The toilet was plugged again. Sister Helena needed nothing but her nose to inform her of the fact, though the water (and who knew what else) that began soaking the bottom of her habit when she walked in served to confirm it most adequately.
“God help me,” she muttered to herself, all the while asking God inwardly to do something less helpful to the toilet and the (likely) child who had managed to plug it, even with Mother Melangell’s septic-system-friendly toilet paper in use. She knew she would have to confess this inward annoyance, but for now, all she could do was try to fight it off while finding some old towels to wipe up the flood and the plunger to tend to the sorry contraption.
This was the women’s guest-house, and therefore, more often than not, the children’s quarters as well. The family who had left the evening before just before Vespers had boasted three children. Sister Helena had not had much occasion to observe them, but the little she did notice was that they were all inquisitive and they all seemed to be everywhere at once. She had been glad to have been engaged in tasks that kept her working in her cell during most of their visit. It wasn’t that she didn’t like children; it was just that they tired her out. While Mother Melangell and Mother Myriam, and even Mother Clotilde seemed to draw energy from their exuberance, for Sister Helena, they were nothing but a trial.
Now, here she was, cleaning up after them. If only they had mentioned the state of things here before leaving! Who knew how long the overflow had lain unheeded? She fervently hoped that Mother Anna would not chastise her if she was unable to get things cleaned up to that woman’s exacting standards. She resolved to try her best, and at least it was a beautiful morning for such a task.
The guest-house—both the men’s and women’s houses actually—were built like cabins at a summer camp. All on one floor, they each boasted a central corridor with bedrooms ranged along it on either side and a bathroom at the rear. Sister Helena inwardly blessed the fact that there was only a shower stall in each of these rooms rather than a full bath-tub. The toilet-mess was hard enough to clean up, but to have to deal with the horrors of a tub and a tub-surround was something she dared not contemplate.
She had been plunging away for about five minutes when she decided to test her progress with an experimental flush. Unfortunately, the experiment was a complete failure, for no sooner had she flushed the offending apparatus than the front of her habit was as soaked as its hem, and she had no choice but to go back to her repeated plunging, her habit sodden and her heart saddened.
“At least we’re allowed two habits,” she said to herself. “I’ll have time to change before Sext.” But what would she do or say if someone came by and caught her like this? This was just the sort of thing the Holy Rule of Saint Benedict said was worth some kind of penance. Her flushing the toilet like that would be deemed an act of carelessness. It wasn’t really the sort of thing a priest needed to hear, but certainly it should be proclaimed to Mother Clotilde, either in public Chapter, or in one’s weekly visit with the Abbess of Saint Hilda’s. Sister Helena liked these weekly visits. Mother Clotilde had taken the custom from Father Clement, the Abbot of Saint Caedmon’s, the monastery from which Saint Hilda’s had sprouted about ten years before, and Sister Helena usually liked it when her turn came on Tuesdays at three. Mother Clotilde usually put her at her ease, which she could not say for all of the nuns here. Some of them were nervous of her blindness and, though they had been told time and time again that she was able to do most of the chores around the place with little or no supervision, they stood over her until she had finished what she had been doing. Between Mother Clotilde’s willingness to experiment and Mother Melangell’s quick ideas about how to solve some of the challenges that came up with regard to her blindness and certain chores, she felt that she was able to pull her weight. Now, after seven years, she felt she had really begun to fit in here.
Born Ellen Mitchell, she had entered Saint Hilda’s at the age of thirty-three, very auspicious some said, as it was the age when hilda of Whitby, after whom the monastery had been named, was said to have become a nun herself. Others, including the head of the department of English at the University of Alanville, where Ellen had both studied and taught, found her decision to come here simply strange. Those who had been against it had accused her of running away from her life, but she had held on, whether from devotion or from plain stubbornness she was never truly certain, and had made it past the noviciate and was now on the cusp of taking her perpetual vows and becoming fully professed. Perhaps, she found herself thinking now as she worked hard at removing a particularly nasty clump of toilet paper from the bowels of the miserable bowl, once she had her full rank of Mother, the nuns who were still nervous of her would at last treat her as a human being rather than as a thing made of glass. This was extremely uncharitable, she knew, but it was how they often made her feel, as though all the years of her adulthood had meant nothing and she was, and would always be, a child who needed to be led through life by the hand.
Sister Helena’s revery was brought to a sudden halt when the clog she had been working on finally came loose and broke up. This was just as well, for she could hear the bell being rung for Sext, and she needed to have time to make herself presentable before the service. Flushing the toilet again with a victorious sigh of relief when no new eruption was forth-coming, she resolved to return here after Sext and to finish her cleaning with a more cheerful disposition. Now, however, she had to get from here to the cloister without being stopped by anyone. So, taking her cane from its place by the entrance, she walked with as much dignity as her wet garments would give her along the brick-lined paths, all the while hearing the bell from the chapel tolling clearly across the still expanse of field and garden.
The morning had been cool, a hint of Autumn in the air when she had left chapel after Terce to tend to the guest-house, but now the sun was heating the air to a more summery temperature, more suitable, she thought, for a day in early September. Still far off should be the crisp and lovely Mackintosh days of October that she loved so well. Her friend Katherine Dylan had thought of the name for those days, saying that when the air was crisp and cold and the scent of fallen leaves was everywhere, only the taste of a Mackintosh apple would do. There wasn’t a day that passed when Sister Helena did not think of her friend Katherine, who had died suddenly when Sister Helena had been thirty-one and Katherine had just turned thirty-two. There had been no official cause for her death given, and so despite the funeral and the passage of some eight years now, Kat still haunted her thoughts.
“Sister!” The voice jolted her from her thoughts just as she was coming to the door of the cloister, which despite its medieval-sounding name, was simply a hundred-and-fifty-year-old stone farm house which Mother Clotilde had purchased for a song with donations from benefactors and using a family inheritance she had received. It had taken much time and work to fix the place up, and in truth, Sister Helena felt that it would always remain in a perpetual state of imperfection. Still, it had good bones, as Mother Melangell often said, and it had the advantage of being far away from urban life.
“Sister Helena! You look a fright, and you’ll be late for Sext if you don’t hurry and clean yourself up!” This was Sister Anna, Saint Hilda’s Chief Cook and Bottle-washer, otherwise known as its Cellarer. Sister Helena had never felt at ease with this small but fierce woman, and she thought now that it only figured that it would be Sister Anna who would see her in this disheveled condition.
“It was—well—the toilet again,” she stammered lamely. “I’ll just—just go and change.”
“I offered to help you this morning, you know,” Sister Anna said accusingly.
“Yes,” said Sister Helena through clenched teeth, “and I don’t know that your help would have changed anything. I do thank you for your offer. Now, if I can just get on before the bell stops tolling...”
“Very well,” the Cellarer said, her footsteps soon retreating in the direction of the tolling bell.
Gaining her cell at last, Sister Helena found her spare habit and quickly pulled it on, doing her best to make it look respectable for chapel. Then, finding her ancient Braille display where it lay in its usual place on the desk, she went out through the deserted cloister and along the path that led to the chapel. Miraculously, she was not late. The bell tolled one more time just as she entered, so she knew she was free to take her usual place in choir, three rows from the front pew, rather than standing at the back and not being permitted to chant the gently-antiphonal psalm verses with the others. The Opus Dei or Work of God was her life’s blood here, and she always enjoyed following Mother Clotilde or Mother Myriam, whose ever duty it was to lead the services for the day. They were both good singers and accomplished liturgists, though Sister Helena enjoyed learning more from Mother Myriam than from Mother Clotilde, for Mother Myriam had been a long-time choir director before coming here, and Mother Clotilde depended on her for anything of which she was not certain.
Indeed, it had been Mother Myriam who had realized the asset that Sister Helena could be in terms of working with the more complicated services in the liturgical year. She had asked Sister Helena one day how it was that she always knew where she was in the complicated Diurnal and Breviary they used, especially when the services were made up of elements from different pages. Sister Helena had explained that she had scanned copies of both books, and that when she knew of a really complicated service coming up, she would research what the service involved, and then cut and paste the elements into one continuous file. Mother Myriam being quite impressed by this, she had soon set Sister Helena to editing the Matins, Lauds, Vespers and other services used on various feast-days and even on Sundays for use by the other sisters. It had been this which had largely kept her preceding weekend child-free.
