The Heretics of St. Possenti

by Rolf Nelson

  At the rate things were progressing, it looked more like they’d have several marketable skills even if they were not all for high-end jobs. But they expected to have a couple of programmers in the next group, along with a network admin and a mathematician to help get those so inclined up to speed in the field so that they would have a leg up when they returned to technical training programs and be able to handle some traditionally challenging coursework.

  * * *

  The next few days were delicate. The newly arrived always had an experienced brother (or two or three) with them, giving help, support, guidance, and encouragement and providing a solid example to lead the way. Getting the hang of the rather fluid and ever-changing schedule took the longest, but once they were in the right place, it seemed as though the newbies took to the individual tasks like a fish to water even if there was a little bit of eye-rolling at all the moments of prayer and silence at first. Though the labor could be hard, the pace was reasonable, the results visible, and the variations endless. The ground had been broken for the new building already—sort of, if only unofficially—with the foundation outline sketched out so that as rocks were cleared from the fields, they had a place to go. If the rest of the ground was similar to what had been cleared and plowed so far, they’d have more than enough for a very impressive curtain wall, and the new abbey would bear more than a passing resemblance to a medieval castle.

  They were eating regularly, good food they had a hand in planting, tending, harvesting, and preparing. They were constantly busy with a wide range of physical work, with hard-played competitive games, but also with time alone to meditate and think, and time surrounded by men with purpose and integrity who truly understood and whose goal was that they come to understand themselves better, with no pressure to speak until they were ready. Sometimes they played intellectual games, like chess or which prophet said _____? In a week the novices could see changes in each other; in two weeks they could see the changes in themselves as well when they looked in the mirror.

  The abbot’s enthusiasm was contagious. He really believed. Not just in God, but in the men and the mission of St. Possenti’s monastery.

  And by the end of the week, so did Frank Bunt.

  First Day

  Making allowance for the infirmities of different persons, we believe that for the daily meal, both at the sixth and the ninth hour, two kinds of cooked food are sufficient at all meals; so that he who perchance cannot eat of one, may make his meal of the other….

  The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, Ch. XXXIX (The Apportionment of Necessities)

  Arthur Hawkins woke with a start and reached for a nonexistent rifle. Dark. Silence. Freeze. He listened intently, tried to mentally get into focus, put the sensory pieced together with memories… memories. Blur of conversations, bus trip, meal, whirl of friendly faces. Christmas carols? Why on earth was he hearing a Christmas carol? And when did he fall asleep? He remembered having difficulty falling asleep, but it wasn’t triggering any specific cautionary memories that would normally cause such a problem.

  Things clicked into place. He’d signed up to be a monk for a few years. He was in a room. His own room. His very own. A cell they called it, but it wasn’t locked. He wasn’t hungry because he’d had a better meal than he’d eaten in months; nothing preprocessed from a can and second portions for underweight postulants were allowed. But… Christmas wasn’t for quite a while. The familiar melody of God rest ye, merry gentlemen sounded beautiful in the otherwise still night air—much more so than he normally considered it—but it was surreal. He padded to the door and cracked it open. Nobody in the hall, and the singing changed to a hymn he didn’t recognize. Sounded nice, but it was an odd time of day to hear it.

  He followed the voices, stalking silently to the outside walls of the arena. A simple set of risers he vaguely remembered seeing were occupied by a dozen men, who faced a single man faintly lit only by a candle on a small podium in front of him. The cool night air and clear sky and its twinkling stars were bracing and beautiful and welcoming, unlike the normal harsh artificial light, biting cold through thin clothes, unsympathetic night noises and people of the city that he was used to. The music and setting was strange, but surprisingly peaceful.

  He jumped when a voice at his side spoke softly. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Peter asked. “A small group practices every night. Start with simple songs we all know, which right now means carols. Practice getting the voice in tune, all that. We’re slowly learning new hymns and writing a few of our own. The night air is good for the vocal cords, and it seems to cut back on nightmares and flashbacks.”

  “Damned odd lullaby,” replied Arthur just as quietly. It wasn’t often anyone could sneak up on him, but for once it actually felt… reassuring. Most people didn’t walk like that. He was among people like himself; few had stealth like experienced light infantry, even among hunters.

  “It seems like it at first. Join in? Or just listen out here for a bit?”

  “Just listen.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. You know the way back to your room?” Arthur nodded in the shadowy gloom. “You may find it surprisingly soothing. More so when you get a chance to sing along. Oh, and fair warning: swearing costs you a quarter in the morale bucket every time you utter a curse word. At the end of the day, your squad needs to say a rosary for every quarter it put in. Start in the morning perhaps.”

  The novice snorted at the idea but understood it. “Roger that.”

  He listened to two more songs and then headed back for much-needed rack-time that was unlike any he could remember.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, his new squad-mates rapped on his door cheerfully, snapping him awake. “Rise and shine! Sun’s not up yet, but we have things to do!”

  “What time is it?” Arthur asked, surprisingly refreshed from a sleep both shorter and more comfortable than he’d expected.

