by Tom Clancy
“Glad I didn’t bring my dog,” Steve said.
Jeremy gave his passenger a quick puzzled look. He never heard priests were allowed to have dogs. Then he resumed whipping the steering wheel to left and right to avoid potholes, sudden dropoffs and rocks.
“Is this the only road in? This is a disaster, not a road.”
“That’s the way the brothers want it, I suppose. Keeps people away. You know what we’re actually drivin’ through right now?”
“You told me—the Sonora Desert.”
“Yeah, but now we’re actually driving through a humongous extinct volcano. This region was jumping with volcanoes at one time. In fact, you can see the chopped up outlines on the horizon. Those cutoff mountains are volcanoes that blew their tops off some time back. Shit’s all dead now.”
“Gosh, that’s good news,” Steve said as he hung onto the door frame, hair flying and rear end beginning to get numb from the bumps in the road. “With all those scary things alive out here, I’m glad at least the volcanoes are dead.”
Hours later, as they came over a high pass between two snow-capped peaks, in a distant valley Steve thought he could dimly make out the shape of a mission church and outbuildings. “Is that it?”
“Yeah. It ain’t far off, but considerin’ this road it’ll take us a coupla hours to get there. When I leave you off, I gotta head back to Tucson pretty damn quick. I don’t like bein’ way out here after dark. By the way, do you have a flashlight?”
“No,” Steve answered wonderingly.
“Let me explain. The monastery generates its own electric power—has to, there ain’t any city or county utilities way out here. So they turn the power off at night. I think about nine or ten o’clock. And if you want to get up and take a pee, you have to go in the dark to the john.”
“No private toilets I guess. Why do I need a flashlight; can’t I feel my way along in the dark?”
“Sure, but you gotta watch out for scorpions. The monastery is loaded with them. The large hairy scorpions ain’t so dangerous, but a sting from one of the small ones—they’re called ‘bark scorpions’, can kill you.”
“Well I’ll have to buy a flashlight at the monastery store.”
“There ain’t no monastery store. I’ll sell you a flashlight if you want.”
“How much?”
“I carry the small six inch flashlight. Let you have one for fifty dollars.”
“Good grief! They usually only cost six or seven dollars.”
“Well then, forget it.”
“No, I’ll take one.”
“Good. Just put the money in the can on the dashboard. I usually use it for tips and stuff.”
“Is that a hint?”
“Tip only if you like the service, as they say.”
“What about spare batteries? The small flashlights take double A’s.”
“Sell you them too. Ten dollars each.”
“I’m glad I brought my bankroll with me because I assume you don’t take credit cards. Okay. Money in the can too?”
“Yeah. Next question: do you smoke?”
“Once in awhile. I brought a couple of packs with me.”
“No smoking allowed at the monastery. If the monks find them they’ll take ‘em away. Keep ‘em hidden.”
“Are they health conscious?”
“Nope. If they catch any priests with smokes, the monks take ‘em and smoke ‘em out behind the chapter house. If you’re gonna be here a long time like most priests, you’re gonna run out of cigs. I can sell you a carton or two. And what you do to hide ‘em is put the packs in a plastic bag which I include free of charge and bury it somewhere in the compound. Don’t put ‘em under your mattress. They search your room.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“When I take a guy out, he fills me in.”
“Okay, how much for a carton?”
“Let you have one for two hundred.”
“You must be on the way to becoming a millionaire.”
“Father Murphy, yes or no.”
“I’ll take a carton. Cash in the tin can?”
“You catch on fast, Father Murphy.”
“And here’s a twenty dollar tip for the can. And, I’d appreciate it if you don’t let on what I’m doing,” Steve said as he opened his suitcase, took out his chalice case and hid the carton of cigarettes in a false bottom of the case.
“Like the monkey said, ‘See no evil, talk no evil,’ ” Jeremy said with a conspiratorial grin.
*****
It was late in the day as they approached the large wooden gates of the walled compound. Jeremy honked the horn. After a few minutes the gates were swung open by two monks on the inside. Jeremy gave them a wave as he drove through. They drove past the mission church—whitewashed adobe with large oak front doors in the center and a pair of four-story bell towers fronting either side, standing like brilliant white sentinels against a deep blue sky.
As Jeremy’s strange vehicle roared off into the dust leaving the priest standing in the compound with his suitcase, Steve looked around at a cluster of single level adobe buildings. He decided to enter a small white, one-story building that looked like it might have an office. Inside, it was cool and musty smelling, the floor hard-packed earth. He put his suitcase down inside the entrance as a very tall thin monk in a gray robe with hood—he presumed one of the Passion Brothers, limped across the courtyard to the building.
“Good afternoon,” the brother said. “I am the abbot here. I am Brother Berard. Your archdiocese told me to expect you. Let’s go into the office.”
Steve followed the monk into the small dark office that had a few tiny windows. A coarse wooden desk stood in the center, surrounded by a few rickety chairs. Steve noted the monk’s severe limp.
“Accident?” Steve asked.