Now, she sat expectantly in her place, her Braille display hung from its strap around her neck for easy reading, and waited for the presenter to knock on the lectern at the front of the chapel to signal the beginning of the service. Finally, she was able to put her annoyance at both the guest-house toilet and Mother Anna behind her and just focus on the carefully-modulated chanting of the psalms of the sixth hour of the day which had been chanted in a similar way for more than fifteen-hundred years. This was what she had come for: this lovely tradition, but there was much else here for which she had not been prepared. Still, it was a good life, or had been till a few months ago. She had begun having doubts and anxiety over her upcoming full profession, and no matter how hard she prayed and how much she spoke to Mother Clotilde about them during their weekly meetings, she just could not lay them aside. Ah well, there would be Mass on Sunday, she reflected as the Angelus was said and the service came to an end, and Confession, most likely with Father Brendan of Saint Caedmon’s. Perhaps that would help to settle her mind. Sunday... Less than seven days from now. Little did she know how those few days would up-end her world and completely change her life, for better or for worse, only time would tell.
Sext being ended, the nuns filed out, returning to their various obediences or taking up new ones as time permitted. They had an hour in which they were allowed to eat something small for lunch if they felt the need, but Sister Helena was not hungry. She wanted to return to cleaning the guest-house before the prescribed rest period. This could be spent either actually resting, or else engaged in some quiet activity in one’s cell such as Lectio Divina—sacred reading—or perhaps doing some handicraft. Saint Hilda’s maintained a small store, now dragged online at Mother Melangell’s insistence, and they sold prayer ropes, winter scarves, icons, mostly of saints of the west rather than of the east, and copies of the service-books they used as well as a selection of books about Orthodox Christianity and the Benedictine way of life. Saint Hilda’s was both a Benedictine and an Orthodox monastery, being under one of the local Orthodox jurisdictions which was sympathetic to what was called the Western Rite. Father Clement had started Saint Caedmon’s after leaving the Roman Catholic Church post-Vatican II and its many changes. Unlike Saint Hilda’s, Saint Caedmon’s had never really had a settled home, but had moved from place to place as time and circumstances had warranted, finally ending up in the middle of down-town Alanville around about the year 2000. When Sister Helena had come across them as she was preparing to defend her PH.D dissertation on Mallory’s Le Morte D’Arthur and its links to the Wars of the Roses, they had been in residence in their crazy-quilt of a building for about eight years. It, like the farm-house that was the heart of Saint Hilda’s, had been a building that no one had wanted, and a very helpful benefactor had provided it for the monks, and it now functioned not only as a monastery, but as a local parish church. Sister Helena had always enjoyed attending Masses there, and as she had come to know Mother Clotilde as well as the monks, she had seemed to drift almost-effortlessly toward her current life. Now, here she was sweeping floors and making beds, not a student or an Arthurian tome anywhere in evidence, and she found herself really wondering for the first time in many years if this was, in fact, where she was supposed to be.
She spent the rest of the afternoon scanning a couple of works by John Cassian into her computer for later translation into Braille, and before she knew it, it was time for None, the service of the ninth hour, which preceded dinner, the only meal the sisters ate in community each day, not counting the small snack they sometimes had during Recreation between Vespers and Compline. This time, having nothing extra to do before the service, she was able to walk quietly and calmly to the chapel and to arrive long before the bell ceased. The service proceeded peacefully, and then the sisters filed out and processed back to the cloister to take their places at the long refectory table for dinner.
Dinner was a quiet affair, with only the voice of one of the nuns reading from a sacred work of some kind. Tonight, it was a sermon of Saint John Chrysostom, and it was Mother Melangell’s turn to read. She was from North Wales, and Sister Helena always enjoyed it especially when she had been assigned as the reader at meals. She made everything she read sound like a piece of epic poetry, though you didn’t have to work too hard to make Chrysostom’s work sound impressive, provided you were reading a translation which had been made with an eye to preserving his incredible rhetorical facility. The dinner itself was a simple affair of beans and rice, with thick slices of bread to go with it, and as ever, Sister Helena found it delicious. Mother Anna may not be my cup of tea, she thought, taking a sip of water between bites, but she is an excellent cook!
After a while, Mother Clotilde rang the little brass bell she kept by her place at the table to signal that Mother Melangell could finish reading. Sometimes this meant that the Abbess wanted to say something before the kitchen helpers jumped up to clean the table and to rinse the dishes in preparation for washing. Of necessity, this did not take place until after Compline, so that no one need be absent during the remaining services of the day. This time, after saying the prayer after the meal, Mother Clotilde did have something to say.
“I have some news,” she announced, forestalling Sister Hannah and Sister Jane, the monastery's two current novices, from running off to their kitchen duties. “As you know, Sister Helena and Mother Anna have been taking an online course in spiritual care, especially relating to hospice work. They have both acquitted themselves very well during the past year, especially given the less-than-stellar state of our connectivity out here. The only thing which remains is for them to receive certification from the Canadian Association for Spiritual Care, and this involves a clinical placement. We were content to wait for two placements to come open in our general neighbourhood, but we have had two placements offered to us in Alanville.”
“But how can I go there?” Mother Anna sounded really upset. “There’s always so much to be done around here!”
“The placements will be three months long, starting next Monday. They are at a private hospice run by the Sisters of Saint Joseph. Father Brendan will drive you to Saint Caedmon’s on Sunday after Mass, and you’ll stay in the basement apartment, keeping the hours either with the monks in choir, or with each other at the hospice. The supervisors understand your situation and have agreed to allow you time to practice the Work of God as needed."
Alanville... Sister Helena suddenly felt her mouth going dry despite the water she had just sipped. She had hoped never to spend an extended period of time in that city again. All her demons were there—the life she had left behind, the friend she had lost, and it was closer to her family than here as well. She thought of finding reasons to argue that this was not a good time, but she knew that this was useless. Mother Clotilde had long wished to reach out to the community in some way, and this placement was, after all, the logical end of the course she had been taking for the past year.
“This is an excellent opportunity for you and for Saint Hilda’s,” Mother Clotilde was saying. “And,” she said, turning to where Mother Anna sat, “I’m sure we will find a way to muddle through without you for a while.” Sister Helena thought she heard Mother Anna sniff at that, whether in sadness or in peak, she did not know, but the sniff was soon driven from her mind by the business of the novices getting down to their duties before Vespers.
The rest of the night passed peacefully, and before she knew it, Compline was over and Grand Silence had begun. Making her way quietly to her cell and doing her best to nod goodnight to the nuns she passed in the hallway, she slipped inside and was soon in bed, having prayed privately for a few minutes first. A wind was playing fitfully in the pine outside her window, and she could hear the busy crickets, heralds of the end of summer, chanting their own rhythmic nocturns as she slid toward sleep. Alanville... She was going back to Alanville, and that for three months! What on earth would she find there? How on earth would she cope? Most importantly, would she feel able to return to Saint Hilda’s when all was said and done? These questions were too difficult for her to tackle now, so commending them to God with a murmured “Lord, have mercy,” she finally let herself surrender to her bodily fatigue and fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.
The next morning began precisely at 4:55 AM as they always did, with one or other of the nuns walking around the cloister with a very loud bell. Likely, Sister Helena thought ruefully, it was one of the novices. She remembered her duties as bell-ringer during her noviciate, Mother Anna having argued for her being exempted from the duty for no other reason than that she was blind, until both she and Mother Clotilde herself had pointed out that a blind bell-ringer would need no light to assist her in her work. Mother Anna had grudgingly accepted this unassailable logic, but it had been clear from that point on that Mother Anna regarded Sister Ellen, as she had been known then, as Mother Clotilde’s special favourite. She had treated her with equanimity if not with true kindness upon her arrival, but after the incident of the bell-ringing, things had changed. Now, they were both to go to Alanville for three long months. How would they manage? Why had Mother Annna been chosen to take the course in the first place? Sister Helena had shown an interest in it, but she had the impression that Mother Anna was only taking it out of obedience.