  “Just after oh-five hundred. Get dressed, shaved, hit the head, and meet us out by the choir risers in ten minutes or so.”

  “Okay.” He scrambled around, found the light switch, his clothes, and shave kit and got himself shaved, cleaned, and dressed. It was somewhat like a barracks except he was one of only four using the open part of the bathroom with sinks rather than an entire platoon, and it was a great deal quieter. Not so much sleepy or rushed as subdued and quietly respectful of the ending night’s silence. He didn’t particularly hurry because the “or so” had given the distinct impression it wasn’t a tightly scheduled item, but he also didn’t want to make them wait. Two of the other three men in the lavatory with him were new guys who had been on the bus with him. The other was one of the original founders.

  “What’s the drill?” Arthur asked him.

  “I’m on KP. You three are likely going up to the…” he paused mischievously. “I’ll let it be a surprise. Should be spectacular this morning.”

  “That’s good to know, I guess.” Arthur and the others finished up quietly, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

  He tossed a quarter in the bucket on his way past it on his way outside.

  At the risers there were already a handful of monks-to-be and twelve of the founders gathered. They stood or sat quietly, giving the barest of acknowledgments as each new man arrived. Soon there were five novices. When the last one showed up, a brother handed a woolen cowl to him to help ward off the morning chill. Then, each new guy was collected by two or three of the others, and with Clint at the fore they were led silently away from the ranch, through the gray and muffled-sounding woods, and up the ridge.

  They were brought to a spot in the predawn twilight with two lines of well-spaced low platforms in a clearing. “This is one of the meditation spots we have set up,” Clint said, his quiet voice carrying clearly in the still, chill air. “You are to sit with your group and silently listen to God’s creation of the morning come alive. Watch the sunrise, listen to the wind, the animals, and your heartbeat, and contemplate how beautiful the world is you l
ive in and what quirks of fate brought you here. Ponder the blessings you have and the blessings you may see. Focus not on the problems you face; we are here to help you past those things and to see a better path.

  “But first you must accept what is. And part of that, coming from the dark place you have been, is to take a little while to see, hear, feel, and smell the good things on God’s great, green Earth. So, while other brothers prepare breakfast for us all, or exercise to warm up for the day, or have an intense discussion of human psych and confession—and don’t worry; you’ll have those mornings, too—you get to sit quietly and contemplate the beautiful things in life as you watch the sunrise.”

  Clint directed them to the appropriate platform, took a seat himself, and faced the slowly brightening horizon to watch the colors change.

  This didn’t sound like any Catholic monk setup Arther had ever heard of, but then… he had to admit that, growing up as a cultural rather than Church-going Christian, he didn’t know much about monks beyond Friar Tuck and the ones in cheesy old Kung Fu reruns. But as it was a beautiful morning shaping up, with glorious colors, wildlife making noise, and the smells of bacon and baking bread wafting on the wind, Arthur was okay with finding out more.

  * * *

  When the sun was definitely up, nearly a hand-span above the horizon, Clint led them back down to the abbey-under-construction, pausing to point out the deer and to identify a few of the local birds they saw along the way. It was a peaceful, quiet walk, and as he looked around at the other faces, it appeared that everyone else was in a similar mellow frame of mind. Breakfast was simple and satisfying—an egg, a single rasher of bacon, a large bowl of oatmeal with a dab of honey and some nuts, a slice of warm bread fresh from the oven, and coffee which was a notch above typical free waiting room “industrial brand” but far below the gourmet blend he’d had in Bunt’s VA office. After Grace was said, and while they ate in silence, Brother Hugh read a brief passage from Proverbs 10.

  Arthur’s group had cleanup duties after the meal. The institutional kitchen had a proper dishwasher, so that part wasn’t too bad, but he was unfamiliar with how to take care of the greasy griddle (”save the bacon fat for later!”) or the giant mixer used to make the next batch of bread, so there were lessons there to be cheerfully taught and learned. The smaller side kitchen also needed cleaning. It looked like a typical apartment kitchen and was used for experimenting without getting in the way of the main cooking space, and for teaching those with zero culinary skills. Including basic instruction on use of the unfamiliar systems, it took them the better part of an hour to get everything neat and tidy.

  After another short prayer and study session to familiarize him with the layout of the catechism book he was given, he was taken to the nearby field where the tractor had the dumping trailer hooked up. He could see where it had been driven recently. There was a long line of wheel tracks, with the ground on either side of them totally clear of rocks bigger than gravel. Two tracks over, it had been plowed, and a new crop of rocks had been kicked up but not yet harvested. Two tire-track trails over, the fresh rocks had been cleared away.

  “Would you care to drive, Brother Arthur?” asked Clint.

  The question surprised him. He had no experience with tractors though he had driven Army 5-ton trucks and the occasional deuce-and-a-half. “I guess so. Why?”