“Yes, many years ago. I lost the big toe on one foot. In those days, not much could be done about it. Even though it’s only a toe, when you lose it, you can’t avoid the limp. Perhaps with today’s medicine some kind of prosthesis could be made, but I long ago decided to live with it this way. The phantom pain from the missing toe is a constant reminder of the Crucified Christ. I think of a wounded, weakened Christ limping up to Calvary. We here at the mission, have a special devotion to the Crucified Christ.”
As Steve gingerly sat down on one of the wobbly chairs in front of the desk, wondering whether he’d wind up on the dirt floor, the brother seated himself behind the desk. He stared at Steve with deep narrow-set eyes. His long hair and beard were streaked with gray. Here and there were places on his robes that seemed to be covered with dust. “I am the abbot.” Then abruptly, the monk asked, “Do you know why you are here?”
“No. I have no idea.”
“Nor do I. Do you know of any transgressions you may have committed? Anything at all. Excessive alcohol, insubordination, heresy, embezzling, sex with minors, anything along those lines?”
“No, absolutely not. I know of nothing I’ve done wrong. I have committed no serious sin.”
Brother Berard’s mouth drew up in an almost unnoticeable tight-lipped smile, but Steve noticed it. He didn’t pretend not to be irritated by it.
“I am frankly puzzled, Father Murphy. Every priest who is sent here has been a repeat...how shall I say it...a repeat offender with a long history of earlier attempts to reclaim his soul at other institutions. Each had repeatedly broken one or more of God’s commandments or a religious vow. In some cases, criminal laws had also been broken. Some of our priests are ex-convicts. We have the difficult task of trying to reclaim these priests, and I must say our success rate is not high. Although you are not willing to admit it, I have to believe that you are one of these; however, until the archdiocese—your archdiocese in Washington that is, gives the Tucson diocese more information, I don’t know what category to place you in.”
“So where do we go from here?” Steve asked, completely puzzled. “And by the way, I’ve never before heard of your Order of
Passion Brothers. Are you newly organized?”
“Yes, we formed about twenty years ago. We are a monastic order devoted to the passion of Christ on the Cross. We think of ourselves as deeply religious and hardworking. We pattern ourselves after the Trappist Monks—an offshoot of the Cistercian Order that dates back almost a thousand years to its origin in France. But we have a far more serious mission than merely running a monastery. In recent years we have been assigned the difficult task of providing therapy to reclaim the errant priests sent here by the bishops.”
“Do you have psychologists or licensed therapists on the staff?”
“We have no need of them. Our monks provide the therapy.”
Steve shook his head. “That’s ridiculous,” he said.
Brother Berard leaned forward in his chair menacingly. “Father Murphy you are not likely to be happy here, but you will certainly be less miserable if you avoid ridiculing us. As I said earlier, our driving force is deep devotion to the Crucified Christ. You’ll see that much of what we do is related to atoning for the Crucifixion.”
Steve thought it best not to respond, but it crossed his mind that the abbot’s attitude seemed more directed towards avenging Christ’s death rather than accepting it as God’s effort to redeem mankind.
“I sense that you are disturbed, perhaps somewhat angry,” Brother Berard said. “I would caution you that we have a long history of dealing with angry priests. We much prefer them to be submissive and anxious to be cured and absolved of past offenses so they can return to pastoral work.”
“And if they aren’t?” Steve asked challengingly, thinking all the while: This monk has the damned nerve to ignore the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. He doesn’t seem to be aware that brothers and their counterparts, nuns, serve on a level below that of priests. “Need I remind you that I was pastor of a large metropolitan church? I was about to be elevated to Monsignor.”
“But you weren’t elevated. You were sent here instead. For your information, we have some Monsignori here. We even have a bishop. In addition to other virtues, they have learned humility here.”
On hearing this, Steve caved in. He realized that arguing with this monk was pointless. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.
“For the time being, you will be assigned to a private cell in Row A. You will find a copy of the Monastic Rule in your cell. It will explain when you are to say daily Mass, hear confessions, attend vespers, have meals, and so forth. You will be assigned work in the fields as the season approaches.”
“And therapy?”
“Until we get further instructions, you are not assigned to any therapy group.”
“Let me ask you a question, Brother Berard. Am I free to leave?”
“No, I’m afraid you are not. I say this for several reasons. First, you have been assigned here by your bishop. This is where you must remain or risk being defrocked and perhaps excommunicated from the church for gross disobedience. Second, transportation back to Tucson is not available to you and it would be foolhardy for you to attempt crossing the mountains and desert on foot. Some peaks around Tucson for example, reach up to nine thousand feet. They are formidable considering that they are snowcapped in winter. Then there is the desert to consider. Dangers abound for the unprepared in the Sonora Desert. You may not know this, but most illegal immigrants from Mexico attempt to cross at cities like Nogales; however, some try to negotiate the Sonora Desert. Many of these die.”
“That’s terrible,” Steve replied, fully conscious of the fact that he had no intention of leaving, not at least, until he got to the bottom of his present situation and could make the right decision about his future. “But tell me this— the driver who brought me out here said he occasionally returns a man to...civilization, as he put it. What about that?”
