inside of it. Most of these heritage memories are not accessible to the child-dragon until maturity, and by then, many of the ancient memories have been replaced or obscured by new ones made by the child, itself. Nevertheless, much of the ancient wisdom remains, and it is passed down from mother to child throughout the generations.”
“Is that so?” said Umberto. He was thinking about the blond-haired girl who used to walk with him upon the woodland paths so very long ago… so very few moments ago…
“Aye,” said Marco. “But alas, if I do not find my dragon soon, all that wisdom will fall into oblivion. Yet, if I can catch her—and my heart races to think it—if I can catch her, then she will answer my questions willingly, and then I will release her willingly.”
“Certainly,” murmured Umberto from beneath drooping lids.
Marco looked through the branches at the sky above and settled himself more comfortably against the tree. “Of course, with me, all the frivolous questions of youth have boiled away. I will not ask of the whereabouts of treasures, or of the secret ways to make a woman fall in love with me, or of how to make men my slaves. No, my interests have narrowed over the years. In fact, there is only the one question left… Lady Draco, I will say, Why?”
Marco sighed. That was really all he wanted to know. Why? Why life? Why the struggle? Why the suffering?
“I suppose you can ask her a question, as well, Umberto,” he said, “if you are with me at the time of capture. Would you like that? Hmm? I suppose you would want to ask something about God or—”
Marco heard the priest snoring. He smiled and drew up his hood until it shaded his eyes.
*** *** ***
When Umberto awoke, it was noticeably later in the day, and Marco was gone. He stood and tried to shake off his grogginess.
“Marco!” he said in a strained whisper.
He began walking in one direction, then changed his mind and went in another. The woods seemed to extend interminably on every side. When he changed directions yet again, he almost bumped into his old acquaintance.
“This way, Umberto,” said Marco softly.
The priest forced himself to keep close to his friend in spite of the branches clutching at his robes and the roots grabbing at his sandals. Soon, they came to a place where the woods gave way to rolling brown fields. A narrow, rutted dirt-road ran in front of them.
“Lo, I know this place,” said Umberto. “We’ve come out in Peony. This is where the poorest of my flock live.”
Marco stooped to touch the shoulder of the road and rubbed its dirt between his fingertips. “The land here,” he said, straightening himself. “It’s nearly sterile.”
“Aye. It is infamous for that. Yet, the families here have scratched-out a living from these fields for generations.”
“That is sad,” said Marco. “In a world of such bounty.”
“Aye,” said Umberto. He had never really thought much about what stopped the enormous bounty of God’s creation from flowing into this particular corner of the world. There must be a barrier somewhere, he thought. But a barrier of what sort, and made by whom, and when and for what purpose, he could not say.
“Let us follow this road,” said Marco.
“Very well,” said Umberto, relieved that their hunt was leading them back toward town. He had eaten only a few cakes and some cheese, after all, and he was getting hungry.
After walking about twenty paces, he found himself curious upon a certain point. “What makes you so certain you can catch your dragon, Marco Polo?” he asked.
“Perhaps I cannot. But it does not matter.”
“How can you say that? This hunt appears to be the all-consuming passion of your old age.”
“Oh, I wish to catch her, my friend. With all my heart. But even if I thought I would never succeed, I would nevertheless give chase.”
“But why?”
Marco paused to collect his thoughts. “Imagine you are on the ocean floor,” he began at last, “You feel, of course, a suffocation. The harder you try to breathe, the more water you swallow and the closer you come to drowning. The ocean floor slopes upward before you toward a shimmering light. You try to leap for that light, but an invisible current sweeps you back. And so, you are forced to climb, knowing that you have not the air in your shaky lungs to finish the journey, but unable to give up and accept your fate.”
“But Marco, I, like you, am a man placed here without all the answers. Yet, I feel no suffocation.”
“That is because you have grown accustomed to the feeling, accepted your fate, become an accomplice to its tragic comedy of hours.”
“Yet, if we, indeed, are doomed to drown in this comedy of ours, at least I, with my faith and acceptance, can live a happy and fulfilled life during my short sojourn here.”
“But what about the Truth, Umberto? Do you not burn with a desire to discover the reality behind all the stories we’ve been told?”
