Free An All-Consuming Fire by Donna Fletcher Crow

ferocity. Richard struggled to hold her but in spite of his efforts she slipped from his grip. The fall shook her out of her sleep.
    Appalled that he had let her drop, Richard apologized, then gave the promise that remained her security. “I give thee this word of comfort, that as long as I shall remain in this mortal life you shalt never again suffer the torment of this illness.”
    And Margaret was healed.
    Antony paused for breath. Throughout his recital the camera had rolled and Harry remained still, although Antony suspected much—if not all—of the footage would wind up on the cutting room floor, even though it was recorded history.
    He finished the story with a quick summary. “Later, however, in September of 1349, the seizure returned—all the same symptoms except that Margaret could still speak. She sent for Richard, and a horseman rode off to Hampole.
    “The messenger returned with the news. Richard Rolle was dead. He had gone out from his hermitage to minister to victims of the Black Death that was raging in Yorkshire and so had met his death.
    “The messenger made careful inquiries and, truly, Richard Rolle’s promise had held. Margaret’s illness had not returned until shortly after the hour of Richard’s death.”
    Joy Wilkins, her sleek cap of blond hair shining above the red muffler wound around her neck, stepped forward to ask Antony about Richard Rolle as a writer.
    “Rolle was perhaps the most prolific English writer of the fourteenth century. He has been called ‘the father of English prose.’ He had remarkable versatility and ease, whether writing in Latin or English, in prose or verse. It is said that he could give cogent, even inspired, spiritual guidance verbally while continuing to write in his mellifluous Latin.”
    Antony paused and considered whether he should continue. Then, looking straight at the camera, he took a breath. “But ultimately, it is his passion, the fire of his love that shouts through the ages, singing through eight centuries, ‘Fall in love with Jesus—burn with love for him, be overcome with his sweetness, sing his praises.’ Richard Rolle was a great mystic because he was a great lover.”
    “Cut.” Even though Antony had been expecting it, Harry’s bark was startling. Unfortunately, the command was not followed by the comforting “wrap.”
    “Lunch,” though, was almost as welcome a direction.
    Antony, however, would have little time to enjoy the delights of the catering van. Harry Forslund strode across the green, his heavy eyebrows knit. “Right, lad. Cut it in half next time. What do you think we’re making—a blooming saga?” He stumped off shaking his head and muttering about academics. Just before he reached the catering caravan he tossed back over his shoulder, “But keep that last line. It has sex appeal.”
    Sylvia approached with her clip board. “Excellent information, Father Antony, and I do like your narrative style, but I’ve made a few notes.” The notes extended to three pages and Joy, whom Sylvia invited to join them, had more.
    After lunch, of which Antony managed time for about three bites, the pale sun stayed firmly hidden behind a looming cloud bank, requiring Lenny to set up more lights for the afternoon’s retakes. The expedited version of the story was declared a wrap just before darkness descended mid-afternoon.
    Antony heaved a great sigh and felt his shoulders relax as he started the engine on his borrowed community car and turned on his headlights. He wasn’t sure whether his relief was for the fact that he had completed the first segment of his assignment without totally embarrassing himself or because he now had a weekend ahead free of make-up, cameras and shouting director. Or was it because they had gotten through the day without a major mishap?
    Looking back, Antony realized he had been metaphorically holding his breath in fear of another accident and had been keeping firmly at bay the deeper, dreaded question of