Adeste Fidelis

He had not seen her for ten days, ever since he offered her the disc bought at the concert. What brought him to gift her such a simple present? A kindness, perhaps, for he had so loved to see the stunned look on her face after the performance … right before he’d spotted how she limped.

Foolish woman. Driving in such a state! Still … he shouldn’t have talked to her so harshly. Where had his legendary patience disappeared? Burnt away by the concern, probably, and it worried him. Years ago, he had sworn to never let his short temper dominate his life again… God had shown him the way, and he followed his teaching in all humility, making him a better man. A passionate man, still, for one couldn’t change his own nature. Tristan had always been unsafe waters, powerful, like an Ocean. When the wave tide came, nothing could stop it, an unspeakable, unbreakable force that could devastate anything on the way. For fifteen years, he had worked at taming the waves, and mostly managed to avoid storms and tempests in the depth of his inner self. Even mood on the surface, simmering passion on the inside, all of them turned to God.

It was with no little amount of unease that Tristan mulled over his outburst – relatively, of course, he had scarcely raised his voice. Still, the swirl of emotions that had washed over him at seeing Frances so diminished … it didn’t sit well with him. Her absence wasn’t unwelcome; she was probably working hard before Christmas break. He understood why she came to the concert, that day, albeit he didn’t condone it. Truth be told, he believed in miracles, and that beautiful music could heal all ailments. Perhaps not at once, of course, perhaps figuratively as well by filling hearts with hope. If any music could possibly help the young woman in the most difficult moments of her life, this was the CD he had chosen for her.

And day after day, his thought returned to her, his sermons written with tendrils of her trials seeping in his examples. Always veiled, of course, but he couldn’t help it. How did she fare, his this criminally thoughtless school her hers? How could a civilisation, so called evolved and advanced, authorise its youths to be pressured and treated so badly in the name of science, of knowledge? Had they all forgotten the teachings of the heavens? To care for each other, that God was love before all, and that no amount of knowledge could possibly replace kindness, empathy, and the intimate knowledge to be part of the world? To have a role to play, other than seeking money and a successful career?

He knew that Frances suffered from the system, an unwilling soul trapped on a path she had chosen out of respect for her parents, out or realism. With her brilliant mind, she found some solace in the teachings her professors bestowed upon her. He saw how she learnt, how curious she was of religion and theology, how she connected things between his point of view and the outside world. How she tried to make things work, to find sense in the multitude of information that was thrown her way, her thoughts jumping from history, to languages, to medicine and ailments, mapping out a web of the world with every single of piece of theology he gave her. Her incessant questioning was so earnest, so refreshing, without an ounce of judgement. She had passed the point where her education mattered, taken so many steps into understanding his faith, trying to share it without betraying her own beliefs. Mending the gap between her communist, very down to earth education and his higher spiritual purpose.

So he understood her distress when she had to learn things the stupid way, taking her time, her health, and her spirit away from greater things. Every time she came in, dark circles under her eyes, defeated, Tristan felt his heart lurch. She was such a sweet unassuming girl who didn’t want a career, or be admired because she was brilliant. She wasn’t after money, even if “it didn’t hurt to have some”. No, Frances yearned to be useful, to be part of something and the more she studied, the more she realised how misplaced she was in its ugly reality. It left Tristan with mixed feelings. Sadness to see her struggles and disappointment. Relief to be able to guide her so that she wasn’t alone on the path.

So today, when she nearly barreled into the church, her eyes twinkling in mischief and excited like a five-year-old, Tristan’s eyebrows couldn’t help but shoot up. Her long reddish hair, so often tied up in a bun, swayed around her shoulders with each step. What had her in such a good mood that her happiness radiated from head to toe? It affected him, and he couldn’t help the fond smile that brightened his own face.

— “Good evening, Frances. I am glad to see you well.”

— “Good evening, Father Tristan. Likewise”

Tristan dipped his head slightly to acknowledge her response, awaiting to see whether she wanted his company, or merely to wander alone and light up a candle in her grandmother’s memory. Suddenly, the bonding bundle of energy beside him retreated, shyness taking over as she remained silent.

— “How was your week?” he eventually asked, puzzled by her attitude.

For a long moment, the young woman proceeded to tell him what she had learnt –magmatology, stratigraphy, cartography – and how the teacher – Bruno – had brought her hot chocolate with the order not to breathe a word to anyone about it. The same man who had offered to teach her salsa in a soirée her friends had dragged her to … fleeing when his official girlfriend appeared after a shared dance. Frances only laughed at this, not bothered at all, and wondering why this beautiful woman would be jealous of someone like her. She was, after all, unavailable and so was her teacher. So it didn’t hurt to be friendly, right?

