Dragon Tree

Sicily | 1943

Her molars ached from the decadent layers of chocolate, hazelnut, and caramel. Unraveling her third napkin, she used the soft, white cloth to wipe away the excess sugar from her lips. Washing down the croissant with a cappuccino, and a tall glass of ice water, she paid for two more croissants and two cappuccinos to go, then exited the American occupied cafe.

She turned left, and headed towards the Madonna Della Rocca church, or as Rosalie and Corrado liked to call it, La Lomia.

Towards the end of the nineteenth century, a man named Gaetano La Lomia from Canicatti took on the habit of Capuchin novice, therefore changing his name to Gioacchino Fedele. Three years later, the young friar solemnly took his vows, consecrating his soul to the Capuchin Religion. Quickly completing his academic studies, he was left with an unsatisfied yearning to push the limits of the known theological understandings while simultaneously spreading the humanitarian philosophies of Saint Francis.

Twelve years, a silver medal, and thirteen newly built villages later, Father Gioacchino finally returned to his hometown of Canicatti to tend to his declining health. It was here, within and around the eighteenth century walls of the Madonna Della Rocca church, where he would use the ladder years of his life to build his Capuchin convent.

As more years passed, and word of Father Gioacchino’s selfless acts of service spread across Sicily, Italy, and South America, he gained the veneration of everyone his presence had the opportunity of comforting.

After his death in 1905, the Canicattinese placed his tomb inside the church of the Madonna Della Rocca, ensuring that the Venerable man remained visible for all traveling worshipers in perpetuity.

Reaching the peak of Via Carini, Rosalie crossed the cobblestone street, climbed up the four courtyard steps, then quietly approached the seated bronze bust of Father Gioacchino.

He was resting on a carved, sandstone throne, gripping a staff and fingering the pages of a bible, and was flanked by two bronze pigeons. Beneath his feet, he was raised up on a circular, multi-leveled, stone garden which was decorated with Red Nerium Oleanders, multicolored Lantanas, and white and yellow Plumerias.

She whispered a quick prayer to the saint-like friar, making sure to keep her voice down. The courtyard was crawling with American, and British soldiers, and she didn’t want to bring any further attention to herself. Every soldier she had met so far had been respectful, but she didn’t want to risk it. The lower under the radar they flew, the further they could fly.

Like every other inch of the town, the soldiers transformed La Lomia into an officer’s barracks, aid station, and active command post. After arriving back into town, Captain Lynch dropped Garret off at the church to receive medical attention for his wounds, and burns.

The captain then asked Rosalie where they would like to be escorted, but she insisted that they be let out at the church as well. She stressed the point that without Garret’s help, they would surely have been killed, and that they owed it to him to see him back to good health. She also knew that if they stayed within the confines of the church, they would essentially be barricaded within one of the safest places in the entire town, and could easily use their time to study the music sheet further without needing to worry about Ulrich and Nadine breaking in during the middle of the night.

They wouldn’t dare attempt to attack the church. It was a suicide mission.

Even still, Captain Lynch did not fully trust Rosalie’s word about their connection to Sergeant McLaughlin. So quietly, he instructed three military MP’s to keep a close eye on their movements while the sergeant recovered. Once Garret was back online, the captain could then drill the young sergeant for the answers he sought.

Ascending six more short steps, two American soldiers barreled out through the main mahogany door, leaving it open for her to step inside. Having respect for the church, and for the man her and her brother both idolized, she gently closed the door behind her.

The wooden pews that once lined the nave were now pushed to the far side of the large space, and were crudely stacked on top of one another. Makeshift tables, multi-leveled cots, and troves of communication equipment replaced the old pews, and the once quiet temple of worship was now a bustling war room for two foreign governments. The altar, where Corrado once practiced being an altar boy, was now being used as a medical table. Its holy white clothes were soaked with blackened blood, and a frantic looking doctor was hastily performing a leg operation on a screaming young man while two of his buddies held him down.

Overwhelmed with shock, and numb to the violent consequences of war, she murmured a quick prayer for the man on the altar, then exited the crowded nave. She turned right, and headed down the long corridor. Passing the enclosed, glass shrine of Maria Assunta - whose body was represented by a porcine bust draped in fine white and gold cloth, and matching slippers, and donned a gold crown - she continued her steady pace, making a point to refrain her eyes from aligning with the line of sight of the passing soldiers. At the end of the hall, she rounded a sharp corner, then entered the candle lit chamber room of Father Gioacchino.

Intricate stained glass windows of Father Gioacchno himself shimmered in the morning sun, casting streams of multi-colored light across the tiled floor. Portraits of Mary and Jesus hung from iron nails at each end of the horizontally displayed, stone tomb, which was adorned with a marble carving of the friar's profile. Hearth-like cutouts ran along the bottom of the surrounding walls - each one decorated with vibrant flowers, or potted plants. Two remembrance candle displays also flanked the tomb. Normally, the friars who dwell in the convent ensure that none of the candles ever go out. Right now, only a handful of the small red candles from each display flickered flames.

Four pews sat in a row in the center of the chamber, and Corrado was kneeling at the pew closest to Father Gioacchino. His head was slumped into his hands, and she could hear him praying to the Capuchin friar.

Kneeling down beside her brother, taking care as to not disrupt him, she began to pray to the friar in her own head. Begging him for guidance, protection, and the strength to continue moving forward until the end.

