THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
THE LEAVES THAT CRIED
The crack in the wall, on the side where his bed was, grew larger
each day, each month and year, apparently unbeknownst to Brother Allon.
Indeed, the tiny stones that sealed what was a niche he had fashioned many
years ago, to house a few personal items, gave in. There, the box of sandalwood,
no bigger than a prayer book, found itself in full view of him.
Amusement turned into excitement. Was a miracle unfolding? He knew what
it was, but what it contained eluded him. Only God knows how long it had
been since he sealed the wall.
Far from the smoke and noise of the frenetic towns, Brother Allon early
on found his vocation in a remote cloister, on the edge of the southeast
coast of Cornwall. Wishing to be of some service to the community, but in
a restricted capacity, he chose this retreat more for personal isolation.
He would just as well disappear into the many shadows of the cloister. However
painful the times were when he had the need to feel exposed to the outside
world, he had managed, at least on a superficial level, to fulfill the minor
duties asked of him.
The two-acre vegetable farm he tenderly cared for, and the occasional counseling
he offered to the village people, gave him solace.
Brother Allon was adored for his oak-like serenity and down-to-earth approach
to tasks. He expected almost nothing in return. And this was comforting,
too. A simple life, indeed. Although he considered himself to be half a
hermit and half a priest, the Brother felt there was an immense gratification
within himself, hiding from his feelings.
The cloister itself had a haunted look, distant and hidden by thick hedges.
Considerable time and labor had been put into its construction. A small
brook crossed the front gate. The walls and pillars, hundreds of years old,
spoke of intense resistance to the elements. Like Bother Allon, the cloister's
facade was not friendly, yet people gave it reverence and respect.
Today he held the box in his palms and slowly opened it, wondering what
was inside.
There was a medal of some sort, gold-like, shaped like a coin, with a red,
white and blue ribbon attached, very much tarnished by time. Its inscription,
"1942, Dieppe," almost escaped him. The event was to change his
life. It was there in Dieppe that he lost his left leg from a bomb that
exploded near him. It shattered his future and obliterated all his hopes.
Brother Allon used to ruminate on all kinds of questions a young man would
ask about the necessity of war. Whenever he heard about war he would crawl
to his habitat, fearing revulsion from within himself. Over the years, he
had learned to stop thinking of war. Often, he spent sleepless nights after
a villager came to him to report about the fighting in foreign lands.
Brother Allon had many things he wished not to remember. Over the years,
he sought to curb and bury feelings of his numerous losses. He never saw
his parents when he came back from Europe. His only sister departed for
the Americas, leaving no trace of her whereabouts. There were failed relationships,
which he attributed to his unwillingness to open his soul. Of that much
he was cognizant.
Did he harbor anger at the world that left him impaired physically? He could
not say and would not dare.
"Let me be as I am. Let me close my door." He hid the box with
its contents again, almost wishing he could hide from the world inside that
box.
Late spring in Cornwall brought many children to the fields and environs
of the cloister. They wanted to explore that massive "castle,"
as they sometimes named it.
As duty dictated, Brother Allon and the priests prepared to welcome the
visitors.
A boy of six followed Brother Allon to the gardens to see the newly planted
birches and maple trees.
"Birches are pure and maples are sweet," the Brother said to the
boy, and then moved on. After a few minutes, he heard a wild call from the
little boy. "The leaves are crying. The leaves are crying!"
When the two of them went to examine the leaves, they saw droplets of water
coating the surfaces-yet there had been no rain for days! Brother Allon
could not explain the droplets to the boy, but he felt a strange sensation.
The child had stirred something in him, perchance cracking a wall in his
steely heart?
That evening Brother Allon cried. It had been many years since he last cried.
His body cringed like a wounded hound. He thought there were no more tears.
He thought there was nothing left in him-only a medal of honor, a broken
leg, a mere keeper of a cloister. This was the sum of him.
But alas, this was not to be so. There was another world out there for him
to touch and be touched by.
He could cry now, like the leaves.
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