Tristan tried to keep his face neutral, deeply unsettled that a man, a teacher nonetheless, could behave in such a way. Frances was so oblivious sometimes – she didn’t realise men and boys alike fell at her feet – so entranced by her own boyfriend to even remark that those attentions were not as innocent as she thought. To her, stating that she was in a long-term relationship, however dysfunctional, ruled out her availability with men. So she acted freely, openly with the others, naively believing that they wouldn’t try and seduce her. Missing, even, that some tried with all their might… She just didn’t register it; Frances would never know how to flirt. He didn’t blame those men, she was so genuine, so lovely, so full of light. How could they not be blinded by her dazzling smile and tender affection?

At last, she took a deep breath, and seemed to gather herself. Father Tristan sat on the bench, his body still, awaiting. Like a big cat hidden in the shadows, his breath even. Something was coming, and it hopefully would be nicer than hearing about… other men.

— “I have roamed the internet for religious music, and found so many beautiful things,” she started.

All right… He had not expected this. Tristan stirred his brain away from the past line of thoughts. ‘Music it is’.

— “Yes. There have been people inspired by faith for centuries. What have you found?”

— “I’ll give you the titles and the links, if you wish. You probably know all of them already.”

The priest shook his head, unconvinced.

— “You seem to be very proficient at finding things on the internet, Frances. More than I am”

Not that he couldn’t use technology, but he was nearly ten years older than she was, and it made the slight difference between being born with it or having to learn in his twenties. Frances dismissed his praise with practised ease – she always had a justification for every single compliment handed her way.

— “Ah, professional tick, if I may say. Anyway. I have given a lot of thought about singing since you told me that I should try.”

— “You have?”

The young woman nodded, her warm almond shaped eyes peering at him with intensity.

— “Yes. So I have. Tried, I mean. Would you…”

The young lady seemed to need more encouragement.

— “Yes?” he asked softly.

— “Would you like to hear it what I learnt someday?”

Tristan almost started; Frances was OFFERING to sing for him ! There definitely was a guardian angel working for him today… Perhaps he'd been heard, and she was now trying to get out of her shell. He gave an eyeful around him, finding no one in sight.

— “Well, the church is pretty empty, so now seems like as good a moment as any.”

Nibbling on her lower lip, Frances seemed frozen to the spot.

— “Are you sure? In the church ?”

— “Yes. Come, stand beside the statue of our beloved Marie, and I will go and switch the sound off for a moment.”

Tristan stood instantly; the occasion was too good to be true, and he couldn’t allow her to escape. His long legs strode to the sound system commands, the black frock billowing around his legs and he couldn’t prevent but think of the Equilibrium movie again. He smirked; she had contaminated him with her image! One moment later, he was sitting again on the bench, eagerly awaiting for Frances to sing. He wasn’t expecting much of this, but it pleased him that she would dare trying.

— “I … feel a little stupid, but I trained so it shouldn’t be so bad.”

— “I am eager to hear you, Frances.”

No false reassurance, no urge to perform. Just the plain truth. Her mouth opened, and the world crumbled at his feet. Shattered in a million pieces as her crystal tones pierced him. Goosebumps rose on his arms, causing him to shiver.

How could such an unassuming woman sing so clearly, so beautifully ?

Her choice, he recognised at once – Adeste Fidelis. A Christmas song.

Very fitting, of course, but so flooring. She said she loved singing… but she didn't warn him it could sound like this. It was little wonder she appreciated the Ave Maria.

And still she sang, her eyes closed now, as she lost herself in the chorus. Would she be able to sustain the higher notes without cracking? Tristan watched, mesmerised, as the Latin words spilled from her mouth as if she’d written them herself. The accent was right, for sure … but her voice. Tristan was stunned. Her voice range true, filling the church which bounced it back to her in the purest of manners.

"Gloria, gloria

In excelsis Deo"

A soprano, a damn fine one, her voice pure and strong, her tone crystalline. Wow. To think that he might have never heard her. As she sang, standing beside Marie, he couldn’t help the wide smile that crept on his face. His heart swelled with a renewed sense of joy. And when at last, she finished the first chorus, he stood.

— “Come,” he said, his mind in haze, barely refraining the urge to grasp for her hand.

Frances emerged from her trance, surprised by his strange outburst but followed him nonetheless. Tristan purposefully walked to the altar and, standing tall in front of the illuminated transept, turned to the young woman.

— “Sing again, please”

She didn’t question him, obeying without a protest. He was grateful for it. As her beautiful voice rose again in his beloved church, now reaching every single corner, his own voice rose to greet her. France slightly faltered; she didn’t expect him to join in. But when his soft baritone doubled her words, she singing high, and he adding the undertones, the world seemed at least at peace. Two voices, united in beauty, each of them with their own faith, each respecting the other, each of them singing praises to the creator in such a perfect harmony. The light engulfed him, caressing, vibrating in every single cell of his body. His chest, pierced by the grace of the Lord, more powerful than any tide. And the storm within rose, waves high and strangely harmless. His passion unleashed.

They both stood before the altar, side by side, never touching, never crossing that line, but united through their souls. Tears slipped from her eyes – overwhelmed – and Tristan fought hard to keep his eyes dry. He failed, but kept on singing, his smooth voice joining hers in the most beautiful of duo. For he couldn’t falter; by his side stood an angel.