by Heide Goody
"You had a bad experience with a woman. They are not all like that."
"How do I know that? I ran and I didn’t stop running until I came here."
"And you are running still. Inside."
Stephen shrugged.
"I think you must face your fear," said Manfred. "What do we do when we fall off the horse?"
"We get back on the horse."
Manfred stopped, a slight frown on his face.
"Not the perfect metaphor in this instance. No getting back on the horse for you. Vows of celibacy and what have you. But you must not run from the horse. Go speak to the horse. Give it a sugar lump. Make friends."
"Easier said than done," said Stephen. His eye was caught by the tapestry on the corridor wall. "This is new."
Manfred looked and nodded.
"My restoration work goes on. A beautiful piece here. Joseph of Arimathea, Jesus’ uncle, treading the hills and fields of England. Not much left of him when I started my work. Just the arm and the staff and a bit of his face."
"That’s the Glastonbury Thorn. Legend says he planted his staff in the ground and that it immediately rooted itself and became a tree."
Manfred nodded.
"I had no reference materials for his body so I tried to produce something that seemed natural. A venerable man, staff in hand, robes about him as he strode across the green landscape."
"And the pointy hat?"
"It just seemed right."
Stephen nodded thoughtfully.
"It’s Gandalf, isn’t it?"
"It is, yes. From the films. I thought he would be a good model."
"No," agreed Stephen. "A good choice. He actually fits the role perfectly."
"Thank you."
"Not so sure about the four hobbits following him though."
Chapter 8 – In which Ben and Jayne make a splash
"N-novice Trevor!" whispered Michael hoarsely from cold-constricted lungs. He hurried stiffly across the garden towards the monk. Peacocks cried and fled before him.
The monk looked at Michael with horror. An understandable reaction perhaps at seeing a sodden man lurching at you across monastery lawns.
"Novice Stephen," the monk corrected him automatically. "Where…?"
Michael waved a frozen arm in the general direction of the beach which, as far as he could work out, was almost on the other side of the island.
"But how…?" said Stephen.
Michael pointed at the stout door in the wall.
"But…"
Michael indicated Jessie who was bounding about and generally giving the peacocks as hard a time as they were giving her.
"Incredible," said Stephen.
"I know," agreed Michael.
"You look frozen," said Stephen.
"F-f-funny that," said Michael.
"Do you want to come inside?"
Michael looked at him.
"Of course you do," said Stephen, put an arm around Michael’s shoulder and lead him towards the monastery proper.
The monastery, built from densely packed stones and ancient cement, was a grand building of pointed arches and narrow windows filled with stained glass. However, it was also a squat set of buildings, as though even this place was cowering from the cold sea winds.
Stephen guided him through a low doorway, along a stone corridor and into a square room with low benches and – Michael wilted with relief – a large open fire in full blaze.
"You need to get out of those clothes. I’ll get you something to wear," said Stephen and left him there.
Not caring a jot for the prickling irritation of the heat against his chilled skin, Michael stripped directly in front of the fire. Jessie sniffed at his wet clothes and sat in the hearth. Naked, Michael left his clothes in a wet heap on the floor, drew a bench closer to the fire and sat down.
When he woke that morning, Michael had realised that he had never really suffered before in his entire existence. An angel didn’t suffer. In constant service to the Lord, carried from moment to moment by the warm support of utter conviction and devotion, an angel felt nothing, was barely conscious at all. And, as a human (or something very much like one), Michael had previously suffered nothing worse than a congested bowel and a spot of emotional angst.
But being stranded on an island beach with the wind making stinging icicles of every pore of his face, had been intolerable pain. For the first time, Michael had wondered if an angel-turned-human could die and, long before Jessie had led him here, he understood why humans might pray for death.
"But I don’t understand how we got here," Michael said to Jessie.
"Well quite," said Stephen, returning with an armful of white robes and another monk, this one with shoulder-length grey curls and a well-trimmed Van Dyke beard.