“Some priests decide to resign the priesthood. Subject to dispensation of their vows from their diocese, they are permitted to leave.”
“You’re saying they’re defrocked.”
“Not exactly. Defrocking is levied on a priest. These men are simply permitted to resign and, of course, they relinquish all benefits from the church. There are also various categories of administrative action; for example, some priests are permitted to remain as priests with curtailed duties. They are no longer allowed to say Mass or perform any of the other sacraments. Others reacquire these benefits after a period of good behavior.”
The shadow of a huge monk in gray habit that Steve thought must have been made from ten yards of cloth, appeared in the doorway. To Steve, the monk could have been a former professional wrestler or boxer who had decided he had broken enough bodies and wanted to atone by entering the religious life.
“I have asked Brother John to escort you to our supply building. After that, he will show you to your quarters and tell you about some of our regulations. Good-day, Father Murphy.”
10
Steve stood at the counter in the supply building. Brother John, without saying a word, had escorted him to the building and disappeared, leaving him at the counter. A tall rugged-looking monk in a gray hooded robe stood behind the counter. He introduced himself as Brother Michael. He made a point of saying that he had been a professional football player before entering the religious life.
“Here’s a robe that will probably fit you and sandals that seem to be too small, but they’re all we have right now. There may be more available soon but whether they’ll fit you or not, I don’t know.”
“Does everyone wear gray around here?”
“Passion brothers and resident priests both wear the same type of robe here, the difference being that those worn by the priests have a code embroidered on the breast.”
“What are you talking about? What kind of code?”
“The code, simply, is a number.”
“Steve was astonished. “This sounds like a prison rather than a monastery.”
“You miss the point, Father. We have priests here who have committed some grave offenses in both the religious and legal sense. We use no names. This protects their privacy. I’m sure you understand the need for this.”
Steve nodded that he understood. He had a sudden pain in the pit of his stomach, as if a clawed hand had reached inside his gut and tried to tear him apart. What kind of isolated outpost of civilization had he been sent to? Could this Devil’s Island actually be a legitimate monastery of the Catholic Church? Was the pontiff aware that such places existed under his supposedly beneficent rule? While he was ruminating about his situation, Steve failed to heed Brother Michael’s command to empty his pockets onto the counter.
“I said, Father, empty your pockets! And I don’t have all day,” the brother demanded in a surly tone as he glared at the priest.
“I would caution you not to speak to me that way, Brother Michael,” Steve said, bristling. “I’m a priest. I’m not accustomed to this kind of treatment especially from one who serves in the lower religious orders.”
“Maybe so,” Brother Michael challenged, “but who are you going to complain to? We brothers are the only authority in your life from here on in, and we intend to exercise it.”
“I beg to differ. Bishop Rhinehart in my archdiocese in Washington is the anointed authority.” Steve thought mention of the archdiocese would carry some weight with the brother, although he knew full well that Rhinehart would never support him in a dispute.
Brother Michael had had enough backtalk. “Let me explain something, Father, and I want you to listen closely. The bishops send priests here because they are trying to get rid of them. Very, very few are ‘reclaimable’ here. Some of them resign and then go back into society and do whatever the hell they did before—drink, do drugs, molest children—whatever. In almost every case, we are the chosen exit door. We don’t kick them out of course. I suppose you would call that ‘defrocking’. Instead, we make it easy for them to leave. We make them want to leave the priesthood. Do you get the picture?”
Steve quietly put his wallet on the counter toget
her with a few keys he carried, his cell phone, cell phone charger, wristwatch and some coins. He laid two unopened packs of cigarettes next to his other belongings. “I’m glad you surrendered the cigarettes, we don’t allow smoking here.”
The monk opened the wallet. “Hmm… you must be here for embezzlement—you’ve got about eight hundred bucks in your wallet and four credit cards.”
“What happens to my personal belongings?” Steve asked. “When do I get my wallet and stuff back?”
“We keep them locked up in a safe place that has your number on it. None of the cells have locks and we wouldn’t want you to complain that some of your valuables were stolen. Do you have anything else on your person? I assume for the moment that you only have clothing, your chalice case and other religious articles in your suitcase.”
“No, I don’t have anything else,” Steve lied. He thought of the cigarettes he had bought from Jeremy hidden in a false bottom of his chalice case, as well as a stash of sixs hundred dollars. “But if you doubt it, you can frisk me, and go through my suitcase,” he replied caustically.
“That won’t be necessary. After all, if you can’t trust a Catholic priest, who can you trust?”
*****
Brother John showed him to his cell. The cell was exactly that—one of thirty or more small rooms that opened off a long portico with a roof that slanted down to catch rainwater from downspouts hovering over large barrels. He was located in Row A. Across the wide dusty courtyard he could see an array of other cells labeled Row B. And in the distance, Rows C, D and E. “Cellblocks without visible bars, but cellblocks nonetheless,” he mumbled to himself.