“I have always found truth an overrated commodity,” replied the priest. “I’ve never met anyone who appears to be any happier for the bagful of truths he labors to carry around with him. A man can become as greedy for the truth as he can for gold or glory. Faith, my son. Faith is the paramount possession in this world. The search for truth, like all fanaticisms, can become an unhealthy obsession.”
“I suppose I am, indeed, abscessed with finding Truth, padre. And a painful, swelling abscess it is. However, I would rather suffer in the desert of Truth, then live comfortably in the mirage of faith.”
“I sympathize with you, Marco Polo. I do. Your thoughts are too wild to survive well within their mortal cage. But I must tell you frankly… I fear for your sanity if you persist in your… dragonquest.”
“I thank you for so frankly stating your mind about my state of mind, Umberto, dear friend of days gone by. But have no concern for me. I crave exploration, and insanity is a country I have yet to map.”
When they paused for a rest atop a small knoll, they saw that down from the narrow road lay a tiny, crude cottage sitting beside a collapsing barn. Three skinny chickens pecked about in the yard next to a child, little more than an infant, playing in the dirt. Marco and Umberto lowered themselves mostly out of sight behind the knoll and watched as a boy in a dirty yellow shirt ran behind the child and across the barren field with a pail of water.
Umberto begin to rise, having recognized him at once as the boy who had stolen the communion bread. “Why that little…”
Marco pulled him back down.
“Hold a moment, friend. You are looking at this straight on. Try seeing it from the corner of your eye.”
“What?”
Marco nodded in the direction the boy was running.
A woman was sitting near a simple table of nailed planks holding a baby in her lap. When the yellow-shirted boy arrived with his pail of water, she pointed to the table, and he set the pail upon it and began ladling water into three cups. On the wind, they heard the woman’s frail voice call out, and the toddler playing in the dirt turned and got up and ran awkwardly toward the table.
In the middle of the table set the priest’s loaf of bread. The mother smiled as the boy in yellow sliced the bread and buttered each slice and gave a piece first to his younger sibling, then to his mother holding the baby, and then to himself. When the priest cocked his head and looked sideways at the boy, he was certain he saw a manly and wholesome pride upon his small features.
“Giving of yourself for the ones you love,” said Marco. “Aye, there is your communion, padre.”
The two old friends stood from behind the knoll and returned to the rutted road.
“What will you do now, my friend?” asked Umberto. “Now that you have come full circle, back to your birthplace?”
“Continue on.”
“Continue on? But for how much longer?”
“For as long as I can. Until I have reached the shimmering light above and the oppressive waves of ignorance crash at my feet.”
“And if you do not make it? If you drown in the ignorance?”
“Then I hope my steps can be tracked by other patients sharing my disease and that they can make it farther than I did.”
“I pray thee well, old friend,” said Umberto taking Marco’s hand. “I pray you will one day catch your elusive dragon.”
“Thank you, Umberto,” returned Marco as their hands parted. “I am glad that our differing paths have crossed once again. Perhaps, we will find that all paths eventually converge at some great destination beyond.”
“Perhaps.”
Both men turned to go their separate ways.
“Padre?” called Marco.
“Yes, my son?”
“What will you do for the communion bread tonight?”
Umberto grinned his pirate grin. “Let them eat cake.”
*** *** ***
After parting from his old friend, Marco Polo’s steps became heavy and slow. He had been so close this time. But now he was tired. Every breath had become an effort.
As he walked, he thought back to his childhood and to the townspeople he had known in the Venice of his youth. He thought of his mother, and of his father and uncle, and of the interesting people he had met, and of the remarkable places he had visited during the long voyage of his life. He thought also of the loves of his life, and of the one great love that still haunted the empty rooms of his heart. And he knew the Truth now, and the Truth was—
The pain came suddenly. He clutched his chest and dropped to his knees. He felt as if he were drowning beneath an enshadowing weight, and he knew that he would never make it to the surface in time. He had journeyed long and hard. But the time had come at last for rest. For peace.
When he heard the low roar, he had trouble discerning whether it was coming from inside or outside his head. It reminded him of the sound of branches rubbing together in a shaded wood.
A large shadow, like a drifting cloud, passed over his old body. He raised his head. He smiled.
“At last,” he said. “I have caught you.”
Zephyr Dorsey 