Father Gaetano's Puppet Catechism - By Christopher Golden Page 0,3

off on an errand.”

Father Gaetano executed a theatrical bow, and then gestured toward the rear door, through which they had entered.

“Shall we?”

Sister Teresa crossed the kitchen and turned off the stove, moving the kettle off of the hot burner. “The front door will be quicker.”

Curious now, he followed her out of the kitchen and along a narrow hall that led to the foyer, beneath a chandelier with half of its bulbs burnt out. During the war, nearly everything had become scarce in Sicily, and though the Allies now had control of the island, that seemed unlikely to change. More lights would go dark before they could begin to acquire new ones.

He’d come through the foyer when he arrived, so he had already seen the two rounded, ornate staircases that curved up either wall toward the landing at the top, and the children’s rooms beyond. He had seen many of the orphans outside, some of the boys kicking a football while the girls watched, and others climbing on the rocks by the shore. There must be more, but he hadn’t seen them yet. Tonight, at the evening meal, he would formally introduce himself to the orphans, and on Monday he would begin to teach them.

“Coming, Father?” Sister Teresa asked.

He glanced up to see her standing in the now-open doorway, awaiting his attention with a bemused look on her face.

“Of course,” he said. “But you will have to give me a tour afterward. I’d like to get my things—such as they are—hung and put away.”

Sister Teresa nodded in understanding. “Certainly. And I’m sure you must be exhausted. If you’d like to rest a while before dinner, I’ll do my best to see that you’re not disturbed.”

“That would be heavenly,” Father Gaetano said, thinking of the automobile journey the previous evening. He had traveled through the night to be sure he would be able to say mass for the sisters this morning. There was so much to do here, but the thought of a bed and a soft pillow was alluring.

“First, let’s see to your troubles,” he added, not wanting to seem callous.

Sister Teresa escorted him down a winding path that led north, away from the church and the converted orphanage, and from the village of Tringale. The church had been built at the turn of the century, when the village had outgrown the much smaller chapel that still stood at its center. Now the Church of San Domenico was the crown that rested atop the head of the village. When the people looked to the north, they saw the bell tower with its tall steeple, close enough for an easy walk to mass. Close enough for the explosions of war to shatter windows, for bullets to score the walls, for the wounded to be brought from battle and laid out on the floor in the shadow of the cross, where their blood ran in tiny rivers along the mortar between the stones of the floor. A diocesan administrator had told him the grim story when he had received the assignment as pastor. Dark things had happened here, and Father Gaetano hoped to bring new light to the place.

The path led from the rectory onto a property covered by olive trees and then to a clearing where the convent stood, gray and foreboding except for the vegetable garden that had been planted not far from the door. Though it was nearly November, somehow there were still a few tomatoes ripening there.

When Sister Teresa guided him around to the far side of the building, his heart sank at the sight of the damage to the convent. A portion of the third floor wall had been knocked away, and a small section of the roof had been undermined, drooping ominously. A severe storm might cause it to fall in, but all that the sisters had been able to do thus far was drape canvas—what looked to be the torn sails of fishing boats—over the hole.

“When did this happen?”

“The fifteenth of July, only a few days after the Allies began their assault,” Sister Teresa replied, a new chill making her tone brittle. “Sister Annica was in her bedroom when the bomb hit. We…” She turned away from him. “We were able to pull the debris off of her, but there was nothing we could do. She succumbed to her injuries.”

Father Gaetano stared at the canvas draped over the hole in the convent wall. A breeze made it billow slightly, and though he first thought of bedroom