The monk leaned forward. “The Pallottine brothers… Now aren’t you the order in the Basilica of San Silvestro?”
“Indeed we are.”
“Ah, how interesting! It’s been so long since I last visited Rome.”
“It’s the beating heart of our faith. I hope you get the chance.”
“I hope so too,” he said. “Say, isn’t San Silvestro where the most holy relic of Saint John the Baptist can be found?”
“Indeed so.” Armagh was suddenly watchful. He wondered if, somehow, word of his mission might have gotten around. It seemed impossible, especially in an out-of-the-way place like this. But to his relief, the skiing monk continued on, unaware of the vandalism. “I’ve sometimes thought we Catholics overdo the relic thing. It’s not so different from worshiping a graven image.”
Armagh felt slightly offended at this. “People need objects of faith. Holy relics inspire them—and remind them of those who’ve suffered for the sake of our Lord.”
“You make a good point, Brother,” said the monk, slapping his knees. He rose. “I’m afraid I have to get back to Aspen for Compline.” He once again enveloped Armagh’s hand in the warmth of his own. “It’s been lovely speaking to you, Brother Niall.”
Armagh said his goodbyes and left the church. As Brother Armagh was driving back down the road from Burns, surrounded by snowy mountains, he thought about the monk flying down the slopes, robes flapping,skiingfor God. It was a most appealing image.
