Peter and Evera: Chapter 2

                                                                Chapter 2
      A small, brown-headed young man sighed as he walked up a spiraling stone stairway. He was clothed in an earth-colored robe, with a loosely knotted rope around his waist. He was not incredibly handsome; rather, he had soft, boyish features to his face. His hair grew to his ears, and it was the color of dirt. He had thin, carved eyebrow, not bushy ones like those of the other members of the monastery. His eyes were chocolate truffles  with caramel centers. Many things about the boy were brown. In fact, everything about the boy seemed brown.
      Yes, you could say the boy was entirely made of earth. All day he stayed in the garden, tending to the plants. He could name every plant in the the garden. Yet, he was also brown because he was a very neutral and kind person, though he worried easily.
      Just as he was doing now. He felt obligated to tell this to the abbot, to make a confession of this deadly sin. But if he did, they would stop him from seeing her. And? Why should I care, he asked himself. Some strange girl that I've never met is prancing around the lawn like a fool, and I'm worried that I may not be able to stand around and watch. What foolishness. And yet, his feet ignored his impending guilt and turned him around to see the girl leave.
      His name was Peter. He had been left as a baby at the doors of the monastery, no one knowing where he had come from. Nevertheless, the monks took him in and raised him like he was one of their own, especially Abbot Nathaniel. The gentle old man had loved Peter like a son from the start, and he had taken quite a shine to him. He had obviously never had a son of his own, but was Peter's perfect father figure.
      Peter anxiously peered out the window, looking to see the maiden. He sighed when he saw that she had already left. Her adieu was always amusing to Peter. She would pick up the edges of her skirt and courtesy like a lady at a ball. The first time she had done this startled Peter, as he had thought that she were bowing to him, but he quickly realized that it was impossible for her to have seen him from so far away. Peter turned to leave, and was met with the pale white face of the Abbot.
      Abbot Nathaniel was a tall man, with a short white beard and equally white thinning hair. Soft wrinkles lined his face, not the deep set wrinkles of Methuselah, for he still had the build of a younger man; rather, gently caressed folds of skin held onto his strong bones. The years had been hard on him, and he had aged greatly for a man in his fifties.
      "Abbot Nathaniel, sir!"
      "Yes, Peter?"
      "I, um, was just on my way to the garden, sir, ad you startled me, is all." It wasn't a lie. He had intended to go to the garden before.
      The Abbot raised an eyebrow at the stuttering boy. There were times that he wished that Peter truly was his son-but no, that was too long ago, mistakes had been made, and could not be righted now.
      Peter squirmed nervously. "Excuse me, sir?" He looked up at the monk, who stood, lost in his thoughts.
      Nathaniel jerked back into the present day, glancing toward the young man before him. "Oh! Yes, you may go, my boy." He stepped aside to let Peter pass. As the boy looked back, he noticed to Abbot lost in thought again, an expression that seemed to signal that he had a headache.
                                                          ---
      "Ow!" Peter bit his lip as a bee stung his hand. "Your lucky that the flowers need you, or else I would see to it that not a single bee would fly into my garden." Peter smiled as he put the finger that the bee had stung into his mouth. He was only joking. He loved the bees, with their quiet humming and the sweet honey that they made. His hands and arms were covered with bee stings, and he pairly felt the pain.
      He only called the garden his when he was alone, even though all of the monks referred to it as his. Peter was in charge of all plants that made their way into the garden, and he tended to them day and night. More than once he had been found curled up under an olive tree at night, fast asleep.
      He gently pulled off a particularly beautiful lily of the valley, smelling it's sweet aroma. He usually frowned upon picking the flowers, but he was too frustrated to put up with his own rules today. In the garden, he felt calmer, more at home. The flowers never left him; they didn't leave him when he was helpless. Of all God's wonderful creations, Peter felt as though flowers must be the Lord's second favorite to humans.
      He twirled the flower between his fingers. Oh Lord, he prayed, good and merciful Lord, guide me to your correct path. I fear that I am slipping away from you.
      Peter listened for the voice of the Lord, but heard nothing. Instead, he felt a sharp pain in his hand, and looked down to see a fresh bump where a bee that had been hiding in the lily had stung him. "Oh, for the love of Saint Francis, " he mumbled to himself.
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