by Davis Bunn
Though the image had become clarified only in that instant between sleep and wakefulness, it seemed to Taylor he had been carrying it ever since St. Augustine. A rancid seed had long lain dormant within him, waiting for a time when his mind became fallow. At dawn the image had come to him full blown. Taylor was tempted to call it merely a dream, but the air was too pure here to permit such a lie. Particularly one he would be telling only to himself.
He remembered. Oh yes. It was not a dream, but rather a recollection so vivid he was astonished it had remained dormant this long.
He had been no more than six at the time, pushing a toy car around the backyard. His father had been seated upon the rear stoop, a bottle of something cold wedged between his work boots. Sweating as hard as the bottle, his father had watched Taylor with a bemused expression, as though uncertain what role he should be playing in this simple family theater.
Taylor worked hard at pretending that everything was fine. His father was home from his latest plumbing job; his mother was inside making dinner. But far more than the screen door separated the two adults. Taylor made puttering noises as he drove his toy car through the grass, knowing his father’s eyes were on him. Finally he rose from his crouch and went over to sit beside his dad. His father had been away for a night or two or seven, and now was home again. The atmosphere held a sick quality, like an illness that was never spoken of but that was slowly killing whatever good had once resided in their family.
Taylor spun the wheels of his little car and heard his mother step out of the kitchen and into her room at the front of the house. She would stay there, working at her easel, until it was time for the boys to come inside and eat their silent dinner. His father had tipped back the bottle, swallowed, then said to no one in particular, “When you want it, you don’t get it. And when you get it, you don’t want it.”
Taylor had looked up at what to him was the strongest man in the world. “What does that mean, Pop?”
His father had stared at the bottle in his hands. “It’s just something my old man used to say.”
“Will I understand better when I grow up?”
His father had looked at Taylor then, as sad a man as ever had walked the earth. “I hope not, boy. I surely do hope not.”
HE HAD NO IDEA HOW LONG HE STOOD THERE, STARING blindly at a world washed of all color. Nor could he say how long Jonah had been there beside him. The brother wore the same gray chain-link sweater as the previous day, the same frown. He stood with arms crossed, watching Taylor with an air that said he was willing to stand there all day.
Taylor said simply, “I’m not ready for this.”
“Oh, and you think anyone ever is?” He addressed a server Taylor had not even noticed. “Grab the vittles and be gone with you.” Then he returned his attention to Taylor. “God’s first task is to confront us with a very simple fact. We can’t do this on our own. But it’s not pleasant. Nor is it meant to be.”
“I probably should leave here.”
“And go where, pray tell? Back to a life busy enough you don’t need to ever look at the mistakes you carry?” He gave Taylor a chance to object, then continued, “People hear about how Iona is a thin realm. How heaven is near to this place. So they show up full of expectations. How they’ll be filled with the Spirit and go off dancing across the waves. And maybe it happens, to the few who are far more perfect than you or I. But that’s not our lot. We’re the ones who think we’re strong, who’ve always managed well enough on our own, thank you very much. What do you suppose we find here?”
Taylor shook his head. He did not have the strength to guess.
“We come face to face with our own lack. The needs we try so hard to ignore. The wants we bury beneath the lies of this world.”
Taylor fought against the internal tumult and managed to frame the words, “She hurt me. I hurt her back. I thought I could justify it and forget it. But I can’t.”
Impatiently Jonah waved away his words. “That’s not what we’re on about here. That is past. This is now. The question is not about making amends. The question is how best to prepare for this day. If you were to have the chance to do it all over again, would you do any better in the here and now?”
Taylor reached out and traced a raindrop down the window. Just as he had done with tears upon Kirra’s face. And not just once. He had not wounded her just the one time. He held on to that particular memory because it had been the last time.
“There. You see? Lad, there’s a passage in the Scriptures that talks about the fruits of this world versus the fruits of the Spirit. It’s a simple enough chore to translate that into the fruits of an earthly relationship. Do you see what I’m going on about here? No, of course you don’t. How could you, since you’ve never seen a need to read God’s Word? Listen to me, then. So long as your eyes remain set upon the things of this world, your acts will lead to earthbound results.” He counted the items on stubby fingers. “Guilt, remorse, painful reflection, sullenness, bitterness, self-hatred, cynicism, weariness, repetition of past mistakes . . . How am I doing so far?”
Taylor traced another line streaking down the window. It was as close as he could come to wiping the tears seeping from his heart.
“We all of us make mistakes, lad. Our only hope for a genuine turning comes when we take a good hard look at our direction. We do that, we’re bound to see ourselves as the real problem. So what to do? I, for one, only found a lasting solution in turning to God. Has this halted the blunders I make? Look around, lad. See for yourself. Our need for a Savior remains with us for always. Through Him we find the strength for honest reflection, confession, repentance, prayer, healing, and change.” He offered Taylor his spread fingers. “Do feel free to point out whichever of these you’ve managed on your own.”
Taylor did not remove his hand from the window.