After rising and dressing, she was supposed to read the daily psalms of the Matins service in her cell. As a rule, the community only assembled for Matins on feast-days and Sundays, but they were expected to keep their reading of the Psalter intact by doing this daily private practice. Dutifully, she found the Tuesday psalms in her electronic Breviary and read them through as usual, though her mind wandered away again and again to other matters, so that by the time she had finished, she felt as though she had not been reading the psalms at all. Perhaps Lauds would be better, but best of all was that today would be her day in the fields with Mother Melangell. She knew that a day outside would do wonders for her mood, and that a day with Mother Melangell could salve the most wounded spirit. She was a living paradox: an avid farmer and bee-keeper as well as a wizard with computers and the internet. For her, the Opus Dei was a necessary part of her daily life, but it was a consecration of all her other work. Sister Helena sometimes envied her seeming inner peace, but more often, she simply enjoyed it, basking in it as one might bask in a spot of sunshine on a cold day.
The bell for Lauds began to toll softly from the chapel, and Sister Helena stepped out of her cell and through the airy farm-house kitchen to the back door. As Grand Silence was still in effect, she never spoke to anyone she passed, nor did they speak to her. Instead, as she could not see their signs of greeting, they would touch her lightly on the arm and she would nod in the direction of each touch. She thought there must be a better way of dealing with this, but she had not found it as yet. It all felt very mechanical to her, as though she were a puppet whose strings were being manipulated by the hands of many puppeteers. She saw this as a clear over-reaction, yet she was helpless to stifle it. She had been having thoughts like this a lot more than usual lately, and she knew it for what it was. Called variously despondency, acedia, the noon-day devil, or simply sloth, this was an affliction common to monastics. She wondered if a change of scene would somehow lift the cloud under which she seemed to be living, but even as she wondered this, she recalled that this hope in a change of scene was exactly one of the temptations of despondency.
Suddenly, she stood still for a moment and took note of her surroundings. The wind which had begun last night was still present, though there was no fierceness in it. It was clean and crisp, carrying on it the scents of grass and earth, manure from the barns, and the faintest whiff of incense rising quietly from the chapel. Why should she be sad or moody on a day like today? She resolved once again to do her best to rise above her emotions, to consider the lilies, as Mother Melangell often admonished her to do.
Lauds began tentatively as did the first service of any day. At first, there was a lot of soft throat-clearing and coughing, but by the time the second psalm was being sung, the familiar group of voices had settled into its usual rhythm. Mother Myriam was leading the singing today, Mother Clotilde being absent for some reason. Even if she had not been leading, Sister Helena would not have missed her rich contralto voice if it had been present. While it was very rare for Mother Clotilde to be absent from services, there were occasions when the business of running the monastery kept her at her desk longer than was likely good for her.
After Lauds, Sister Helena and Mother Melangell took a little bite for breakfast and then headed out into the fields. Sister Helena milked the cows while Mother Melangell dealt with the goats, and though her fingers were extremely tired by the end of that chore, she was happy to note that neither of the two stately cows had kicked her or kicked over the buckets once during the whole process. By the sounds of things, however, Mother Melangell had not had so much luck with the goats. Even with Sally the Australian Shepherd to help her, the goats kept wandering off to find grass and plants to eat, and she kept having to chase them. In the end though, all the beasts had been milked and the milk had been stored away, ready to be made into butter and cheese later.
“Sally,” Mother Melangell called softly to the still-gangly young dog, “come over here.” The dog did as she was bid, and Mother Melangell patted her down to check for anything amiss with her.
“She was less happy to do her work than usual today,” she said. “I was wondering if she had something bothering her.” Grand Silence ended after Lauds here, since they did not have a regular daily Mass.
“Maybe we should call her our little novice,” Sister Helena said, letting the enthusiastic young dog lick her hand.
“It isn’t only novices who get distracted,” she said. “Are you alright, Cariad?” Endearments such as the Welsh word for ‘beloved’ were discouraged here as a rule, for for Mother Melangell, they were an ingrained part of her speech.
“I don’t know,” Sister Helena said. “I’m not happy about this placement thing.”
“But it’s something you’re very passionate about. Isn’t it?”
“Well, I mean,” Sister Helena said carefully, “it’s not the placement itself that I’m having trouble with. It’s—it’s who’s coming with me.” Immediately, she hated herself for even hinting at her feelings about Mother Anna. Above all, Saint Benedict’s rule was death on what he called ’murmuring,’ stating that it could destroy whole communities if it was left unchecked. Yet, here she was, doing exactly that.
“Did it ever occur to you that the person in question might be feeling exactly the same way?” Mother Melangell’s voice held no reproach, but neither was its tone neutral as she said this. “This is exactly where the rubber meets the road, my girl,” she said. “Monasteries would be perfect if it were not for their inhabitants. We are supposed to rub up against each other like rough stones in a bucket. Over time, this friction smoothes off our various rough edges, but in order for that to happen, the bucket must be shaken about a bit. Now, let’s see if we can find some herbs for dinner.” Again came the feeling of being manipulated as Sister Helena followed the older nun to the kitchen garden, but she knew that doing something to benefit Mother Anna directly was one of the ways that she could overcome the bitter thoughts she had been having about her.
“Take these to the kitchen, will you Sister?” Helena obeyed without protest, and putting the collected herbs on the big work-table where Mother Anna usually kneaded bread-dough, she was about to exchange pleasantries with her, but was stopped by the whirring and clicking of an ancient adding machine. Mother Anna, it seemed, was engaged in managing the kitchen-related expenses. Knowing her to be thus engaged, therefore, Sister Helena judged it more prudent to leave her to her business and to exit as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, her exit was anything but unobtrusive, because in turning around from the table, she accidentally stepped backward into a cart of precariously-balanced silverware. Forks and knives went crashing to the tiled floor and Mother Anna slammed down her work in utter rage at its being disrupted.
“Clean that up, Sister,” she said, “and then you’ll have to stay and wash every piece again!”
“But what about Prime and Terce?”
“I am going to Mother Clotilde right now to get you permission to stay away from services until you fix what you have damaged. You have to learn that penances apply to everyone around here!”
“Yes,” said Sister Helena to herself as the Cellarer left the kitchen, “and it’s not you who gives them out!” Still, she knew the rightness of what she had been told to do, so, suppressing her more vindictive feelings for the moment, she stooped to hunt for the fallen cutlery. After a while of searching, she had found every piece that she could find, and she hoped that none of them had gone under either the gas range or the Franklin stove. The Franklin was up on bricks, so she didn’t think that anything could have bounced that high.
“Sister,” said a lilting Welsh voice from somewhere above her head, “I asked you to bring the herbs in, not cure them yourself. What’s taking so—" Mother Melangell’s words were cut off abruptly as she saw her erstwhile assistant on the floor with her pile of silverware.
“I knocked it down,” the young nun said, “and I’ve been told to find it all and wash it.”
“I see,” said Mother Melangell, squatting beside her with a cracking of knees and a rustle of skirts. “Well,” she said, “if it helps, I think you’ve got it all. I’ll leave you to it. Shall I?”
“Yes you should,” came Mother Anna’s voice from the inner doorway. “She has to learn the value of moving with economy and care! Sister, you are excused from Prime and Terce should you not be ready to attend. Chapter will take place in the refectory, and you are still to go to that of course.”
“Of course, Mother,” Sister Helena said, knowing the sarcastic bite to her words though seemingly powerless to stop it. Mother Melangell beat a judicious retreat back out to the barn, and Sister Helena finished picking up the utensils while Mother Anna returned to her facts and her figures.
When it came to drawing water for any purpose at Saint Hilda’s, you had to be content with it being lukewarm when you wanted it cold, and lukewarm when you wanted it hot, unless you wanted to waste it by running the taps for longer than the well and its pump could stand it. Still, thought Sister Helena as she let the usual neither-here-nor-there water fall into the big enamel farm-house sink, at least you were in no danger of scalding yourself. Luckily for her, the washing, drying and replacing of the silverware—more firmly-balanced on the shelves of the cart this time—took less time than either she or Mother Anna had foreseen, and she was able to make it to Prime only a little bit late. This time, she did stand at the back and did not participate in the chanting, and afterwards she went to Mother Clotilde and did a prostration before her to ask her forgiveness. This was accepted as appropriate satisfaction for being late to chapel, and the community adjourned to the refectory in the cloister which doubled as a Chapter Hall.
Chapter proceeded placidly enough, beginning with Mother Clotilde reading from a commentary on the Holy Rule, and then reading the list of saints of the day. Then, if anyone had not been scheduled for a particular obedience already that day, Mother Clotilde would assign them something to do. Today, everyone was already accounted for, so she moved onto the Culpa. Most of the time, no one had anything to say, but this time, Mother Anna spoke up.
“I wish to proclaim a Sister in charity.”
