Chapter 8: Humble Beginnings

St. Magnus’ Home for Boys, a headstone among brick ruins. The orphanage was a stately manor of slate gray that had, despite years of urban decay, retained some of its dignity. Though its façade had not been attended to in decades, leaving behind stains of rainwater and mold, it stood against crumbling tenements and cracked asphalt roads strewn with litter. It remained a promise from a time long past, that despite the horrors of the world, Earth’s most vulnerable children would not be abandoned—unlike the dying neighborhood around it. Spared by thieves and only occasionally scrawled with graffiti, its foreboding and ominous presence kept itself from harm.

Sister Patience stared out a cracked, soot-covered window at the mid-morning yard. Though only ten boys remained in the home’s care—the others having been taken by the state long ago—she handled her duties like clockwork, every day not the same, but deliberately a little different. The woman (whose age none knew for certain) knew routine was sacred, and monotony profane, and so she would do her tasks—always with the same efficiency—a little different each day.

Sister Patience had another philosophy; to give oneself little gifts throughout the day, a wisdom she imparted to her young wards. These were not material gifts, nor were they always spiritual, but being kind to oneself was a tenant of the Goddess. Right now, while the children were out in the barren courtyard, tended to by the eternally addled Sister Grace, Sister Patience saw to the dusting of the sleeping quarters, which had not seen new beds in quite some time. This gift was a gift of peace, a half hour of quiet and contemplation.

The Sister changed old bedding with new sheets, an actual gift, though not from the divine, but the wayward. An old charge of hers, a young boy called Samuel Waterford—who had insisted on going by the crass moniker ‘Spike’—had donated a portion of money to the charity some time ago. It was not in the position of the Sisters of St. Magnus—desperate as they were—to question the origin of the money provided it did not come from secular, criminal means. But Sister Patience knew enough of young Samuel that these funds could not possibly be squeaky clean.

Despite Father Johanne’s intercessions and shrewd rhetoric, the church’s treasury provided them the same amount of funding that they did twenty or so years ago, despite an increase in rent and inflation. Community organizations throughout the area had slowly shifted to other neighborhood’s, leaving St. Magnus House stranded in the past—hence the creeping intervention of the state.

Sister Patience was old (older than she looked, mind you) but she was no fool. Her life had been devoted to the care of the most vulnerable. The foster system was a roulette wheel, and often easily abused. A child could land in the direst of situations, or they could find genuinely loving and supportive guardians. At least with St. Magnus—though nutrition was sometimes lacking—the children here were protected from the worst of the world.

How long would Sister Patience be able to protect them though? On this concern, she prayed often. She sat on a freshly made bed and watched the daylight glitter through the dust motes. She was sure she had counted the right number of beds, but perhaps not. Her own memory was starting to betray her, though she hadn’t admitted it to anybody else. She would carry on until she could not, and let the Goddess take care of her when it was time. Like a captain of a ship, she would go down with this house--but only if it meant sparing the lives of its youngest occupants.

A knock on the door interrupted these melancholy reveries—probably for the best. The Goddess' intervention, no doubt, likely telling her to ‘stop having a sulk and get to it’. 

“What is it?” Sister Patience called out. It was difficult standing, and she was still too stubborn to take up with a cane—but stand she did.

“Someone here to see you,” came the church-mouse voice of Sister Prudence, barely audible through the heavy door.

“Not one of the boys, I take it?” Sister Patience rolled her eyes, not at demure Sister Prudence, but at the inconvenience of a guest. Dealing with scraped knees and fistfights was preferably to speaking to contractors, exterminators, taxmen, or police...

“Um…he says his name is Spike. But you would know him as Samuel.”

It took the nun several seconds to process the name, pull it from the recesses of her past. The cherubic face of a blond boy with messy hair, who had a bad habit of playing imaginary games by himself. He seemed to her such a pleasant child for one so lonely, and his smile had always been a welcome rarity. What had happened to him? Yes, the military had taken him because of his strange gift, something that the sisters—magically endowed as they were—could not handle. About a year or more he had come by to drop off a modest donation, but Sister Patience had always chosen to avoid him.