“It’s not enough to merely act, lad. You’ve moved and you’ve acted all your life. Real change, eternal change, is when your actions are meant to draw you closer to your Lord.” Jonah dropped his arms to his side. “The first act of genuine turning is recognizing that what you have done on your own, what you are capable of doing, is not enough. The second act is acknowledging who you are turning toward.”
FOUR TIMES EACH DAY, THE IONA COMMUNITY’S WORK halted. Most of those present gathered in the central abbey. There was no requirement. Nothing was dictated to anyone. But when the lone bell tolled for the afternoon prayers, a procession began from every point on the compass.
That afternoon Taylor stood outside the church’s rear entrance, sheltered from the wind and the rain by an overhang that extended to join with an exterior passageway. People who passed him smiled silent greetings and picked up prayer books from the chair by the door. His chest cavity felt open to both the elements and the inspection of all who passed. Taylor considered himself a private person. Yet he found himself so bound to these folk he could stand exposed and aching before them.
Brother Jonah was one of the last to arrive. If he found anything remarkable in how Taylor stood waiting for him, the brother did not show it. Instead he simply picked up two prayer missals and placed one in Taylor’s hands, then held the door for them both.
The abbey was remarkable for maintaining the medieval spirit, both inside and out. Even the stained-glass windows held to a somewhat primitive air. The benches were thick Scottish oak, the floor slate, the air already filled with collective prayers when they took their seats. Brother Jonah found the page in Taylor’s book, then let him be.
A plainsong was followed by an Old Testament reading, then another hymn, then the New Testament reading, a third song, then the Gospel passage. Some people seated themselves. Taylor followed Brother Jonah’s example, unhooked a padded square from the seat back in front of him, and knelt. But the first line of the communal prayer stopped him. Lord, lead me from the darkness of my own making.
The others proceeded down the page. Taylor remained caught by the first line, feeling it resonate through him. His
entire being hummed slightly from the impact. A darkness of his own making. Oh yes. These words were a terrible gift, one that had been waiting centuries for him to arrive.
AFTER PRAYERS THEY RETURNED TO THE KITCHEN together. The evening meal was prepared in silence. Taylor had nothing to say. Brother Jonah refrained from his customary quarrels with the kitchen and the meal. As time wore on, it seemed to Taylor that the air took on a new thickness. Far more than the steam and the cooking fragrances congealed around him. Even his breathing took on a new significance.
The change was noticeable to others. The servers who entered seemed instantly aware of something at work. They did not speak a word to either of the cooks. They accepted the food and the utensils and departed casting strange looks at the pair of them. Jonah, for his part, continued to move about in an alien state, not even looking Taylor’s way. Several times, however, when Taylor glanced over he thought he saw the brother’s lips moving.
When the food was all inside and the others seated, Taylor wiped down the counter, set the towel aside, and followed Jonah into the dining hall. As they passed through the door, he asked quietly, “Have you been praying?”
“Hard as I know how, lad.”
The burning began then, so strong it felt as if the backs of his eyes were melting. “For me?”
Jonah pointed him into a chair. “For us all.”
EVENING PRAYERS WERE AN HOUR AFTER DINNER. TAYLOR tried to follow the routine, but too many words impacted him. They buffeted his brain like verbal fists. They rose off the page. They shouted at him. He wanted to rage, to weep, to flee. He did nothing. The others sat and stood and sang and chanted and prayed. Taylor endured an isolation as harsh as any he had ever known. Now, this time, he realized he had only himself to blame.
He did not say anything to Jonah after the prayers. What was there to say? He simply returned to his bunk, undressed, and escaped into sleep.
Sometime in the night, a hand reached through his slumber and shook him awake. Taylor wanted to shrug off the hand and roll over and pretend the invitation had not been made. Instead, he dressed and washed his face and followed Jonah back to the abbey. He did not know why. Only that he had no choice.
A midnight prayer vigil was gathering. Most of the brothers were in attendance, as well as a handful of visitors like himself. The air was scented by incense burning at the altar and vigil candles and the nighttime chill.
The New Testament reading came from the thirteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians. Once more, Taylor found himself unable to move past a single passage. One of only three words, yet they captured him and froze him to that point in time. Love never fails.
He read the passage over and over and over. How was it possible to write such a thing? His entire life was testimony to the lie of those words. Love failed constantly! There was nothing less permanent than love.
The words resonated through him like silent detonations. He felt his interior shatter like glass. The shards fell in silent rain to the floor around him, detritus from this internal war. Taylor looked around him, but no one else seemed to have noticed his destruction.
He raised the book and reread the passage, hoping against hope that he would be able to scoff and turn the tide back and resume the life he felt was now lost and gone forever.
Love never fails.
He erupted from his seat and sprang through the rear door. He raced away from the buildings. The words echoed like a butcher’s mirth, chasing him away.
He felt his heart raging against his own mind, tearing himself in two. What was he doing here? Why had he come? To resurrect a love he had himself reduced to ashes? Who was he kidding? The island’s stillness chased him on. He did not belong here. This was madness.