“Yes?” Sister Helena wasn’t sure, but she thought she had caught the faintest note of exasperation in Mother Clotilde’s even tones, but perhaps she was only hearing her own exasperation.
“I wish to proclaim Sister Helena for knocking over a cart of silverware.”
“Well Sister? Did you do this?”
“I did, Mother,” she said, “and I ask forgiveness of you and of the community.”
“Did you do anything to rectify the situation?”
“Yes, Mother. I found and cleaned all the silverware.”
“Not all, Mother,” said Mother Anna. “There was a knife under the wood stove that she missed.”
“Did you tell her this at the time?”
“No, Mother,” the Cellarer said. “I only found it after she had left.” Sister Helena wondered just how true that had been. Could Mother Anna have failed to tell her about the errant knife on purpose? She cut off the thought savagely with a muttered prayer for her accuser, but once thought, it was difficult to leave it aside entirely.
“Did you check under the wood stove, Sister?”
“No, Mother,” she said.
“Very well,” said Mother Clotilde. “For your negligence in checking under the stove, I assign you to eat dinner out of community tonight. As for the original offense, I deem that you have already made sufficient satisfaction.”
“Yes, Mother,” Sister Helena said. “I will try to correct myself with the grace of God.”
“Good,” said Mother Clotilde. “Now, I believe it is time for Terce.”
“May the Divine Help be with us always,” Mother Clotilde intoned.
“And with our absent Brethren,” the other nuns responded. “Amen.”
After Terce, Sister Helena found herself walking next to Mother Melangell.
“Right,” that nun said. “We’ll do the bees next then. Shall we?”
Sister Helena fervently wished that this was not a rhetorical question. However, given that working in the fields was her obedience for today, Mother Melangell was given power to order her to do anything. So, even though she hated everything to do with the small apiary which was one of Mother Melangell’s many passions, she only nodded and walked with what she hoped looked like enthusiasm out through the kitchen and back into the grounds.
The bees were evidently still quite active. The hum of their busy lives was audible long before Sister Helena was actually directly in the vicinity of the hives. Leaving her just outside the bee yard, Mother Melangell went to get a pair of bee gloves and a veil for her. She herself used the veil, but Sister Helena knew that she did not hold with the gloves, preferring to be stung as often as the bees felt it necessary.
“I don’t want them to sting me,” she had said once, “but it’s like they are little martyrs for the hive. The more they sting me, the more the others will know me. At least, that was how my grandmother thought.” Sister Helena had no wish for the bees to get to know her at all. She found them strange and unpredictable, even though she knew that the smoke that Mother Melangell used when removing the honey-filled combs from the hives was quite effective as a sedative.
“There we are,” said that woman, helping her on with the gloves and veil. “They’re still quite active, so I’ll get a little more honey out of them before the weather turns, I think. Time to go to work!”
There were twelve hives in all, and each of them had eight frames that made up the souper, which was where the honey was deposited by the bees and collected by the humans. The frames were wooden and served as the foundation for the combs. They were easily inserted into the honey extractor in the nearby honey-house. This device spun out the honey but left the combs intact, so the bee colony would not be destroyed when it was harvested.
“I’ll just light the smoker,” said Mother Melangell as they came to the first hive, “and when I tell you, you can remove the frames and hand them to me.”
“Alright,” Sister Helena said, a large lump forming in her throat and her hands beginning to perspire inside the thick gloves.
"Right,” said Mother Melangell. “Here we go.” The scent of pine-needle smoke was cloying, but Sister Helena could hear that the bees had indeed quieted down. Their drone was still evident, but it had sunk almost to what Dorothy Wordsworth would have called an undersong, almost blending with the wind in the trees roundabout. Frame after frame slid out of each hive, and finally, to Sister Helena’s great relief, the job was done and they left the bees to clear the smoky cobwebs from their little bee-ish brains and get on with the business of preparing for the coming winter.
“I know you are not fond of this work,” said Mother Melangell as they took a moment to rest their feet while sitting on a bench along one of the monastery paths, “but it’s a great monastic tradition.”
“I know,” Sister Helena replied. “There’s an old Irish poem about what the perfect monastery would be like, and it includes bee-hives. Still, I just can’t stand them!”
“There was a great bee-keeping expert in the eighteen-hundreds who was blind,” said Mother Melangell. “His name was Francois Huber. So, perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
Not bloody likely, thought Sister Helena, barely stifling the words before they escaped her lips. Instead, she managed a hopefully-meek-sounding:
“Yes, Mother. Perhaps.”
“I know there’s more to your mood today,” said the older nun. “I can’t remember the last time the Chapter was used to publicly proclaim a fault.”
“I don’t know how I can get past her,” Sister Helena suddenly flared. “Nothing I do seems to be good enough, and when I do something well, she does her best to ruin it for me. I mean, well, I don’t mean ruin it. I don’t want people to praise me, really.”
“Oh yes you do,” said Mother Melangell matter-of-factly. "There isn't a person alive who doesn't like a little praise now and then. Learning to take praise without holding onto it is the real trick, and that's true of blame, whether deserved or not. When one is praised, one should take it as a sign that one thing is completed and it's time to look for the next thing that needs doing. In the case of blame and even slander, it is best to regard it as deserved, though not in an unhealthy way that leads to shame and guilt. Guilt is not the same as remorse, and it's remorse for which you should be striving. Sincere remorse cleanses the soul, whereas guilt only drives it deeper under the control of the flesh. You'll eat your dinner in a separate room tonight, and then all will be forgiven. That is how you have to proceed, even if not everyone shares that view."
"I see what you mean," said Sister Helena, "but I don't know how to let things go."
"And don't I know it!" Mother Melangell permitted herself a small laugh. "You, my sister, are a born brooder. You flog yourself with your worries and your wrongs, whether perceived or actual. If you don't learn to bend a little, you will break. This life will break you."
"I'll try," said the younger nun. "I really will."
"You're meeting with Mother Clotilde is today, isn't it?" The meeting schedule was kept on the fridge in the kitchen so that everyone would know when Mother Clotilde was in conference and should not, on any account, be disturbed. Also, its being made public would allow anyone to suspend an obedience early without consequence.
"Yes. I'll try to tell her all this."
"Do or do not," said Mother Melangell, doing a very eerie imitation of Yoda from Star Wars. "There is no try!" Then, they both dissolved into quiet giggles, Sister Helena's sides heaving with the effort not to scream with the unexpected mirth and thus cause someone to overhear and wonder just what was going on.
The hours passed quickly for the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon, and at 3:00 PM, Sister Helena, cleaned up after her time outside in the fields, knocked on Mother Clotilde's study door for admission.
"Benedicite," the Abbess said through the door.
"Dominus," said Sister Helena, and entered, bowing in the direction of Mother Clotilde's desk.
As she went to sit in her accustomed place, Sister Helena was surprised to find two chairs there where there was usually only one.
"I'm inviting one other to this meeting, Sister," said Mother Clotilde, and before she could say more, Mother Anna's voice murmuring the Latin greeting forestalled anything further.
"Dominus," Mother Clotilde said, presumably gesturing her Cellarer to the other seat in the room. The door closed with a resounding click, and then there was only silence for the next thirty seconds. Finally, the silence was broken by Mother Clotilde's even and measured tones.
"I've called you both here to talk over a few things before you leave here," she said. "I want to find a way to make peace between you, but if we can't make peace, perhaps we can understand the problem between you more thoroughly."
"I have no problem with her," Mother Anna said in her usual clipped cadence.
"But I think you do," said Mother Clotilde. "I think you both have hatred, or at least disliking, for each other, and everything that each of you does to the other simply reinforces this feeling. I want you both to try to forgive each other, to try to understand each other over the next three months. You are, after all, here for the same reason; you love God and wish to serve Him and Him alone. You, Mother Anna, should be helping your Sister, and you, Sister, should remember that Mother Anna is more experienced than you are and therefore deserves respect."
"I have tried and tried to help her," Mother Anna said, "but I do not know why my corrections have not taken root."
"How do you know they have not?" Mother Clotilde's repost was as quick as a master fencer's parry.
"Why do you think that restating the same correction over and over again will help me?" Sister Helena suddenly found herself asking. "Have you never thought that my repeated mistakes are not done simply to spite you?"
"Sister," said Mother Clotilde. "While I think your point is valid, you did not speak with respect. I want to know if you'll both be alright on this trip. Will you promise me here and now to behave better toward each other?"
