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  Title Page

  LOVE IS MY DESTINY

  A FICTION TRAGEDY

  By

  Paul Kelly

  Publisher Information

  Love Is My Destiny

  Published in 2011 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Paul Kelly

  The right of Paul Kelly to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Quote

  “For love is without contradiction. The dove will not fly backwards, nor will the river Flow upstream. The emerald is not red, nor the ruby green and the saffron amethyst is a folly ... and no greater love hath any man than that he lay down his life for his friend.

  A priest is a man . . . and he can fall in love like any other man, It’s what he does about it that matters . . .

  This is a story about the true vocation of the catholic priesthood with the vows that unite the priest to almighty god . . . With particular emphasis on his vow of celibacy . . . And purity of living for god and for God alone . . .

  Foreword

  Scotland, the Highlands, 1920

  It was in the year 1920, in the Scottish Highland village of Bolarne, situated at the foot of Glen Maurkyre, near Shornagh, that Anna waited longingly for the birth of her child. It was early in the afternoon and the sun battled in her effort to shine through the dark and heavy clouds that cast a blanket shadow across the earth, deep into the meadows and scaling the heather-clan mountain region where occasionally her rays would shyly break through. The transformation of her golden touch sparked life into the deep purple and russet heather as it swayed in abandon amidst the thick, coarse highland gorse. This was the nature of the land that Anna loved.

  The cottage was dark, apart from the faint light of a paraffin lamp in the far corner of the bedroom. Anna lay in her wooden bed, bathed in the perspiration of her toil; her silken fair hair, darkened and pressed close to her head from the sweat that gave her relief from her pain. Miguel, her husband, watched anxiously by her side, pressing his forehead into the palm of her clammy hand and the village nurse stood by.

  “Push, Anna. Push hard lass. It won’t be long now.”

  Anna obeyed eager to see the child that had been so long the object of her yearnings.

  “Ah! I see the head.”

  Nurse Ogilvy’s face lit up as she prepared to perform the delicate duties of her midwifery training.

  “Wonderful, Anna ... Truly wonderful. Push lass push,” she urged and within a few painful seconds, a little boy was born.

  Nurse Ogilvy took the child aside to wash him, having cut the umbilical cord with caring tender hands, releasing the little one to a world of his own, but her face was less that radiant as the moments passed, for the little boy, although well coloured and breathing, would not cry.

  She slapped him gently in the hopes of a sad little echo of a whimper, but to no avail. She tried again, taking care not to forget her patient in her efforts, but with the same result.

  “My God, the child is mute,” she whispered and Miguel stirred by Anna’s side.

  “Nurse, nurse,” he cried, “come quickly please” and he stood aside in alarm as his wife convulsed into a second spasm of agony.

  “What is it Anna? Where is the pain? Tell me?” nurse Ogilvy demanded, but Anna simply smiled through her torment and her eyes were ecstatic.

  “Another ... there is another,” she gasped.

  Nurse Ogilvy looked from her patient to the husband in confusion as Anna continued to writhe in pain whilst Miguel and the nurse looked on in amazement.

  The little boy who had already been born was by now safely wrapped in a warm towel and tucked into his cot, but the little cherub lay still and in silence.

  It was nearly an hour before Anna flexed her muscles and strained to bring her twin child into the world and after a last tremendous effort she lay back in triumphant exhaustion. It was at that very moment, a cry came from the nearby cot and Anna’s little one gave proof to the world that he did indeed have a voice.

  The nurse took the baby boy from his cot and placed him in his mother’s arms “And the other child ... Please nurse, my other one, “Anna pleaded, as nurse Ogilvy stroked the patient’s damp forehead.

  “Rest now, lass. It’s all over now, she said, but the patient continued to mutter, “But the other one, nurse please ... The other one,” she pleaded in distress as nurse Ogilvy sighed ...“Anna, there was only one child. There were never two,” the nurse replied and Anna’s eyes went wide as her lips started to quiver.

  “But I ...”

  Anna lay back exhausted and Miguel took the child from her arms as she fell into a deep sleep

  ***

  Anna and her husband walked the five miles that it took to reach the Church of Our Lady of Grace, to have the infant baptized two weeks after the birth.

  Miguel was elated, but Anna walked with a troubled heart. The joy of her soul was now incarnate in her arms in the form of a humble male child, but her peace was not without disturbance.

  “What have ye decided tae call the wee bairn?” the old priest asked, smiling a welcome to the new member of his flock. Miguel looked at Anna and smiled shyly as his wife debated with the name. “Fernando, Miguel, Alphonso Zambrano,” she replied and the priest looked across the top of his spectacles..

  “Och, to be sure, ye have enough names there for two wee laddies, let alone one,” he commented affectionately as Anna glanced at the crucifix above the high altar and her eyes were gentle with a renewed peace to her state.

