“It’s not there … it’s not there … it’s not there, look under the bed!” Sister Domenica’s excited voice echoed clear in the silence of the convent. She and Fra Sergius had rushed to Fra Elias room drawn by violent and persistent noises that did not admit of delay. But Fra Elia, he was not there! And while Sister Domenica, anxiously rushed toward the bathroom, wondering where he might have gone, Fra Sergius, petrified, remained in the room in a spasmodic search for ideas on what to do. Suddenly he heard faint moans coming from above. He looked up and saw him.
Fra Elia was lying motionless on top of the large closet with one arm dangling and his bleeding head leaning back, just straddling the edge. His face could not be made out. “Come, run, quickly, quickly, … Fra Elia is on top of the closet!” In a moment Sister Domenica was back and, without uttering a word ran to seek help from the workers who, not far away, were restoring the little chapel. Fra Sergius, meanwhile, on top of a stool, was trying to lift Fra Elia still unconscious head. His moans were heartbreaking, and Fra Sergius felt helpless.
The first to rush in was Alessandro Stellato, the youngest and sturdiest of them all, a true giant, but as he reached the threshold, he felt himself hit by an energetic gust of wind as an invisible hand delivered a violent blow to his chest. Instinctively he made the sign of the cross and thus managed to enter, as all the others arrived: Giuseppe Piccirillo the foreman, Pietro and Antonio Russo, and Vincenzo Resigno. A hurricane seemed to have passed in front of them: clothes and objects scattered everywhere among which stood out a pewter chalice folded in on itself. After the first moments of bewilderment, the stunned Joseph managed to issue an order: “Go get the stairs, quick!” But the stairs were not in the usual place-where, where could they be? The search continued frantic and when by then hopes of finding them had faded, someone noticed them half-hidden in the grass of the neighboring field… Meanwhile, in the room Fra Sergius, aided by the nun and Alessandro, was laboriously trying to fit a pillow under Fra Elias’s head, which, inexplicably was as heavy as a boulder. It was only then that he could make out his wide, glassy eyes, his pupils fixed, his forehead soaked with icy sweat, perfumed blood oozing from a head wound, his body stiffened. He did not respond to any stimulation.
Oh my God help us!” The men with the two ladders finally arrived, and they too found it very difficult to enter. A mysterious force was pushing them back. But there was no time to be astonished…one could not and should not give in, allowing the eternal adversary to win! So, a sign of the cross and off they went, Alexander and Vincent on one side and Joseph and Peter on the other, slowly, very gently they managed to lift Fra Elias’ stiffened body and lay him on the bed. Then, with hearts aflutter at what they had seen, they respectfully withdrew, leaving him in the care of the two religious.
Instinctively Fra Sergius ran for the bucket of holy water and sprinkled it all over the room, while Sister Domenica dipped a finger in it and marked Fra Elias’ forehead with a small cross. At that moment he finally closed his eyes and his heart resumed its normal rhythm. Then he awoke. “How are you Fra Elia?” the nun asked him trepidatiously. “My head hurts … here … where he beat me with the iron chalice …” answered Fra Eliasin a huff. And the nun felt his sore spot highlighted by a large bump. And while FraSergius remained at his bedside, Sister Domenica quickly went to prepare some cold sponges which, thank God, brought him immediate relief, so much so that he was able to get up.
But when he arrived in the kitchen everyone could see copious rivulets of blood still streaming down his face and his swollen, bruised arms. Fra Elias’ week of Passion had thus begun.