"Yes, Mother," both women chorused. "We will."
"Good! Sister Helena, as it's your scheduled meeting time, we can stay and talk for a bit, but if you have nothing you wish to say, then you are free to go and occupy yourselves till None."
Realizing that she had said what she had wished to say in so many words during her momentary outburst, Sister Helena shook her head 'no,' and, Mother Anna preceding her out the door, left the room. It was only later that she wondered what might have been different if she had stayed with Mother Clotilde and talked that day.
The rest of the week until Father Brendan arrived passed without any major incident. Sister Helena was still anxious and moody, but she was fortunately kept almost too busy to notice. There were obediences in the kitchen, obediences in the monastery store, and there was even a trip to the local farmers' market on Saturday with Mother Melangell to sell eggs, honey and cheese. Penguin eggs, some of the locals called the produce of the monastery's hens, but Mother Melangell never took it personally. AS they sat at their stall between customers, Mother Melangell confided to her assistant that she had received permission from Mother Clotilde to begin experiment in the art of mead-making.
"That's amazing!" Sister Helena could not contain her excitement.
"I have no idea if it will work, but I've contacted several mead-makers on the internet who have given me a lot of good advice."
"Next you'll get a couple of angora goats and set us all to weaving cashmere shawls and such!"
"We'd need more sisters for that, but yes. It would be lovely for us to do something like that! It costs a lot to keep this place up, and I know that I would rather see it as self-sufficient as it can be."
"True," said Sister Helena. "It's what Father Benedict wanted. We could do more to support the monks too!"
"Yes, exactly! Their situation is less ideal for self-sufficiency. Sometimes I think of them as the Marys and us as the Marthas of our little family."
"Don't let Father Brendan hear you say that!"
"Did I hear my name?" An ulster-accented voice came as if summoned, and Sister Helena soon felt the approach of Father Brendan himself.
"Speak of the--"
"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you, Mother Melangell." He pronounced the Welsh saint's name the correct way, with the soft double-el sound peculiar to that language. Many others in the community did not, but Mother Melangell did not seem to mind it.
"Very well," she said, "but why are you not at Saint Hilda's, Father?"
"I thought I would see if you needed a hand transporting anything home," he said, "but I see you've been doing a fairly brisk trade!"
"Yes," said Mother Melangell. "We should have no trouble getting what's left into the back of the van." Indeed, it was almost time for the market to close, as Sister Helena found out after consulting her Braille watch.
"Can I help you carry things then?"
"That would be quite acceptable, Father. Thank you," said Mother Melangell, and they prepared to go.
They arrived back at Saint Hilda's just before None, and as Sister Helena escorted the Irish monk to the men's guest-house, Father Brendan stopped to greet Mother Anna, who, judging by the direction of her footsteps, was just coming from there.
"Everything's ready for you, Father," she said. "And Sister, you should get back before the bell rings." Thus admonished, Sister Helena left the priest to the ministrations of the Cellarer and went on her way.
It was always an occasion when one of the priests from Saint Caedmon's visited the sisters. This happened usually about once a month, and so was the only Sunday when they could have a Western Rite Mass in their chapel. At other times, they would pile into the van and head to a nearby town where there was a small Russian-style yet English-language parish, called Saint John's, after Saint John the Wonderworker of Shanghai and San Fransisco, who had reposed in the Lord only in 1966. Sister Helena enjoyed it when they went to Saint John's, because it reminded her of the parish in Alanville where she had been baptized and had begun her journey. She wondered if Saint Cuthbert's still existed. She supposed she might find out during her sojourn in the city.
When there was a priest in residence, Mother Clotilde gave way to him in the matter of leading the services of the Divine Office, and this visit was no exception. None proceeded steadily to its conclusion, and then it was time for dinner. When the reading was concluded and there was a little free time to converse, Mother Clotilde asked Father Brendan about his drive up.
"It's still as long as ever," he said, "but the scenery is always lovely to look at. There are purple asters in bloom all along the roadside just now. Even along the highways they're there. It fills one with hope!"
"The father surprised us at the market," said Mother Melangell. "I wondered if he had really stopped in to see us or had come in for something else?" Sister Helena could almost hear the gleam of merriment which must have been in Mother Melangell's eye as she said this.
"Perhaps you'll find out at Recreation, Mother," was all the priest would say.
As it turned out, he had purchased something at the market: a peach pie, which he doled out to all and sundry once they had returned to the refectory after Vespers. There was often tea at Recreation, a tradition carried forward from Saint Caedmon's, but only occasionally did Mother Clotilde permit dessert. The talk was all about the upcoming trip on the morrow, though it mostly concerned the logistics of packing two nuns and their possessions into Father Brendan's tiny car. Sister Helena suddenly realized that in all the hurry and scurry of the week, she had neglected to do much packing. She groaned inwardly at having to do it after Compline, but reflected that at least she did not have a whole lot to bring. There would be her laptop and her Braille display, which was really a small computer in itself, along with what clothing she had, which of course was not much.
"I'm sure you'll manage to fit everything in," said Mother Clotilde, "and everyone." Then, she rang her small bell and, with the exception of Sisters Hannah and Jane, they all filed across to the chapel. The two novices soon caught up, having only stopped to remove the dessert plates and teacups and get them ready for washing, and Compline commenced as it always did, though of course Father Brendan led it.
"Turn us then, O God our saviour," he began,
"And let Thine anger cease from us," the community responded, and so the service went on until the singing of the Salve Regina and the dismissal.
Sister Helena went back to her cell and began packing her things. She had already sent tomorrow's Matins service to Mother Clotilde for printing, and it was saved neatly in her Braille display, so once she had her spare habit, now long-since laundered after the toilet incident, folded as neatly as she could into her suitcase, she suddenly stopped, thinking of when she had come here to stay with that same suitcase. Her mother had driven her, though she had often taken a bus to the nearby town and been picked up by one or other of the sisters when she had come to visit. This time, however, her mother had insisted, and she had been grateful. She had announced her plans rather abruptly over dinner one night, and her family had been very surprised.
"What about your job?" her sister Megan had asked.
"I'm only an adjunct professor," she had said. "All I have to do is not look for a new position when this temporary contract runs out, and that's what I've decided to do."
"Look," her mother had said then. "I know you really like these people, but do you have to go and live with them?"
"It's--it's not about the people," had been her clumsy rejoinder, though now she found herself wondering if that had been the truth, or indeed was the truth now. "It's about more than that."
Her mother had kept her own council for the most part after that, but had told her that she would drive her to Saint Hilda's if she wouldn't mind. She had agreed, and so had Mother Clotilde, and they had made the drive on a rainy Saturday in November.
"You're sure, Nell," her mother had said carefully once they were on the highway, "that this isn't about Kat?"
"I actually don't know," she had said. "I don't think so, but I think that Kat's death has helped to solidify a few things for me."
"It's only been two years! Are you sure you're thinking clearly?"
"I'm doing my best," she had said, "and Mother Clotilde has asked me all these same questions. She doesn't want me going there for the wrong reasons, and besides, at this point, it's only a test. I can leave any time I want without question until and unless I'm admitted as a novice."
"Well, I wish you the best of luck, Nell. I know you'll always do what you think is best. As long as we can talk from time to time, that's all I ask."
"Yes," she had said. "Mother Clotilde does let people talk to their families upon occasion, though it certainly won't be every week."
"I suppose I can live with that," Carolyn Mitchell had said, and they had lapsed into small talk for the rest of the trip.
She had hugged her mother goodbye in the driveway, and then had been escorted to this same cell to stow her clothing and personal things before the next service of the day. By this time, she knew her way between the chapel and the refectory and the guest-house, but she had never been beyond the heavy door which separated refectory and kitchen from the nuns' quarters. She remembered the thrill of entering that door on that long-ago day, and the even bigger thrill when she walked into the chapel and listened to the chanting of the ninth hour, reading along with the service but not chanting herself, and knowing that she was finally here, really here, after all the planning and the waiting. Now, as she finished her packing, she thought how nice it might be to leave for a while, to return to Alanville and possibly to see some of her friends from Saint Cuthbert's and from the parish at Saint Caedmon's. Then there was the placement itself. It would certainly enable her to see a bit of life in the outside world. She knew she should not take joy in this prospect, but she couldn't help it. It would also be lovely to see Father Clement again. Once a professor of Philology and ever a fan of the works of Lewis and Tolkien, he had always been to her a kindred spirit. Suddenly, she straightened and stood still, shocked by something she had not realized before. She could not remember the last time Father Clement had come to celebrate Mass or to hear Confession. Till now, she had figured that he just wasn't free to make the trip, but she found herself now wondering if there was not something more going on. Could he be ill? She pushed the thought away, not wishing to start herself worrying unnecessarily, but it kept recurring to her as she was settling to sleep, and it persisted when the bell called her, this time at 5:55 as it was a Sunday, again from her dreams.
