The Colour of Heaven. James Runcie

      Teresa shut her eyes more tightly.

      Marco lay down beside her. The cool of the floor began to chill his bones.

      ‘The child is safe,’ he said at last.

      Still Teresa said nothing.

      ‘Safe,’ Marco repeated.

      What was he supposed to do?

      ‘He is with the friars, on the Island of the Two Vines. They will look after him.’

      Teresa sensed the people were there, watching, but she knew that she had to stay here, completely prostrate, until her husband consented to her every demand. If she capitulated now she would never see Paolo again.

      ‘Only I can look after him …’

      Marco lay on the floor without knowing what he should do. He listened to his wife breathing as he did when he could not sleep; and, in the cold drama of that moment, he realised that perhaps he had never loved Teresa so much as he did now. She was prepared to humiliate herself or even die to fight for that child. He started to sit up and tried to take her hand, but it lay outstretched, palm down against the marble. ‘I am sorry.’

      ‘Give me my son.’

      Marco tried to pull Teresa up from the floor, but still she would not move. About to let go, convinced that his wife would do nothing until he brought the child into the church and placed him back in her arms, he replied with two words: ‘Our son.’

      Teresa’s grip tightened. Her left arm bent at the elbow, as if she was beginning to raise her body. She moved slowly, testing her ability to do so, checking that this was no dream. She rose from the ground and put her arms around her husband.

      ‘Let me go there. Let me bring Paolo home.’

      ‘Forgive me,’ cried Marco.

      Teresa held him to her. ‘I will never ask anything of you again.’

      The people under the mosaic began to move away. Marco and Teresa were embracing, clothing each other against all the doubts and fears of their future.

      The next day Teresa rowed across the lagoon to collect her son. She could see the Island of the Two Vines from Murano, the bell tower jutting out amidst the cypress trees, and kept it in her sights throughout the journey, fearing it might disappear if ever she looked away.

      She tied up the boat and walked across the marshes. Gradually the ground became firmer. A group of finches started up from the grass as she walked, and the air was loud with the sound of swifts, swallows, and cicadas. Ahead lay a grove of olives.

      Teresa stopped.

      Underneath the trees lay six open coffins, each one containing a friar.

      Perhaps the island was diseased, and the midges and flies of the wasteland had carried an infection in the air. Had Marco lied and sent her here to die? Was the island deserted? And where was Paolo?

      Suddenly, one of the dead friars sat up in his coffin and sang.

      ‘Praised be my Lord for our sister the moon, and for the stars, the which he has set clear and lovely in heaven.’

      Teresa screamed.

      A second dead monk sat up.

      ‘Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and for air and clouds, calms and all weather by which thou upholdest life in all creatures.’

      Teresa found herself in the middle of a mighty Resurrection, as if Judgment Day had arrived without warning. Each of the monks sat up in turn, arms outstretched, gazing high into the heavens.

      ‘Praised be my Lord for our sister water, who is very serviceable unto us and humble, and precious, and clean.’

      ‘Praised be my Lord for our brother fire, through whom thou givest us light in the darkness; and he is bright and pleasant and strong.’

      ‘Praised be my Lord for our mother the earth, the which doth sustain us and keep us, and bringeth forth divers fruits and flowers of many colours, and grass.’

      ‘Praise ye and bless the Lord, and give thanks unto him, and serve him with great humility.’

      The first monk stepped out of his tomb and walked towards her, looking down at the ground as he did so.

      ‘Pax et bonum, peace and all good things, sister …’

      ‘My child …’ Teresa stuttered.

      ‘Our daily orisons …’ the nearest monk explained, also abandoning his tomb.

      ‘I am Brother Matteo and that is Brother Filippo.’ He gestured to the first monk.

      The remainder now rose from their coffins but none would look her in the eye. Teresa thought they might be blind.

      ‘Also Brother Giuseppe, Brother Giovanni, Brother Jacopo, and Brother Gentile.’

      ‘I am Teresa, wife of Marco Fiolaro.’

      ‘Then you are blessed,’ said Matteo, looking at a patch of ground beneath her feet.

      Further silence followed, and the monks stood smiling at the ground as if nothing else need happen.

      At last Brother Matteo offered an explanation. ‘We rest to prepare ourselves for the eternal slumber, as our brother Francis did before us.’

      ‘My child – my husband brought the child …’ Teresa stammered.

      ‘He is yours?’

      ‘I know that he came yesterday and that he needs me. He needs me to feed him.’

      ‘We have provided for him. The milk from Sister Goat, the honey from Brother Bee.’

      ‘Where is he?’ Teresa asked, desperately trying to encourage them to move, but the monks stood smiling and waiting. Perhaps this was their attempt at eternal life, Teresa reflected. There was no hurry to do anything.

      ‘I think the child is in the library,’ Matteo affirmed, and the monks all began to speak at once, as if performing a distracted commentary.

      ‘With Brother Cristoforo.’

      ‘He is old.’

      ‘He has rested much in the afternoon.’

      ‘Time enough in the next world,’ added Giovanni.

      ‘And yet he is prepared for greater glory.’

      ‘Sister Death, the Gate of Life.’

      Teresa wondered if they were all about to lie down again, as if this encounter had been enough for one day. Perhaps they were waiting for her to do something, or there was some rite of which she was unaware.

      ‘Would you like to see Brother Cristoforo?’ Matteo asked.

      ‘He has my son?’

      ‘We have entrusted him to Cristoforo.’

      ‘Can I see him? Can I take my baby home?’

      ‘Rest here a while. Stay with us and pray.’

      Teresa’s determination gave her strength to resist. ‘I must see Paolo.’

      ‘Then follow me.’

      They walked up through the olive grove and into the cloisters. Brother Matteo pointed to a step ahead as if warning Teresa not to trip.

      ‘Be mindful …’

      Teresa looked down.

      ‘Brother Ant.’ A small colony was making its way across the step and the monks waited to let it pass.

      At last they reached the door of the library. Matteo pushed it open, and Teresa could see an elderly monk reading, holding a piece of quartz shaped like the lesser segment of a sphere midway between his eyes and a manuscript. At his feet sat a small wooden makeshift cradle. The monk