It was sometimes too painful to confront one's regrets.

“My word,” Sister Patience whispered under her breath. She drew the sign of the goddess on her chest. Her lip trembled. “Let him in.”

“Yes, miss.”

Patience waited for Prudence’s steps to fade down the stairs. Breathing heavily, Sister Patience paced the room. Why was she so afraid of meeting a former charge? But of course, it was the guilt, the hanging sword of failure, that caused her such anguish. Samuel had been a rambunctious but lovely boy whose power was far too much for her to manage. Her instructions to the other sisters had always been to segregate the child wherever possible. Separate playtimes. Supervised meals. Lest one of the other boys start a fight with him and then force her to explain another broken arm or collar bone to the authorities...

She had failed him. She had sold him off to the military; Goddess forgive her. There was doubt such traumas had influenced him for the negative. Why had this child had come back, as a young man, to give his well-earned money to a home that had cast him away?

A gentle knock on the door. A slightly effeminate but unmistakably male voice. “Hello?”

She called for him to enter before she changed her mind. Goddess giver her strength. She faced him.

It was remarkable how little he had changed, at least about the face, which was still soft and boyish. She expected him to be lean, but she was taken aback at the amount of muscle on him, with his jeans clinging tightly to his legs, and his T-shirt hinting at athletic definition. He looked like one of the Goddess warrior angels. Yet that devilish aura...ah, no...far from it.

The young man scratched his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sister.” He averted his eyes and looked at the floor.

So, he was still the same. “Still slouching,” she chided. “Stand taller. Let me look at you.”

His back stiffened and he did his best. He was a man now, certainly. “You look well,” he said.

“What have I told you about telling lies, boy.”

“No, I'm being honest! You look really good.”

Sister Patience smiled, despite herself. “Aren’t you a dove.” She gestured weakly to one of the beds, allowing him to sit. She did the same, across from him. He was easy to scrutinize—he had done well for himself, was more than well fed, and though his hair was frustratingly messy as ever, he had kept himself tidy.

Yet, she could tell there was an insecurity about him. Or, perhaps, she still held sway over him. She laughed at the thought. Good.

“I see guilt in your eyes,” Sister Patience said, though she smiled to let him know she was (mostly teasing). “Have you come here to confess?”

"Sister, if I was to confess my sins to you, we'd be here for a week."

The Sister did not seem to think the joke funny. Well, not entirely. A slight roll of the eyes suggested mild amusement. 

“I’ve donated again,” Spike blurted out. He still had the same habit of picking at his fingers when nervous. He spoke rapidly, with the same clumsiness she remembered. “Well, half a donation. The other half I donated to some friends who need a dishwasher for their restaurant.”

His eyes widened as he suddenly remembered something. “Oh,” he said, dipping into his pocket to withdraw a small business card. “And if money gets tight and the pantry too bare, here’s a lady you can reach out to. She’s happy to donate meals.”

With fingers barely concealing a persistence tremble, Sister Patience leaned over and took the card. She looked down at. “Sandra’s Fine Eats” was scrawled in a charming pink. There was an address and phone number.

"It's my coach's wife! She's like, the best person ever. She really believes in community and stuff. Um...makes me rethink what it is to be a hero, you know?"

Sister Patience looked up and saw Spike meet her gaze. In a look, she knew he was not the same boy she had reared. There was a confidence there now. He had been a gentle soul, perhaps too gentle at times when he was a child, but now he had transformed that compassion into strength.

So, this was him coming here to say ‘thank you.’

Sister Patience was afraid she did not deserve it. “I…” But of course, this wasn’t about her or her guilt. She scolded herself. “I don’t know what to say. I will accept, of course, but on one condition. How on Earth did you get this money?”

“I knew you’d ask,” Spike grimaced. “Okay. So…remember how you used to always catch me watching spellbreaking?”

“That violent bloodsport and abuse of magick.” She nodded. “What of it?”