"A man arrives on the island without a boat," said the newcomer in a light German accent and a lightly amused tone. "This is not normal, no?" He gave Michael a raffish grin.
"Brother Manfred is our refectorian."
"The embroidery maker," said Michael, remembering the name from the market the day before.
"And clothier," said Manfred and whipped a habit from the pile in Stephen’s hand and held it up against Michael. "Now let us see. You, young man, work out. You have the cheekbones of a young Rock Hudson. And the eyes!" He looked critically at the robes in his hands and cast them aside. "We need the right shade of white to bring out those brilliant blues."
"I think our new friend just wants to get, erm…"
Stephen waved at Michael’s general nakedness and then, immediately embarrassed, looked away, leaving his offending hand dangling unwanted in the air.
Michael frowned.
"Um. Shades of white? Surely, white is white. There aren’t any, you know, shades."
Novice Stephen (it was Stephen, wasn’t it, not Trevor?) gave the deep sigh of a man who had heard it all before, as a glittering mote of zeal came into Brother Manfred’s eyes.
"That there is only one shade of white," began Manfred, "this is a common misconception…"
~ooOOOoo~
Ben stepped out of the shed into the greenhouse in his T-shirt and Y-fronts and groaned wearily. Two nights of sleeping in hammocks and drinking unusual brews had taken its toll on him. He stretched, standing on tiptoes and, as he did, saw that Jayne was standing outside the greenhouse door, two steaming mugs in her hands. Ben stopped stretching at once, checked that he was as decently dressed as a man in T-shirt and pants could be and opened the door.
"Tea?" she said.
"God, yes."
"I thought it would be better than some of dad’s nettle tea."
"Actually, your dad went off early this morning. A call from work. What does your dad do, again?"
"He works for the Food Standards Agency."
"Yeah, he mentioned something about a poisoning outbreak."
"Oh, God. You don’t think it’s those quiches?"
"No. He said there had been incidents all over the peninsula. I wasn’t particularly awake, mind."
He looked at the mugs.
"Which one’s mine?"
"I didn’t know if you took sugar so I made two," said Jayne.
"One sugar," said Ben and took the proffered cup.
He sipped it, relishing the hot drink on the cold morning. He paused thoughtfully.
"Did we…? Last night."
"What?"
"Did we agree to get married?"
"We did."
Ben frowned.
"Are we rushing into this thing?"
"Are we?"
"You don’t know how many sugars I take. I’m sure there’s tons of stuff I don’t know about you."
Jayne shrugged.
"I don’t know."
"Me neither."
"Should we call the engagement off?"
"No, no," said Ben hurriedly and put a hasty kiss on her lips. "I didn’t mean that. No. I love you."
"Do you?"
Ben nodded deeply.
"Good,"
she smiled. "Let’s not tell mom about our engagement for the time being. Her nerves are playing up since that nasty business yesterday. Let’s keep it under wraps."
"Mum’s the word."
"Exactly."
She raised the other mug.
"This one’s for Michael," she said.
"Is he not up at the house?"
She shook her head.
"He never came back last night," said Ben. "Still, he’s got to be around somewhere."
~ooOOOoo~
"I assume you’ll be wanting to get the boat back to the mainland," said Novice Stephen.
Michael shrugged genially.
"Are there any other ways?"
"You tell me," said Stephen with a wry smile.
Stephen was leading Michael across the monastery cloisters. Michael found it odd that the simple arches of the surrounding buildings though smaller and less physically impressive than St Michael’s church in Boldmere had a noble and reverent aspect that he had not felt anywhere else since his banishment to earth. The habit Brother Manfred had fitted him with was very comfortable. It reminded him of the angelic robes the Almighty had him wear in the Celestial City but, more than that, it felt like he was walking around in a dressing gown: snug yet freeing.
"When is the next boat?" he asked.
Stephen stroked his chin solemnly.
