Even as the severe cold and fierce blizzard confined every soul in the Vatican to their home, one particular, unrelenting, committed priest was carrying out his self-assigned mission. He wasn’t bound to go trudging in the knee deep snow, with ‘knee-deep’ redefining itself with every minute, and sheets of snow crash-landing on the ground. He was doing it because he felt he had to do something for a certain somebody to whom he owed his life, among other things.
“How stupid can I get?” Father Abel Nightroad asked himself aloud, his raspy breaths emerging in puffs of smoky vapor, and being blown away by the frigid winds, which swept all across the land, even before their existence could be registered. Even the fact that he had covered himself in layers of woolen garments,— which included several overcoats, an ear muffler, two scarves, a pair of thick leather gloves, a woolen hat and thick rubber boots,—didn’t make him feel as cozy as they ought to have. Okay, he was practically freezing.
He wrapped his arms around himself tightly and proceeded steadfastly into the distant meadow, which was then covered in deeper snow than any other part of the city.
“Oh, Lord,” he said, finding himself sinking deeper and deeper into the snow with every step; “I should have asked Father Tres to do this instead. So fortunate: can’t feel a thing.”
“Finally!” he said when his foot made contact with something hard. He was already waist-deep in snow, and with every passing moment, he felt his lower body go number and number.
“Now comes the hard part.” he muttered.
He took a deep breath and plunged himself into the snow whole. No part of him was visible from on top except the crater that he’d formed in the snow. That, too, was rapidly being covered up.
And soon, father Abel Nightroad was buried alive underneath the snow.
“Tell me again, why did you do this?” Sister Esther said with a raised eyebrow, tapping her foot in annoyance; “Well?”
Abel Nightroad was presently seated in front of the fire, his face reddened with frostbite—particularly his nose—and his feet were in a small tub of hot water. Several blankets were draped over him, and yet he shivered as though he’d seen a most terrifying specter—presumably, that of his brother.
“Achoo!” Father Nightroad sniffled, wiped his very red nose and tried to speak. All that came out of his mouth were hoarse groans.
“Don’t speak.” Sister Esther said suddenly, changing her mind.
The door opened. “How is he now?”
“Your Eminence,” Esther said, “Father Nightroad’s caught a really bad cold.”
“Abel,” Lady Caterina said, turning to Father Nightroad, “that was a very foolish thing to do: going outside in such a furious snowstorm.”
Father Nightroad raised an eyebrow in Lady Caterina’s direction.
“Oh, well,” Lady Caterina said, casting a glance at Sister Esther, and then looking back at Father Nightroad; “I guess some actions are excusable; some things are better left untold.”
She laughed airily. “Merry Christmas to both of you, by the way.”
She turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway. “But really, Abel, those flowers frozen in ice-crystals you brought for Sister Esther are very beautiful. Nice choice.”
“How stupid can I get?” Father Abel Nightroad asked himself aloud, his raspy breaths emerging in puffs of smoky vapor, and being blown away by the frigid winds, which swept all across the land, even before their existence could be registered. Even the fact that he had covered himself in layers of woolen garments,— which included several overcoats, an ear muffler, two scarves, a pair of thick leather gloves, a woolen hat and thick rubber boots,—didn’t make him feel as cozy as they ought to have. Okay, he was practically freezing.
He wrapped his arms around himself tightly and proceeded steadfastly into the distant meadow, which was then covered in deeper snow than any other part of the city.
“Oh, Lord,” he said, finding himself sinking deeper and deeper into the snow with every step; “I should have asked Father Tres to do this instead. So fortunate: can’t feel a thing.”
“Finally!” he said when his foot made contact with something hard. He was already waist-deep in snow, and with every passing moment, he felt his lower body go number and number.
“Now comes the hard part.” he muttered.
He took a deep breath and plunged himself into the snow whole. No part of him was visible from on top except the crater that he’d formed in the snow. That, too, was rapidly being covered up.
And soon, father Abel Nightroad was buried alive underneath the snow.
---
“Tell me again, why did you do this?” Sister Esther said with a raised eyebrow, tapping her foot in annoyance; “Well?”
Abel Nightroad was presently seated in front of the fire, his face reddened with frostbite—particularly his nose—and his feet were in a small tub of hot water. Several blankets were draped over him, and yet he shivered as though he’d seen a most terrifying specter—presumably, that of his brother.
“Achoo!” Father Nightroad sniffled, wiped his very red nose and tried to speak. All that came out of his mouth were hoarse groans.
“Don’t speak.” Sister Esther said suddenly, changing her mind.
The door opened. “How is he now?”
“Your Eminence,” Esther said, “Father Nightroad’s caught a really bad cold.”
“Abel,” Lady Caterina said, turning to Father Nightroad, “that was a very foolish thing to do: going outside in such a furious snowstorm.”
Father Nightroad raised an eyebrow in Lady Caterina’s direction.
“Oh, well,” Lady Caterina said, casting a glance at Sister Esther, and then looking back at Father Nightroad; “I guess some actions are excusable; some things are better left untold.”
She laughed airily. “Merry Christmas to both of you, by the way.”
She turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway. “But really, Abel, those flowers frozen in ice-crystals you brought for Sister Esther are very beautiful. Nice choice.”
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