“Well, I kind of do that now.”

“Goddess’s grace!” The good sister felt her blood pressure rise. She made the sign of the Goddess on her chest in hopes she might not have a stroke in front of this young man.

Sister Patience's former ward looked around the room. It must be so strange for him, she thought, to take in the sight of his childhood. Would he look upon it with fondness or loathing, she wondered.

The silence got to him. “Looks like this place has seen better days,” he said without thinking.

The nun pursed her lips. “Has it?” she said, “I hadn’t noticed!” Seemed like his bad habit of speaking without thinking was still intact—perhaps a blessing. “Forgive the sarcasm, Samuel, it is unbecoming of me. I appreciate your generosity. These mattresses were starting to smell heinous.”

“If you don’t want to accept the money-“

“Of course I want to accept the money; I’m not stupid!” She laughed to make sure he didn’t think her chastising him for the sake of it. He always did put on the most pitiful faces—like a kicked pup. “My child, look around you. This place is falling apart at the seams. Any penny counts!” It was oddly satisfying, in a way, to reveal her feelings to someone who had the unusual privilege of having lived here as well at one time. 

Complaining would not turn this place around, however, so there wasn’t much use in chewing this poor young man’s ear off about it.

“Are you happy at least?” She admitted, it was selfish of her, but she wanted some assurance that her guardianship had not been in vain.

Spike shrugged. “I think so,” he said. It looked as if he was deep in thought, which probably meant what he was about to say was important. “Well, a few weeks ago I finally won my first big match in front of a crowd, so that was cool. Turns out, the president of one of the big spellbreaking schools and leagues was there.” His cheeks blossomed pink. “My hero, actually, Colt the Bolt.”

“That handsome cowboy?” Sister Patience declared. “Mmm. Some muscles on him. I cannot blame you.”

Spike reeled back, both surprised and amused. “Sister Patience!”

“What? Am I not permitted to look?” She gestured for him to go on.

 “He signed me to the GSA, the Global Spellbreaking Alliance, as ‘talent in training’. They’re based in Texas.”

“Texas?” Sister Patience whispered, like it was a sinful word. “That forsaken country? You might as well have told me you’re holidaying in hell.”

“I know, I know! But I really want to go there and make something for myself, Sister. Someone with a lot of power is giving me a shot, and I think this could be my dream.”

The nun shook her head and sighed. “Well, who am I to deter you from that? Did you come here to seek my blessing? That isn’t at all like you!”

“No, I came to tell you to…um…” He hesitated. After a moment of scanning the scratched wooden floor for something to say, Spike held his hand out to his former matron.

The nun wasn’t used to tactile affection, even among her wards, but she took his hand in hers anyway. For someone who had grown into a physically imposing stature, he was gentle.

“I want you to hold on, Sister Patience,” he said. “Hold on this place while I go out there and make it big. Because when I do, I’m going to give you as much as you need to make it better--no, I’ll fund a whole new St. Magnus House! How about that?” His smile radiated with enthusiasm.

She laughed and let go. He hadn’t changed. Not at all! And that was for the better. “I’m afraid you sound convincing enough that I might actually believe you.” She felt something in the back of her eyes. Were those tears?

Thankfully, the sound of laughing and shouting boys coming through the open window distracted her just long. “Oh, why did you not come by sooner? Recess is about to end and I need to make sure Sister Prudence didn’t swap the sugar for salt again for the porridge.”

Spike stood, a little confused, but satisfied. “She really did that?”

“Yes, yes, it happens more often than you think!” The nun shooed him towards the door, as she had done some eleven or twelve years prior. He stood there, as if he was waiting for her to say something else, awkward about how he should end this (too brief) reunion.

Sister Patience rarely hugged, and that wasn’t going to change today. But she placed her hand to Spike’s cheek, for a moment, and took a good look at his face. If he was walking a sinner’s path, at least he was doing so with good intent.

“Be well and may the Goddess bless you, Sam—” She caught herself. “Spike.”

Next Chapter!