"The next scheduled boat isn’t until March."
"Hmmm, that might be longer than I would like to wait."
At another time, Michael might have leapt at the chance to spend a couple of months in this spiritual retreat but there were people who would be looking for him and a certain gymnastic young man who he was starting to miss quite keenly. Not for the first time, Michael patted pockets that weren’t there for a phone that he knew was probably at the bottom of the Irish Sea.
Stephen elbowed him in the ribs and grinned.
"We can phone Owen the boatman at Porth Meudwy. He’ll want paying, mind."
"I think I can sort that out."
Jessie barked and scrabbled frantically at the foot of a door. It was a short door with an unusual fan-like emblem carved into it that Michael felt he almost recognised. The door was dark with age and so scored and pitted that he feared Jessie might be damaging a priceless piece of history.
"No, Jessie. Away."
Jessie stopped at once and whined unhappily.
"I’m sorry," said Michael to Stephen. "I guess there must be something exciting on the other side of that door."
"No one is allowed through that door!" said a strident voice behind them in the corridor.
An older man with weathered brown skin, and such a full head of grey hair that it looked like a wig, strode towards them.
"Father Abbot," said Stephen with a respectful nod of the head. "This is Michael. He washed up on the beach this morning. Michael, this is the abbot of St Cadfan’s, the Right Reverend Ambrose."
"Washed up?" said the old man with a confusion that bordered on disgust. "Was there a shipwreck?"
"No, Father Abbot. It appears that Michael swam here."
"I was drugged," said Michael. "I don’t remember."
"A story both unbelievable and unsavoury," said the abbot with a sour twist of his mouth. "And your dog swam here too, I suppose?"
"Oh, Jessie’s not my dog. She’s the neighbours’ dog. Well, not my neighbours…" Michael looked round and saw that Jessie had gone.
"Jessie?"
He span round on the spot and then, seeing a fleeting shadow on a corridor wall, set off after her with Novice Stephen and the abbot’s protests following closely behind. Around a corner and through another door, Michael found himself with great surprise standing in a large glasshouse, full of sub-tropical greenery, humid air and a fruity vegetable aroma that was not so much strong as broad. It was a heavy scent that filled the nostrils and the lungs, a rich planty goodness he had not experienced since the Eden days.
Jessie was sniffing around on the red tiled floor by the wheels of a wicker bath chair. The monk in the bath chair, a thin and wrinkly man who seemed to be drowning in crocheted blankets, stared up at Michael with dulled eyes.
"Good morning, brother," said Michael. "I’m sorry about my dog. Well, it’s not my dog…"
"You should not be in here," said the abbot, breathing heavily as he entered the room. "The prior does not wish to be disturbed by you or your dog."
"Of course," said Michael. "I must say that this is a marvellous greenhouse."
"Orangery," said the abbot firmly.
"Orangery? You grow oranges?"
The abbot’s gaze grew steely and cold.
"A greenhouse attached to a house is called an orangery, young man. My father always told me that if we are going to give things names then we should at least use them correctly. This is an orangery. You are a trespasser."
"My apologies, Father Abbot. Oh, but look!"
There was a narrow path through the crowding bougainvilleas and along it, fifteen feet from where he stood, Michael saw an apple tree. It was gnarled but vibrantly healthy-looking. Its curved canopy brushed the sloped ceiling panes of the orangery and hanging heavily from its boughs were…
"Apples," said Michael, walking towards it. "In winter! Oh, is this the Bardsey apple? It must be. I’ve heard it’s a unique variety. Is this the only tree?"
"Not a step further!" commanded the abbot. "I’ll not have your feet trampling the prior’s precious plants."
Michael stopped at once and turned contritely. The prior gazed mutely at him. In those eyes, Michael could see an emotion, something plaintive, something urgent, but it was obscured by the lines on the prior’s face and his sagging brow.
"I’ve not tasted any yet but I bet the preserve made from that fruit is delicious."