Taylor ran with arms outstretched, desperately seeking to flee the bitter night.
chapter 10
TAYLOR RETURNED DRENCHED FROM WRESTLING with the storm. He toweled off and collapsed in his bunk. Three times he awoke to the dark. Each time he listened for the signal of internal battle rejoined. Yet he sensed nothing save bone-deep weariness. He decided this must be the true flavor of defeat. His dreams were empty descents into blackness.
He awoke early and lay in his bed as his bunkmates went through their morning motions. He was finally roused by the chapel bell.
The sky was still a dismal gray. The stone chapel was unchanged. The interior remained too cold and dim. Taylor took the seat next to Brother Jonah, whose only greeting was to find the place in the prayer missal.
He managed to follow the entire service for the first time. His voice joined with half a hundred others, a monotone of supplicants. Just a bunch of strangers, trying to stay warm by stretching their sleeves over their hands, speaking words from tattered books in ragged unison. Few of them could carry a decent tune. The plainsongs were drowsy monotones, words they could not quite sing together.
Yet as he rose from kneeling over the final prayer, Taylor knew that change was in the air. He still had no idea why he was there. He could say only one thing with any certainty: His own answers were no longer enough.
Love never fails. The constancy of these words marched through his mind with a relentless tread. They formed the backdrop to what he had tried to flee from the night before. It was the same truth he had sought to escape for the past two years. He could avoid this no longer. It was not love that had failed him. He was the one who had failed at love.
Taylor set his prayer book in the pile and followed the others outside, just another penitent rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The empty night had left him no choice. He had been forced to speak the truth that morning. He needed more than he could offer himself.
As they trod the rocky path to the dining hall, sunlight split the heavens and blasted them with silent force. He walked with the others, sniffing the air and blinking confusedly in the light. The brilliance was too alien. He could not quite focus on what he saw.
The woman walking next to him laughed at nothing. Taylor tried but could not quite fashion a smile in reply.
“Do you not see it, then?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Angels are gathered about heaven’s altar, singing to the day now born.”
He stopped and turned his face upward. The wind was utterly still, the day warming swiftly.
“It’s a lovely tune they’re singing, is it not?”
“It’s lost to me,” he softly replied.
“Ah, well. Never you mind. At least you’ve taken time to have a listen.” She almost skipped away. “There will be other days.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. But the woman was already gone.
He entered the kitchen and helped Brother Jonah prepare the coffee and slice the bread. For once the man’s silent presence was welcome. Taylor waited until the chores were finished to say, “I need to leave the island for a while.”
Jonah replied to the sunlight splashed upon the kitchen window. “The others will be bereft to hear it.”
“Others?”
“The ones forced to take your place in here with me.”
Jonah stood by the sink, so intent upon his mug and the radiant view Taylor could examine him minutely. This was clearly an intelligent man. Jonah, too, fought against a nature as contrary and rebellious as Taylor’s own. Jonah raged; he rebelled. He lived in constant impatience with a world that did not move as he would have preferred. Jonah reached Taylor because he came from the same realm. Taylor listened because he identified with the man and his internal strife. Even Jonah’s silence contained questions sharp as lances. They probed deep. What could possibly cause this man to pray for a stranger he had every reason to distrust? What did Jonah possess that made him able to speak with such confidence about matters Taylor had never uttered even to himself?
Taylor wrestled with a desire to say what he could not put into words. He made do with a hand on the brother’s shoulder. Jonah sipped from his mug and asked the window, “I’ll be seeing you again?”
Taylor turned for the doo
r. “Count on it.”
BY THE TIME TAYLOR ARRIVED AT THE ISLAND’S PORT, THE day had warmed enough that he found his sweater uncomfortable. Clouds had been banished with the wind. He paid his fare, stepped onto the boat, and joined the others by the railing. The change was so great Taylor found it hard to even recall the gray Scotland that had greeted him on his arrival.
And there were waves. Great rollers untouched by wind lifted the boat and propelled it in swooping dives down to the next swell.
Taylor carried the monastery with him. The previous night’s internal bruising was as raw a presence as the building sense of pressure. He was being propelled forward. Toward what, he could not say. But there was a sense of motion at every level of his being.
Taylor watched the jewellike sea’s rise and fall and accepted for the first time that there was no avoiding his own lack. Not anymore. He felt surrounded by everything his own life did not contain.
If he was ever to understand what all this meant, he needed help beyond himself. He needed a wisdom he did not possess, and never would so long as he insisted upon seeking alone.
Taylor arrived at the mainland harbor and headed up a lane transformed by daylight. The little village sparkled. Gone was the former seedy barrenness. Even the cobblestones possessed a highland sheen.
He climbed the lane to the surf shop, taking clear aim at the goal ahead. His honesty burned too brightly this day to do otherwise. He hungered for an understanding that would last. He wanted that which would not be torn from him the next time he was assaulted by a want, a need, a worry, a pain, an anger, a foe. He wanted to maintain this hunger, to reach forward and grasp and seek and learn. He could not do this on his own. He had to receive whatever it was that gave these people the ability to fathom what he could neither see nor even name.