  “Yes Father ... enough for two,” she whispered, “enough for two . .”

  The little boy cried lustily when the baptismal unction touched his fair brow. It was the cry that would produce the finest voice in the whole of the glen ... and even farther, for he was born to sing as naturally and as beautifully as he grew into manhood, in wisdom and in love.

  ‘LOVE IS MY DESTINY’ is not particularly a love story, but it is a story of a particular love. If you have never loved ... never REALLY loved ... then you will be wasting your time in reading this narration. For love knows no bounds, no borders, no restrictions in logic, no religion, no colour and no class.

  The river of love flows where it will ... That is nature ... That is DESTINY.

  Love

  Love is truth, love is kind …love is patient; patient of criticism, but defiant of human intolerance.

  Love is accepting and forgiving. Love is pure.

  Love is the snow-white dove as she pierces the clouds, To rest on the blanch-tipped, heather-clad mountains, The dove that descends to earth, to glide with grace, In the wind that bends the yellow corn.

  Love is without contradiction, The dove will not fly backwards, nor will the river flow upstream, The emerald is not red, nor the ruby green, And the saffron amethyst is a folly.

  Love is swift and straight, as the shaft from the arrow, LOVE IS TRUTH.

  When man is visited by the white dove, no explanation is necessary, But to him, whom she visits not,
no explanation will suffice.

  Chapter One

  Seventeen Years Later

  THE WIND BLEW low and strong over the earth and the dark purple clouds scurried across the reddening sky like tattered dusters, ignoring the muted protests of the thick Highland gorse and the heavy coarse grass, as it spread its venom, to press the land into subjection. The sound of the wind, so familiar in the Highlands of Scotland was today somewhat foreboding. The wind was afraid.

  Fern stood silently in the room where his mother lay. He wanted to cry, but although overwhelmed with grief, there were no tears. The bridge of his nose ached, and his head was heavy; as if someone had punched him hard between the eyes as he gazed through a mist again at the coffin.

  Her face was gentle and serene and she was at rest at last, but his mind was fertile with questions ... questions without answers …

  “Are you still at school?” A voice from nearby could be heard and as Fern turned around slowly, the priest had put his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

  “School … school? Yes, I am still at school,” he replied and the priest could find no more to say, as he gently squeezed the boy’s arm.

  “I’ll be around if you need me. Take care,” he said and left the room. Fern remained by the coffin for what seemed to be hours until the undertaker replaced the lid and a dimension of light in his young life went out. He left the room; his mind in confusion.

  ***

  So strange, it seemed that the hills should look the same; that the sun should shine as brightly and that the wind should continue to whistle through the trees. The birds chirped merrily in the hedgerow and in the distance, he could hear the roar of the waterfall. Nothing had changed. Nothing would admit to his mother being with him no more as Fern sighed longingly and walked on with heavy tread. He trudged through the meadow and up into the hills, onwards to the forest where the huge trees darkened the earth with cooling dampness and the sun fought to penetrate in spangled spasms, until after some time, he approached the waterfall and sat down. This was the spot he loved and where he would sit for hours to marvel at the majesty of such power and might. This gigantic; screeching deluge of aqueous diamonds that fell thunderously before him, screaming in daily protest in defiance of the world… spitting and screeching to be recognised for the majestic tsunami he was ... No humility here, thought Fern, and yet, he knew this same torrential giant as a caring loving friend, to guard the secrets of his mind and to drown the sorrows of his heart on his not infrequent visits to this place of such familiar mad chaotic crescendo. Here was a giant who guarded jealously his innermost feelings and this moment was as real as his heart was heavy.

  “I am so lonely. So very much alone and afraid,” he sighed, uttering the words in search of response, awaiting an answer ... a solution to stem his agony, but in the stillness, the proud giant continued to roar complacently.

  ***

  The months that passed were long and pensive, and Fern’s stepfather grew even more retired from him. Fern knew there was never much feeling between Stephen Lockton and his mother; that there was a strained, if acceptable toleration, if such a term could be used for their union in marriage but at this period in his young life, he would have appreciated some help and understanding of the situation. Fern’s mother had married Stephen Lockton after his natural father had died, when he was three years of age and Stephen had never shown him very much affection although Fern was in no doubt that he was a good and upright man. His stepfather’s vocation as a Minister of the Episcopalian Church had occupied all of his time and energy. The marriage had never produced children …Nevertheless Fern wondered why, when obviously there had never been an easy flow of affection between his mother and this man of God, that no harsh words were ever used either; no flare of tempers… and yet, he had always been conscious of an emptiness about the whole affair; an emptiness of despair in his own heart; a heart which desperately demanded and generated a love that was strong and compelling, yet incomprehensible in so many ways to himself. It was at moments of thought like these that he felt the inadequacy of his seventeen years.