"Absolutely not!" said the abbot. "That fruit is not for human consumption."
"Oh, I thought that you had made-"
Michael was cut off by Novice Stephen bursting into a fit of violent and noisy coughing. Michael stared as the young monk waved his hands as he tried to clear his throat although it almost seemed as though the hand waving was aimed directly at Michael.
~ooOOOoo~
There were six at the breakfast table in the Thomas house once Jayne and Ben had returned from the garden. Nerys couldn’t help but feel she was back in her childhood, six elbows bumping at the table with Clovenhoof doing an excellent impression of her dad in so much as he was a constant irritation to her mom, although Ben was a thankfully poor imitator of the absent WAG, Catherine. Jeremy’s main weapon of irritation was the use of Nerys’s mom’s first name, which he had recently discovered and had decided to use like it was going out of fashion (which it had approximately forty years ago).
"Dear Agnes," he said, "would you be so good as to pass the fruit preserve."
Nerys’s mom gave him a brittle smile as she passed him the already half-empty jar.
"It’s very nice, isn’t it?" she said.
"It certainly is, Agnes," said Clovenhoof, slathering the jam across three slices of toast and passing some to Ben and Jayne.
Nerys finished off her own slice, licked her lips and then drank her coffee.
"You know, mom," she said. "I never liked your coffee."
"I beg your pardon?" her mom replied.
"I never realised before how bitter and tepid you make it. I really don’t –"
She stopped and made a credible attempt to stare at her own lips. The words had just popped right out of her mouth with no direct input from her brain. It wasn’t that she had criticised her mother thoughtlessly; it was more than that. The opinion had formed clearly in her brain and had emerged directly from her mouth.
"I’m so sorry, mom," she said honestly. "I didn’t mean to say that at all."
"I’m surprised that you’d have the guts to say such a thing," said her mom.
"It takes a lot of guts to stand up to a petty tyrant like you," Nerys heard herself say.
Clovenhoof tapped the table wi
th both hands and stood up.
"Well, enough of this domestic bliss. I’m off into town to use that abandoned tractor and plough to dig up Joseph of Arimathea."
He frowned at himself as though he, like Nerys, hadn’t actually meant to speak his mind.
"You truly are an unlikeable fellow," said Nerys’s mom.
Clovenhoof bowed at the perceived compliment and left.
"He might be unlikeable," said Ben, "but that man is my best friend."
"Actually," said Nerys, whose mouth seemed to have completely rebelled against her brain, "I secretly believe that Jeremy Clovenhoof might be Satan."
Nerys immediately slammed her hand over her lips to prevent any more slipping out. The house phone in the hallway was ringing. She pushed herself up from the table and out of the room.
Ben watched Nerys go with her hand over her mouth as though she was about to vomit. However, she clearly wasn’t that unwell as he then heard her answering the phone. He was helping himself to one of the final slices of toast when Nerys exclaimed loudly.
"You’re where?! How the hell did you get there, Michael?"
Ben nodded.
"Ah, Michael’s turned up, then?"
"Do you always state the obvious?" said Nerys’s mom. "You know, I don’t think you’re ideal boyfriend material for my daughter."
Jayne gripped Ben’s hand on top of the table.
"We’re engaged to be married," she said.
Ben looked at his fiancée.
"I thought we weren’t telling anyone yet," he said.
"So did I," said Jayne. "Do you know, it sort of just popped out of my mouth."
Lydia sighed loudly.
"Great. Now you’re the centre of attention. What do I have to do to get people to notice me? I think I’m going to seduce Jeremy just to annoy mom. I bet he'd appreciate my Wonder Woman outfit."
Lydia’s eyes widened in surprise at her own words.
"I’m not surprised," said Mrs Thomas. "Although, given the choice, I’d shag Michael. I would gladly have a handsome stud like that between my thighs."
She immediately gave a moan of shock at what she had just said.
