The Blind Road
I should have never opened THE BOOK. I should never have followed the voice inside of me yearning to go to the
library, stand in that section, grab a hold of THE BOOK, and read it until morning, drinking in each word as if it
was the Holy Grail. Each page beckoned me to read more, as if I had found a life changing revelation. I will not
say I was a happy man, for I now know that to be untrue. I will say I was a man filled with joy in what was my
present state then. Love…I had long given up on love, and had taken a hold of the physical love of any woman I
desired. Peace…I had long accepted that my belief in what I believed to be my own chosen faith would not let any
man have peace, unless divine intervention called for it. In the understanding that humans who have not pursued
any greater truth have, I was content. My experiences did not come to me in a time of crisis, they did not arrive as I
faced a crisis of faith, nor did they call to me as if I was lost in an empty, wind filled desert. Rather, they came to
me in the form of a dying religious leader, who had been my spiritual guide since I was born and a young woman,
who had captured my entire being with one look and word.
The entire town was on fire with news our religious leader was dying. In the sea side town of Pénombre little
happened, which did not soon become public information.
This news tore through my soul. It had been a week
since I had read THE BOOK and just as much time since I had slept. I found myself walking to the house, which
belonged to the religious leader’s order. Gaining entrance was a blur, as I found myself questioning everything
around me, and comparing each thought I had to what I had read in THE BOOK. As I approached the bed-ridden
leader, he asked those around us to leave the room. “It pleases me that you have come to see me, Matteo.” I smiled
and gently laid my hands on his trembling ones. His skin was wrinkled and weathered by time. His bright blue eyes
still stood in their own glory radiantly, and contradicted his gray hair and beard. He held an obsidian rosary, its
beauty resting in its primitive cut.
“Why would I not come see you, Pierre,” I questioned.
It is from this moment, THE BOOK and the rest of fate’s
plans came together.
“If you are too afraid to question or test your faith, is it truly faith?” The question asked to me by Pierre still
haunted me that night. I had not meant to stay long and discuss much with him. All I had wanted was to speak with
the dying man who had counseled my parents before my birth, baptized me, and educated me. He had heard the
truth of my actions my entire life, and I had grown to love him as a father. But never, never had he engaged in such
conversation with me. My anger allowed me to believe it was his dying soul’s wish to grab a hold of my being like
an anchor. I hardly slept the night of my first visit with him. Nothing would console the wound within me, and
darkness seemed hardly capable of lulling me to sleep. Dreams would not come. In a fit of rage, I left my bedroom,