Father Brendan heard Confession between Lauds and Mass. Anyone who wished could go into the chapel and have their sins absolved before taking Communion. Everyone who was not doing Confession was usually engaged in preparing the Collation, the meal after the Mass. This usually involved the heating up of various frozen things and the setting of the refectory table and such. Of course, Mother Melangell was usually not involved, as there was always some farm chore or other for her to do, but anyone else who could be spared was marshalled for the task.
Sister Helena had taken Confession the week before at Saint John's with Father Peter, so she stayed in the kitchen to oversee the oven while Mother Anna went to the chapel. The meal was quite easy to prepare this week, and for once, nothing went wrong, though she remembered the fight there had been for her to be able to assist with kitchen duties other than washing dishes. Mother Anna had eventually relented, but she had been very concerned that Sister Helena might burn or otherwise injure herself in what must be, for a person who couldn't see, a chamber of doom and death. As it was, she had grudgingly accepted the younger woman's presence, but had spent many hours watching her like a hawk until Mother Clotilde had admonished her for it. Now, however, things were better, and Mother Anna had to admit that Sister Helena was a competent cook's assistant.
The meal was very good indeed. The Mass had been refreshing as it always was, and after the meal, there would be Sext. Sister Helena and Mother Anna had already piled their bags in the hall for Father Brendan to pack, so he absented himself from Sext for that purpose. Thus, Mother Clotilde was again in charge of the chanting, and when they had said the Angelus and had concluded the service, she pulled Sister Helena aside and said:
"I know that this will be a challenge for you, but you must watch out for Mother Anna when you're in the city. Your routines will all be different, and you both must be each other's props during this time. Bear ye one another's burdens, as the lesson we just read says."
"It doesn't seem to me that she'll need much watching," Sister Helena replied. "She keeps herself in check very well." She hoped her voice did not sound sarcastic, but it was a faint hope.
"This will be a very hard assignment for her, Sister. Perhaps you'll find out why and perhaps not, but just keep it in mind. Alright? I think you have more in common with each other than either of you knows."
"Yes, Mother. Thank you," said the younger nun, making her way out to the car where her two traveling companions were waiting.
"Well then," said the priest, "here we go," and they all piled into his little Honda and left Saint Hilda's to its works and days.
Saint Caedmon's was located on a very noisy street in Alanville, but by the time the two nuns had shut the door to their basement apartment, much of the noise was left behind. There were three bedrooms in this apartment and the monks had occasionally rented it out, but for now, it stood empty, though it was furnished. Mother Anna picked the bedroom nearest to the door which gave on the stairs to their separate entrance, and Sister Helena, perhaps out of perversity, took the one farthest from it. The living-room area was set up as a prayer room, with a small icon corner with candles and a censor set up on a shelf below the icons and the Saxon cross on the wall. There was also a small kitchen where they could eat meals, though they were permitted to join the monks at dinner and Recreation. Here, there was no chapel bell, so all they could do was remember when the services were supposed to be and do their best not to arrive late. Luckily, the schedule was the same as that at Saint Hilda's, so there was nothing new to memorize. Consequently, at 4:40 PM, Mother Anna roused her companion from her unpacking and they went out and around the other side of the building to the main door, which gave directly onto the church itself.
Sister Helena smiled when she heard Father Clement's lovely voice leading the prayers. So he wasn't ill then. He must be alright if he was still leading services. But why then hadn't he come to Saint Hilda's lately? Usually, he and Father Brendan had taken it in turns to do their priestly duties there. Ah well, she thought, if she was meant to know, she would. In the meantime, there were only a few short minutes of praying and eating until she would be able to speak to the Abbot of Saint Caedmon's, and that filled her with a deep sense of coming home.
Kat had come across the monks because of her work with the local Gregorian Chant society. Though a committed protestant, she had always had a deep love of the ancient Latin form of hymnody, and when she had found that the society's place of rehearsal was in fact both a Benedictine and an Orthodox Christian monastery, she had immediately thought of her friend Ellen Mitchell.
"You have to meet them," she had said. "I think they're right up your street, lass!" They had called each other 'lass' since they had been teenagers obsessed with the Folk music of Ireland and Scotland. She had grudgingly accepted the invitation to attend Vespers and then stay for one of Kat's Chant practices, but even though this diversion was taking her away from her dissertation, now almost ready for her to defend it, when she had met Father Clement, all her annoyance at being distracted had vanished.
Soon after, she had decided to change parishes. Luckily, she had not had any great role in the running of Saint Cuthbert's, unlike her friend Teresa, who was the choir director, and Teresa, who was also blind and whom she had known for some years by then, had only wished her all the best, even though it meant that the choir would lose a voice.
"We'll muddle through," she had said. "You go and find your Benedictines!" She wondered now whether Teresa had suspected that she might end up becoming a Benedictine herself.
"And with our absent brethren," she said. "Amen." Then it was time for dinner.
"Well, Sister of great courage," said Father Clement, making a play on her given name of Ellen Mitchell and what two very similar-sounding words meant in Anglo-Saxon, "how goeth the battle?"
"Well," she said, "I'm interested to begin this new placement. Did you have a hand in arranging it?"
"You might say so, yes," he said, in what seemed to Sister Helena a very cryptic manner. "We're ticking along here as we always have, though I don't think you've met Brother Stephen! He's like you, just waiting to take his full vows."
"I haven't, no, but I thought I recognized a new voice in the choir."
"I'm sure you'll have the chance to talk to him. He's a very interesting young man." Sister Helena suddenly had the absurd thought that Father Clement was trying to set the two young people up on a date, but that was only because whenever anyone in her life in the world had said the 'interesting young man' phrase, it was usually as a prelude to the phrase which Father Clement did not say on this occasion, that being the one about thinking that the two people in question would hit it off.
"Is it not time for Vespers, Father?" It was Mother Anna's voice cutting through the conviviality.
"When I say it is, Mother," came Father Clement's reply. "First, I must prepare the tea for afterward." This was something that only he did. Tea was one of the things he had studied over his long life. Sister Helena sat quietly, listening to the kettle boiling and the water being poured out and fuming. Why did Mother Anna always have to spoil everything? Surely she could have left the question of the time of the services to the monks who lived here. They were only guests, after all. Still, she knew she would never say anything to her elder. The 'great courage' pun on her name was just that, a pun. She knew that most of her anger toward Mother Anna was rooted in the fact that she felt that she could not stand up to her, so she tried to please her, or rather tried not to displease her, instead.
Mother Anna was the oldest of the nuns of Saint Hilda's. She had come from another monastery when Saint Hilda's had only been half-built. She and Mother Clotilde had been largely responsible for whipping the place into its current shape, but it was Mother Clotilde whom Father Clement had named Prioress at first, and then she had been given the rank of Abbess when the monastery had been given its independence from Saint Caedmon's. Mother Anna had known the monks when they had lived in the States, and Sister Helena had often thought that she had been angry at being passed over. Still, she had respected Mother Clotilde, who was almost twenty years her junior, and had done her work well over the years; yet there was always something to pick on, something to carp about, and Sister Helena was sick of it. She could, however, do nothing about it. If she was sick of it, it was her job to put it away, to forgive Mother Anna and to let it go, as Mother Melangell had advised. They were two stones being rubbed together. Alright, so she would do her best to deal with the chips and chafing as best as she could, but it was very hard, and though she was among friends here, she suddenly felt very much alone.
The next day began with the usual reading of Matins psalms in private, then the communal coming-together for Lauds. Father Clement was not present this morning, so Father Brendan took the service without explanation. Then, there was a said Mass and they all took Communion. A hasty breakfast being consumed by the two nuns, they ventured out to the bus stop in order to make their way to the Peace of Christ Hospice. Sister Helena had researched the route, and having traveled much on the Alanville transit system during her previous residence there, she took the lead in planning the trip. They had just time to make it for their appointed start-time of 9:00 AM if all went well. Of course, seeing as this was public transit, all did not go well. First, they had to wait for a bus with room for them, and then, the second bus they needed was not running on time. Still, given everything, they were only fifteen minutes behind schedule. Sister Helena could tell by the sighs and mutterings coming from Mother Anna that she was not best pleased about being so unpunctual, but the supervisors seemed not to mind in the least.
