The Dark Rift: The Supernatural Grail Quest Zombie Apocalypse (The Last Artifact Trilogy Book 1) by Gilliam Ness
Authors: Gilliam Ness
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ceiling rose solidly, with four gothic arches curving up to meet at a circular stone bearing the cross of St. George. Around him hung an assortment of detailed tapestries depicting great historical scenes. He approached his favourite one. It was a large work depicting the famous Burning of Savonarola in the Piazza della Signoria of Florence.
In the centre of the composition the puritanical priest could be seen chained to a great iron cross, with two of his supporters crucified to his left and right. At their feet, great flames licked upward. Savonarola had been a priest vehemently opposed to the Renaissance movement, and was infamous for his rampant destruction of what he considered to be immoral works of art, and heretical writings. Below the scene, on the tapestry’s ornate border, was an inscription quoting the executioner who had supposedly lit the flames.
The one who wanted to burn me is now himself put to the flames.
“I see you are reliving one of the greatest victories of the Florentine artist,” came a familiar voice from behind.
“Marcus!” said Gabriel turning. “Have I got something to show you!”
“Well,” said the old man smiling. “I certainly hope it can wait until after breakfast.”
The two embraced as they always did. A great love existed between them, and although the retired Bishop had no blood relation to Gabriel, he had been a lifelong friend of his father, and as a result, had always been like an uncle to him. Throughout his life, Gabriel had spent so much time in the old monastery that it was like a second home to him. He was familiar with the entire grounds, the bedroom he had always stayed in as a boy having had a set of doors that opened directly onto the main cloisters. Many a night he had sneaked out to explore the countless mysteries the old building had to offer.
Walking side by side, the two slowly made their way to the breakfast room , as the old Bishop liked to call it. In truth it was a small overgrown greenhouse that opened into the monastery’s private gardens. They arrived to find a little table set for two, complete with a linen tablecloth and full silverware. It sat in amongst copious plants, and beside it, a mossy fountain gurgled, silenced almost entirely by the rain that pounded the panes of glass high above. All around them finches chirped and fluttered.
“Your father and I breakfasted here quite often, as did you, my son,” said the old Bishop, sitting down slowly. “I can remember you as a boy, taking your sausages into the ferns, and feeding your crumpets to the birds on the sly.”
Gabriel remembered too, and for a moment, a deep sadness took him. He missed the big man dearly.
“Marcus, I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“Tut tut!” interrupted the Bishop. “I know, my son. We have much to speak of, but first, we old men must have our nourishment. You forget the hour at which you come. I would normally still be sleeping.”
“I’m sorry. I came here straight from the airport. I didn’t think.”
“Not to worry,” said the old Bishop with a reassuring smile, and just then, Fra Bartolomeo arrived with a large silver tray.
“Ah yes!” said the Bishop, rubbing his old hands together. “God bless you, my friend, and thanks be to God. We have been graced with one more meal. Let us enjoy it. It could very well be my last!”
“If you continue to say such things I will take this away and bring you lent rations,” scolded the Brother lovingly.
“God forbid such cruelty!” came the immediate reply.
Even the most perfect stranger felt a warm affection for the old Bishop. It would have been impossible not to, and Gabriel smiled, knowing the Bishop’s encompassing love for the gastronomical delights. Looking down at his plate, Gabriel welcomed the hot food. As always, it had been lovingly prepared by Suora Angelica, a very competent Italian nun whom Gabriel had also known since his childhood. It was the regular breakfast fare.
In the centre of the composition the puritanical priest could be seen chained to a great iron cross, with two of his supporters crucified to his left and right. At their feet, great flames licked upward. Savonarola had been a priest vehemently opposed to the Renaissance movement, and was infamous for his rampant destruction of what he considered to be immoral works of art, and heretical writings. Below the scene, on the tapestry’s ornate border, was an inscription quoting the executioner who had supposedly lit the flames.
The one who wanted to burn me is now himself put to the flames.
“I see you are reliving one of the greatest victories of the Florentine artist,” came a familiar voice from behind.
“Marcus!” said Gabriel turning. “Have I got something to show you!”
“Well,” said the old man smiling. “I certainly hope it can wait until after breakfast.”
The two embraced as they always did. A great love existed between them, and although the retired Bishop had no blood relation to Gabriel, he had been a lifelong friend of his father, and as a result, had always been like an uncle to him. Throughout his life, Gabriel had spent so much time in the old monastery that it was like a second home to him. He was familiar with the entire grounds, the bedroom he had always stayed in as a boy having had a set of doors that opened directly onto the main cloisters. Many a night he had sneaked out to explore the countless mysteries the old building had to offer.
Walking side by side, the two slowly made their way to the breakfast room , as the old Bishop liked to call it. In truth it was a small overgrown greenhouse that opened into the monastery’s private gardens. They arrived to find a little table set for two, complete with a linen tablecloth and full silverware. It sat in amongst copious plants, and beside it, a mossy fountain gurgled, silenced almost entirely by the rain that pounded the panes of glass high above. All around them finches chirped and fluttered.
“Your father and I breakfasted here quite often, as did you, my son,” said the old Bishop, sitting down slowly. “I can remember you as a boy, taking your sausages into the ferns, and feeding your crumpets to the birds on the sly.”
Gabriel remembered too, and for a moment, a deep sadness took him. He missed the big man dearly.
“Marcus, I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“Tut tut!” interrupted the Bishop. “I know, my son. We have much to speak of, but first, we old men must have our nourishment. You forget the hour at which you come. I would normally still be sleeping.”
“I’m sorry. I came here straight from the airport. I didn’t think.”
“Not to worry,” said the old Bishop with a reassuring smile, and just then, Fra Bartolomeo arrived with a large silver tray.
“Ah yes!” said the Bishop, rubbing his old hands together. “God bless you, my friend, and thanks be to God. We have been graced with one more meal. Let us enjoy it. It could very well be my last!”
“If you continue to say such things I will take this away and bring you lent rations,” scolded the Brother lovingly.
“God forbid such cruelty!” came the immediate reply.
Even the most perfect stranger felt a warm affection for the old Bishop. It would have been impossible not to, and Gabriel smiled, knowing the Bishop’s encompassing love for the gastronomical delights. Looking down at his plate, Gabriel welcomed the hot food. As always, it had been lovingly prepared by Suora Angelica, a very competent Italian nun whom Gabriel had also known since his childhood. It was the regular breakfast fare.
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