This was the church Rosalie and Corrado came to as children. It was where Rosalie and Corrado received their early sacraments. It was also the church where their parents, Aida and Clement, got married. Their parents always praised Father Gioacchino, and his selfless missions across the globe, and hoped that by introducing him to their children at an early age, they would grow up to reflect his image. They were also supposed to have Miceli’s funeral in La Lomia, but renovations kept that from being possible. As Rosalie looked around the church now, she saw that those renovations were still far from complete, and the invasion of the Island only added more structural damage to the historic landmark.

She rose from her pew quietly - without disrupting Corrado - walked over to one of the candle displays, and began lighting each candle that had fallen cold. She repeated the same delicate process on the other table, then stepped closer to Father Gioacchino’s tomb, and began plucking out the dead stems and flowers from all of the surrounding potted plants.

Needing to dispose of the dead vegetation, she exited the chamber, and searched for the door that led to the inner courtyard. Finding it with ease, she quickly became discouraged at the armed soldier standing in front of it.

Sensing her discomfort, and noticing the pile of dead plant material in her hands, the young soldier stood aside, smiled, and motioned for Rosalie to enter if she’d like.

Rosalie returned a smaller smile, then walked through the threshold, keeping her eyes focused on her feet. The young man winked at her, then closed the door behind her. She was once again alone. Except this time, it wasn’t half bad.

The elevated zen courtyard was vibrating with life. Bonsai trees bathed in the morning heat, while the fruits of the tangerine trees swayed against the breeze. Potted Prickly Pears encompassed the base of a raised, stone altar in the center of the courtyard, and Rosemary and Capper Flowers lined the brick pathway that flowed out into a massive, circular terrace - flanked by hundred foot, tiered walls.

Each tier transitioned back and forth from brick to stone as the vine encrusted wall rose to meet the sky. At the top, the landscape changed to an army of massive cypress trees. Each one stretching a little bit taller than the one before it. Birds flocked in and out, lizards scaled the walls, water rushed from a stone fountain in the far, shaded corner, making the terrace feel more like an oasis.

The deeper she ventured, she began identifying all of the same trees that have been growing since she was a child. Embracing the moment, she ran her fingers along the rough bark of the almond trees, poked the sharp tips of the fan and Bismack palms, plucked a few ripe olives from the olive trees, disposed the plant material in the friar’s raised bed of compost, then sat beneath the shaded canopy of the the Canary Islands Dragon Tree. Save for the wildlife, she had the place to herself.

The single trunk tree was at least thirty feet tall, and had thick, hard angled branches that shot upwards with blooms that resembled fan palms. It was also the only tree in the convent which Father Gioacchino planted himself before his death.

Laying back, resting her spine against a patch of climbing vines, she counted the number of different birds that came down from their high perches to drink from the fountain.

Fighting the weight of her eyelids, a faint cry of old joints announced to her that someone was coming. The birds all suddenly abandoned the fountain, and returned to their nests, leaving Rosalie to deal with newcomers on her own.

The footsteps got louder, and she prayed that she wouldn’t have to leave. Not yet.

“You back here?” a yawning voice called out.

“Corrado?” Rosalie asked.

Mounting the final step of the terrace, Corrado soaked in the sunlight and stretched out his arms as wide, and as tall, as they would go without breaking.

“How long have you been praying?” Rosalie asked.

“Too long.”

“How did you sleep?” Rosalie asked.

“Not bad. It was definitely weird sleeping in Father Gioacchino’s old room. That wasn’t his actual bed, was it?”

“Sure it was,” she said, giggling, “but I’m sure the sheets were fresh.”

Corrado shivered the uncomfortable thoughts from his arms, then sat down beside Rosalie.

“How about you? How did you sleep?”

She paused for a moment, enjoying the slithery movements of the lizard crawling up one of the vines on the wall.

“They offered me one of the officer’s rooms, but I elected to sleep out here. Beneath La Lomia’s tree. Like how we did when we were little.”

Corrado smiled at the sentiment, then looked the tree up and down while he traveled back in time into the innocence of their childhood memories.

Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out two pieces of folded white paper. Keeping them both folded, he passed them to Rosalie.

“What are these?”

“Open them, and see,” Corrado said, keeping the moment a mystery.

Rosalie unfolded the first page. Then the second.

“You made a copy of the music sheet?” Rosalie asked.

“I didn’t make a copy. I made the translation. I rearranged the stanzas in the order your alphabet had them listed.”

“We already figured out the code. We know where we need to go next. The church of saint Agatha. Why does it matter what order the stanzas are in?”

“I don’t know. But this was made by our father. The original stanzas made no sense, then after we cracked your alphabet’s cipher, and discovered S A N T A G A T A, I was curious to see how the stanzas would look arranged in the same order.”

“How did they look now? It still doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Corrado took the rearranged copy back from his sister, stood from their cozy nook beneath the Dragon Tree, and began pacing in front of the fountain.

“It’s my song. Well, a rendition of my song. There are odd notes added among my own that slightly alter the flow of the song. Some of them seem brilliant, but there are others that still seem strange. I don’t understand why father would have done this, but it's clear to me that this song has a deeper purpose to what we’re doing. Why else send it, and why use it to hide the location of the next clue.”

Rosalie sighed, as she tried to digest her brother’s theory. She kinked out her knees, then used her arms to proper herself up. She met her brother by the fountain, and snatched the piece of paper back out of his hands.

“So what do you suggest?”

Smiling, he stopped pacing, splashed some of the running water in his face, dried his face with the bottom of his shirt, then gave Rosalie her answer.

“We’re going to need a violin.”