"We keep a rather easy schedule around here," Sister Ursula, the Catholic nun in charge of the hospice's pastoral care department, said as they entered.
"Did this used to be a house?" Sister Helena knew that whatever it had been, it had not been a medical facility.
"It was a convent," said Sister Ursula. "We have largely abandoned convent-living as there are so few of us around now, but yes, I myself was trained here. Now, I'd like you to meet my assistant. She's what we call a lay chaplain. There is a priest who comes to give Communion and Last Rites and such, but Tara is the woman with all the answers in the matter of people of other faiths than ours who come to us."
"You're not just open to Catholics then?" Mother Anna sounded scandalized.
"No," said a soft voice, and Sister Helena heard a brisk step and caught a whiff of lavender as another woman came to stand beside them. This, she thought, must be the promised Tara.
"Sister Helena, Mother Anna, this is Tara McLean!"
"Hello to you both! It's my understanding that each of you will be with either Sister Ursula or myself during your time here."
"Yes," said Sister Ursula. "I had debated between alternating your duties between shadowing the two of us, but I thought it best for consistency's sake for you to be assigned to one of us for the duration. So, Mother Anna, you'll be with me, and Sister Helena, you'll be with Tara. She's also trained as a nurse, so she occasionally performs home visits. Not everyone in our care lives here, as we only have ten beds available, but we do home visits both for pastoral care and in the matter of pain management and such."
"If you like," said Tara, "I can also drive you both between here and the monastery to avoid taking the bus."
"That would be--" Sister Helena began, but Mother Anna cut her off.
"We couldn't ask you to do that, I'm sure," she said. "Besides, the bus ride gives us time to read our Divine Office."
"Oh, that reminds me," said Sister Ursula. "I've arranged for our chapel to be unoccupied at the times your Abbess specified for your reading of the hours."
"That is most kind of you," said Mother Anna, and Sister Helena nodded.
"Right then. Shall we get started?"
Sister Helena was pleased beyond measure when Tara offered her her elbow in order to familiarize her with the layout of the place. So many people took her arm in theirs as though they were gentlemen escorting her to a fancy dinner, but this always made her feel as though she were being pulled along. This woman, at least, knew proper sighted guide technique. When she asked Tara about it at a free moment, she explained that her sister was blind.
"She's married with three kids and works for a small publisher. I'm the bohemian of the family, but it's a good life."
Sister Helena spent the morning observing Tara as she talked with patients and tended to their physical needs as well. She also met Doctor Davidson, the resident prescriber of painkillers and other medicines, though it seemed that he was really a journeyman physician, as he seemed to breeze in and out at what seemed to Sister Helena unpredictable times.
"We're in need of another doctor, but times being what they are, we just can't get one," Tara said by way of explanation.
Soon, it was time for Sext, so Tara took her to the chapel where Mother Anna was already waiting. Together, they said the service without singing, and then Tara took them down the street to a small coffee shop for a bite to eat. Sister Helena could tell that her fellow-nun was feeling very uncomfortable, so she suggested that they get their food to go. Tara readily agreed, and they ate their Bagels in the small garden belonging to the hospice.
"We believe very strongly in the power of nature to calm and to soothe," Tara said as they sat listening to the birds in the trees. This part of the city was less noisy, though the hum of traffic was never wholly absent, as there was an express way nearby. They were sitting on a two-seated swing, Tara and Sister Helena on one seat, and Mother Anna sitting alone and aloof on the seat facing them.
"How did you end up getting into this work?" Sister Helena asked.
"Well, I trained as a nurse at the nursing school here," Tara said, "and I guess I felt that I wanted to be able to do more with my patients than just whatever the doctors allowed me to do. I grew up here and I've been privileged to be able to stay and work here for all of my life."
"I see you have some Muslims here," Mother Anna suddenly interrupted.
"Indeed yes," said Tara. "We've tried to encourage them to come, and many families have done so because they find the hospice approach to end-of-life care more conversant with their own faith. We've also had Jewish residents and clients as well as Hindus, and of course some Orthodox Christians as well."
"And nobody minds?"
"Why should they mind? They're all here for the same reason, and usually the families end up comforting each other rather than quibbling about who's faith is correct."
"Humph," was Mother Anna's reply. "What about you? Are you a Christian?"
"I try to be," Tara said without pretense. "That's about all I can say."
The rest of the day passed in a round of activities, culminating in a long talk which Sister Helena witnessed between Tara and a young woman who was dying of Ovarian Cancer. She was understandably sad about missing her daughter's first birthday, which was very likely to occur after her death, so Tara suggested that they throw a party for the girl early. The woman wasn't sure whether her husband would approve, but she said that she would ask him, and after a rapid conversation conducted by text message, the date of the party was fixed for that Thursday, and Tara agreed to procure the necessary party favours and trinkets, while the husband would be in charge of the presents and the cake. By the time the two nuns were scheduled to leave, the woman was sleeping easily.
As things turned out, Sister Helena came to learn that Monday and Thursdays were Tara's in-house days, while most of the other days she worked were given over to home visits. She enjoyed working with Tara, because though she enjoyed talking, she was not given to asking questions, preferring instead to discuss aspects of work or to gage Sister Helena's emotional reactions to the various patients they met.
"It's important to have a thick skin," she said after a particularly difficult visit with a bed-ridden older man who, it was clear, had only accepted home care as a way to avoid going into a nursing home.
"My son wants you here, Miss," he had said to Tara as she was preparing his sponge bath, "Not me. And as for that penguin, I thought I'd seen the last of those types when I left Saint Brigit's!"
"Then," Tar had said evenly, "I suppose you'll dispense with any spiritual care today?"
"Most definitely! If I want spiritual care, I'll pour myself a scotch!"
"Alright then, Mr. O'Rourke. If you'll just help me turn you over, we can do the needful for you," and that had been that.
"I don't know if I could have dealt with Mr. O'Rourke like that," said Sister Helena as they ate sandwiches in the car. "He reminded me of my grandfather!"
"He's just mad at the world, you know, and we're to hand. That's all. His son really hopes that we can get him to accept a priest's visit before the end, but I really don't know if that's possible."
"He'd probably do bodily harm to a priest if he were strong enough."
"Maybe," said Tara, "but just because you lapse, it doesn't mean you'll stay that way. I went on a merry chase around the windmill of faith traditions in my youth, and wouldn't you know it? I ended up right back where I started." Sister Helena found herself wondering just what that chase had looked like but thought better of asking.
On the day of the birthday party, everyone of the hospice staff contributed something. The baby, who was only six months old at the time, did not have a clue what was happening, but unlike some children at that age, she seemed to enjoy herself thoroughly. There was the obligatory cake-on-the-baby's-hands-and-face photo, and she was given a bit of the frosting to lick, but the rest of the pull-apart cupcake cake was for the adults. Mother Anna refused a piece, and Sister Helena hoped she would not hear about it if she took one, but then decided that she was trying to make the mother happy, and revelled in the abundance of frosting and candies, not to mention the cake itself. Some of the little girl's cousins had come as well, so it was a very happy time indeed. The only cloud came when the mother started to cry and had to be wheeled back to her room, but as Sister Helena found out later, the tears had been mostly of gratitude.
That night after Compline, Sister Helena stayed late to help with the dishes. She and Mother Anna had agreed that they would take turns doing this, and tonight was her shift. Father Clement talked to her while she worked, rinsing the dishes from Recreation and adding them to the dinner dishes already in the dishwasher.
"Is everything going well?" he asked.
"It's really been interesting," she said. "It's all about doing anything you can to calm the person, to get them ready to accept the journey they're on. I mean, I haven't been doing anything like that myself yet, and even if I do, I'm sure I'll not be alone at this stage, but I really do think it's something I'd like to be able to pursue."
"That's good," he said, suddenly sounding very tired. "That's good, Sister. I have the feeling that before too long, you'll get your chance," and leaving her to her work, he went quietly out, only the sound of the cane he used for support betraying the fact of his departure.
