Lupelius - The School for Gods

those warrior monks were the legendary protagonists of unparalleled epic deeds oftencapable of turning a defeat into a glorious victory.My research reached a deadlock. For weeks I was unable to add anything more to thatsmall amount that I had already painstakingly gathered. I gave up hope of ever finding thatlegendary manuscript and, with it, the way back to the Dreamer.However, one day, during one of my many sorties on the trail of this lost teaching, I cameto hear of a vastly cultured Dominican father who would be able to help me with myresearch. He was, moreover, the author of an encyclopaedic work on the medieval history ofthe Church.5 The Meeting with Father S.I arrived a few minutes early for my appointment with the person who, after so muchsearching, had been recommended to me as one of the living fathers of the Christian doctrine.Father S. lived in an ancient Carmelite convent. A tribe of tiny nuns, strict and protective,watched over his scholarly meditations and his contemplative old age. Two of these nunsushered me into a small ante‐chamber where I stood and waited.From the half‐open window I could see a corner of the delightful cloister. The green colourcontained in the geometry of the arcades and the quality of the silence gave renewed intensityto the sensation I had experienced as I passed through the ancient gates; rather than justcrossing the threshold of a convent, it seemed that I had crossed into another time. In aninstant my mind flew back to the courtyard of the Collegio Bianchi, in the heart of Naples.The air rang with the sounds of footsteps, of shouting and children chasing each other underthe arches; I could smell the food from the refectory and thousands of memories cameflooding back to me of my childhood with the Barnabites.Permission to enter was granted on time. I was sorry to leave that enchanted island and thesmall crowd of my schoolmates that had run to greet me. Their smiling faces faded andreturned to their place among the neurons in the mysterious forest of the memory.“Father S. is finishing a new volume of his immense work on medieval Christianity” said oneof the miniature sister‐guardians who escorted me. I guessed from the austerity of her tonethat she was issuing a veiled warning to make sparing use of my host’s time and patience.I went up a narrow spiral staircase made even more constricted by the walls of bookssurrounding it. Rather than going up steps I had the impression I was climbing a metaphor.Every detail of that symbolic interior seemed a warning to me.I was about to meet one of the great thinkers of Christianity. This idea filled me with areverential awe mixed with the slight pain experienced when touched by regret or a passingmelancholy. This was the kind of life I had wanted for myself, dedicated to research andstudy. I felt a sudden resurgence of my old, blind faith in teachers and books.10