  Chapter Two

  “I’M GOING INTO SHORNAGH, want a lift?” called the priest. Father Spinelli’s old square box Austin car had seen better days and he had bought it third-hand, but it provided the necessary transport required for the status of a country parish priest and he repeated his request, but it seemed that Fern had not heard him.

  “Want a lift?” he called again as Fern kicked a stone across the dusty road.

  “No thank you ... I’m just out for a walk,” the boy replied and the priest looked a little sad.

  “I’ll be glad of your company,” he patronised, “please?” he went on and Fern, inwardly pleased that someone should acknowledge him, jumped into the car, glad in his heart that he had found someone with whom he could talk.

  “My name is Peter, Peter Spinelli, what’s yours?”

  The young priest already knew the answer to his question but he wanted to be kind.

  “Fern ... Fernando ... Fernando ... Lockton,” the boy answered reluctantly as Peter’s brakes grinded irritatingly as he drove off in jerky movements.

  “However did you get a name like Fernando?”

  Fern stretched himself on the seat as they drove on.

  “My father was Spanish. My name should be Zambrano as that is my family name. I was baptised Fernando Miguel Alphonso Zambrano, but my mother remarried when I was very little and my own father died. You may know my stepfather, Stephen Lockton; he is the Minister at the Episcopalian Church on the hill.

  “Of course, I know your step father. I was sorry about your mother’s death Fern, and I hope you feel better now.”

  Fern was surprised at the priest’s remark about his mother, as he looked intently into the car mirror.

  “Of course ... I remember. You are the person ... the minister who attended my mother’s funeral. I thought your face was familiar,” he said in a soft voice and there were a few moments of silence before either spoke again. “Yes, I have got used to the fact that I will never see her again, but it is sometimes very hard,” Fern spoke again quietly and gazed out from the car window as Peter swerved to avoid a passing motorist.

  “I know. I had the same situation when I was very young ... well a teenager actually, just like you are and my own mother died, but tell me, how do you happen to be so fair, if you are of Spanish origin?”

  Fern blushed visibly and smiled.

  “My mother was a Scot ... and a lovely one at that,” he added with pride and the young priest laughed as they drove on.

  “Well, I have a few visits to make in Shornagh,” Peter added as if by afterthought, “and then I’m due back home again in the afternoon. If you like, I can see you later and we’ll have a cup of tea and something to eat. What do you think?”

  “That would be nice, if you don’t think I would be a trouble. I mean, I can quite easily get home on my own.”

  Peter’s gears made a peculiar sound as he changed down.

  “Call me Peter and I’ll be back at this car park in two hours. You’ll be ready for a cuppa by that time, I’m sure,” he added cheerfully and Fern agreed before he left the car and strolled along the road towards the village bookshop where he loved to browse among the books and to allow his imagination to run wild wherever it would. He was always available to travel anywhere in his mind and in that way; he was very well travelled indeed. Fern went into the bookshop humming a tune as he studied the shelves, heavily crammed with travel books of all kinds.

  His thoughts went out to Spain ... to the land of his real father’s boyhood days and how different they would have been from his own, he thought ... Miguel, Alphonso Zambrano ... Fern imagined a carefree youth, not very tall and with a shock of black hair who must have had brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, he concluded. The priest was right. However did h
e turn out the way he was and spontaneously his thoughts returned to his mother, to the thought of her fair skin and blue eyes, with flaxen hair so soft that it blew in abandon with the wind. He saw again, so vividly, the cool soft lips that needed no colour and the blush in her cheeks. He envied his father, having had the love of such a beautiful lady, but then, what was he really like?

  He must have been very special for his mother to love him and not for the first time, he wished he had known his father. His biological father ... He wished he could be with him now. He wished ... yes, he wished, but life was always so full of wishes ... and especially now.

  ***

  Father Spinelli was waiting at the car park when Fern arrived.

  “I’m just gasping for some tea, aren’t you?” the priest enquired impatiently and without waiting for an answer, he ushered Fern into the cafe and they sat down. The welcoming tea made them both feel better and Fern told Peter about the bookshop and how he enjoyed reading, especially about travel, as he looked again at the priest with renewed interest. Peter had a way of looking directly into the eyes of the person to whom he was speaking and Fern had noticed this several times.

  “You must have travelled a lot, Father,” he said, having regard for the priest’s foreign name.

  “Not very much,” said Peter, between mouthfuls of homemade cherry cake, “Rome twice and once to Milan, where my parents started out, but they both loved Scotland and therefore they chose to live here after they got married. I was born here in Scotland, you see. Have you ever been to Italy, Fern?”