  “Someone has to drive, and everyone learns. So….” Arthur got a five-minute lesson on tractor basics, which was also given to the other novices who were expected to get a turn soon. Then, a slow trek downfield, parallel to the other tracks, a slow, stop-and-go process with lots of clutch work. At the end he turned it around, gave another novice a chance to drive, and took his turn “playing in the dirt” as they referred to it. What size rocks he picked up was totally his judgment call, they assured him, as they walked along in a line on either side of, and behind, the trailer. He started with the obvious large rocks, one of which was large enough he had to grab a shovel from the trailer to pry it out, and he helped another brother carry a large and awkward boulder in the hundred and fifty pound range from near the end of the line. After that, he tossed a lot of smaller rocks, mostly fist-sized cobbles, for a while. When he looked back over the course they had covered, he was surprised at how changed it was in appearance and how large a stack of rocks they had made.

  A quick washing-up later, he found himself in Bible study. It was a very high-level overview: Old Testament, Apocrypha, New Testament; timeframe and big ideas; major differences between Catholic and Protestant sects; get a feel for what everyone knew or thought he knew; major ideas of each book. It came as a surprise to him that each of the four books of the Gospels told essentially the same story but from four different perspectives with different prospective audiences and styles.

  A great deal to learn, but it all sounded far more fascinating than he’d expected it to. The fact that Clint was a natural storyteller helped, and asking questions was encouraged to get them more engaged. The ninety minutes they had allotted flew by and they ended up spending nearly three hours.

  Then, it was on to strength training. The abbey had simple free weights and homemade “machines” like a climbing wall and bars. They split into teams, so everyone had a spotter, and they spent an hour doing evaluations of the new guys while the men who knew their weights did short sets and helped the novices with proper technique. Arthur was surprised at how little he could now bench-press and even more surprised at the loss of latissimus dorsi strength: he could barely do three pullups. It was humbling, but he got a great deal of encouragement, and several of the more experienced brothers confided in him that he had done better than they expected, given his appearance when he arrived, but that they’d been there too, not so long ago.

  He was sore but exhilarated when the group went to lunch, another simple but filling affair. Then there was time for private meditation, interrupted for a half-hour by a chiropractor visiting for the day who gave an initial exam to all the new guys to see what sort of alignment problems they might have and to get them working toward a proper balance. Arthur was mostly in good shape, but he was given an adjustment, as well as three stretching and two strengthening exercises to do every day. That was followed by an hour spent constructing new rooms. Next was a discussion of the human psyche and how peer-pressure worked—many people want others to join them in their sinning, so they could assuage their own guilt by claiming “everyone is doing it”. After that, a brief bit of confessional and personal history from Clint and the novices, and then they helped prepare the evening meal by harvesting most of the remaining green beans from the garden, peeling and slicing potatoes, and portioning out bread dough into pans so it could rise overnight.

  Dinner began with a hymn, the squad of novices in choir practice doing their best to stay in tune. Arthur talked with a few of the other postulants and found they had all been busy with a similar mix of things but in a different order. Those who had helped at breakfast today would watch the sun rise tomorrow. Everyone was cheerful and more optimistic than they had been in a long time.

  After-dinner cleanup was quick, and that was followed by an hour of mixed Bible and catechism study, a half hour of choir practice, and an hour of basic electrical systems: a mix of lecture and hands-on work with multimeters on simple battery-powered circuits. A brief prayer, then they were released to meditate, or listen to some of the more experienced singers practice, or shower, or go to bed. Arthur was surprised at how tired he was. After a quick and relaxing shower, he lay down on his narrow mattress in his tiny room. For the first time in months, he was at peace.

  He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep until he was woken by a smiling, nearly silent brother the next morning. It was his turn to help with breakfast.

  Intonation

  Reading must not be wanting at the table of the brethren when they are eating. Neither let anyone who may chance to take up the book venture to read there; but let him who is to read for the whole week enter upon that o
ffice on Sunday.

  The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, Ch. XXXVIII (The Weekly Reader)

  It soon became a regular activity, which according to Thomas was typical in most monasteries, to read from the Bible or some of the many other Catholic books in the growing abbey library during meals. Clint was taking a turn during second lunch. His voice was well suited to it, and he read well.

  Psalm 93:

  The Lord is the God to whom revenge belongeth: the God of revenge hath acted freely.

  Lift up thyself, thou that judgest the earth: render a reward to the proud.

  How long shall sinners, O Lord: how long shall sinners glory?

  He was interrupted by Ken. “Wait a minute. I thought that was Psalm 94?” He pulled out a Bible he’d been looking at a few minutes earlier. “Yep, right here. 94.”

  “Which version are you using, Brother Ken?” asked Father Mathews with a frown.

  “New International Version. Does that make a difference?”

  Abbot Cranberry sighed and waved to the prior to explain.

  “Yes. There are minor verse numbering differences between the Catholic and Protestant version of the Bible and some rather more significant differences in the translation, as well as what chapters are included. The Protestant versions omit material they… decided was less important. I’m certain we went over that earlier, Brother Ken. While comparing versions in Bible study can be useful, we will only use proper Catholic Bibles for readings at meals and other official functions. Which are you using, Brother Clint?”

  The big man held up the big book. “Douay-Rheims. English with Latin interlinear.”