Life went on. In fact, three weeks had passed by the time Sister Helena thought to take stock. Tara's job was demanding, and despite her earlier assurance of her own suitability for such a job, Sister Helena was learning that it was not all that it was cracked up to be. Not only were there patients like Mr. O'Rourke who raged against the dying of the light, but there were others like Mrs. Milton who seemed to take no part in her own journey, just letting others do whatever they wanted while she wasted away.
"I don't care," she would say. "It'll be over soon. I don't care."
"She's depressed," said Tara. "She won't admit her feelings about dying, so she hides them away under this nothing, this flatness."
"It's like despondency," said Sister Helena musingly. "Your priests would call it sloth, but it's not mere idleness. Some of the ancient monks call it the noonday devil, like in the psalm."
"But what can be done for her? I've been at this job for fifteen years, Sister, and I must say that I'm at a loss."
"What about music? I've heard her humming sometimes. I think she was humming something Irish at one point."
"Well, we do have a harp therapist on call with us," said Tara. "She's really great. She's blind as well and has a lovely guide dog who's very good around the patients. Her name's Lucy Jordan."
"What?" Sister Helena was astonished. They were sitting in Tara's car after leaving Mrs. Milton's apartment and it was all she could do to keep from having a complete nervous breakdown in front of her mentor. "Lucy Jordan? Really?"
"Yes," said Tara, "really! Like the song."
"No no, I didn't mean that. I mean, I know it's like the song, because we used to joke about it all the time! I didn't know she was in Alanville! I haven't seen her since--since--" her voice trailed away as she fought back a rising lump in her throat, and with a great effort resumed: "I haven't seen her since my best friend's funeral. That's nine years! So she's a harp therapist now? I knew she was a musician."
"Yes," said Tara, "and she's very good with end-of-life stuff. She seems to know just what people need."
"I'd like to see her again!"
"I'll see if Mrs. Milton would like to see her first, but if she does, I'm sure you'll be allowed to come along." As to that, sister Helena wasn't so sure about it as Tara was. She would have to ask Mother Clotilde's permission to see Lucy. Perhaps if it was in a clinical setting, the Abbess would grant that permission, but in the ordinary way of things, seeing an old friend from one's past was not exactly encouraged in the monastic life.
"I'll have to get permission from my Abbess," she said now, her former excitement ebbing as reality set in once more.
"Well," said Tara, "I hope she says yes." Sister Helena hoped so too, but did not dare to look forward to it until she was able to talk to Mother Clotilde.
They still held their weekly meetings by phone, Sister Helena making time at 3:00 PM on Tuesdays as always, and that meeting was due to take place in just a few short hours. Till then, all she could do was wait, possessing her soul in outward, if not inward, patience. This outward calm had always been hers to command, well, except for that one day, the day of Kat Dylan's funeral. She remembered walking into the church of which Kat had been so much a part, an old Presbyterian church which smelled of wood polish and good common sense, and she had thought to hear Kat's voice directing her to a seat, as though it was one of the Lenten Evensong services that the church's choir director--a closet high Anglican she and Kat had always thought him--had presented in the weeks leading up to Easter. But this time, there was only one of the church officials. Was he a verger? No, she thought, but perhaps a warden or something. Anyway, he had taken her hand to guide her to the front of the church to pay her respects. Those words hung in the air after he had said them and echoed in her mind. Then, leading her to where the coffin rested, he left her, but not before placing her hand directly onto the hand of her friend. He had thought he was being helpful; this she had known even as the walls of her control had come tumbling down. It was Kat Dylan's hand, but it was also not her hand. It was a replica, a mannikin's hand, and yet every curve was correct where it lay beside its mate, a bouquet of flowers between them. Of course it's her hand, she had thought. I know it like the back of my hand. It's her hand and she's dead! It's her hand and she's dead! She's dead! She's dead!
"Oh God!" This she had said out loud. Said? No. She had keened. She had keened like some woman of some long-ago tribe might keen for her dead husband or son. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!" She couldn't stop talking and she couldn't stop crying. She was lost and alone, her mother having gone to secure a parking-place. "Jesus Christ! Oh God! Oh fuck!" Yes, she had even said that word in a church. She could hardly feel her body, except where her right hand still lay on that other hand in the coffin. She seemed unable to move. Some part of her mind had known she was in shock, but that knowledge had not helped. In the end, it had been Laurie Dylan, Kat's mother, who had come over and hugged her, taking her away and letting her sob on her chest.
"You're alright, Nell," she had said over and over. "You're alright," and after a while, she was alright. After a while, she had resumed her outward composure and could go on with things.
Lucy had played and sung the Celtic hymn "Be Thou my Vision' as part of the service. Kat had always loved it, though given some of the eulogies about how Kat's eyes would surely be working in heaven and about how she would now be looking down and watching over her loved ones, its words rang more hollow to her than they might have done. She herself had not spoken, but had only sat or stood as the vicissitudes of the service had demanded, and let it pass over her. She knew that this funeral would not really be the end of her grief, but was only the beginning, and so it had proven. She had begun going to Saint Hilda's on weekends and when time permitted, and after speaking to Mother Clotilde on several occasions, she had finally gone there to stay.
Tara's office was small but neat. Tara herself always left Sister Helena alone to conduct her meeting with Mother Clotilde, and today was no exception. She found herself wondering as the phone rang whether Tara had gone to talk to Mrs. Milton or Lucy about harp therapy, but putting that aside, she sat listening to the persistent burr and waiting for her Abbess to answer. When she finally did, the meeting went ahead as usual. Fortunately, there had been no major blow-ups between her and Mother Anna, but then came the time for her to ask her question about Lucy.
"So she's an old friend from school," said Mother Clotilde, "and you'll be seeing her in a clinical setting?"
"Yes," said Sister Helena. "That's right."
"Well," said Mother Clotilde in her carefully logical way, "it isn't usually done, but perhaps it will do you some good, so long as you're not left alone with her."
"I don't think that's going to happen. Tara will be with us the whole time."
"Alright then," said Mother Clotilde. "But be careful. You've been coming close to the edge of something for months now, what that something is will only be decided by you."
"I--I know, Mother," she said, fighting back a sob. "I know. I'll be careful."
"Good. God bless you, Sister!"
"Amen," she replied, and the call ended.
Sister Helena met her friend Lucy Jordan that Friday. Tara picked her up on the way to Mrs. Milton's house and Lucy was just as surprised to see her as she had been to hear Lucy's name.
"I guess you've passed the fateful Lucy Jordan age by now?" Sister Helena tried not to laugh as she said this, but she couldn't help it.
"I have indeed, so we can all breathe a sigh of relief. As for you, you're really a nun! I mean, I'd heard that from someone, but you know how rumours are."
"I'm glad you're still playing the harp, but what about your--partner? What was his name?"
"Paul. Paul Cameron. He passed away in 2012. He had Cancer. So, I had no choice but to crawl home, tail between my legs, and save up money to get an apartment. So much for my funky bohemian lifestyle."
"I remember him at Kat's funeral. He seemed so strong!"
"He was, right up till the end. I met Tara at that time and she told me about harp therapy, so I got myself certified and here I am."
Lucy's guide dog Merlin raised an inquisitive nose to sniff Sister Helena's hand, but at a quiet word from his mistress, he laid his head down again.
"How long have you had him?"
"About five years. He's a lot like Balthazar."
"Yes, I guess he is, though it's been a long time since I've thought about him." Balthazar had been Sister Helena's first and only guide dog, and he had died just about the time she was becoming Orthodox. She had never been able to bring herself to get another dog after him, but she had loved working with him.
When they got to Mrs. Milton's, she was still sitting in her chair, sucking occasionally on her oxygen and letting some TV program about how Donald Trump was the saviour of the American way of life pass her by.
"I've brought the harpist for you, Mrs. Milton," Tara said by way of greeting.
"Alright," came the answer from the depths of the chair, and the Fox News punditry was abruptly silenced. Lucy took some time to get set up, and Sister Helena held Merlin's leash while Tara bustled about doing her nursing duties and also doing a little light cleaning. Sister Helena was surprised that Mrs. Milton wouldn't protest the cleaning, but she didn't, preferring instead to focus on the dog, asking if he was a Golden Retriever and such.
At last, Lucy was set up and she began to play. She began to sing as well, and Sister Helena marvelled at the purity of her voice. It still sounded just as it had when she and Lucy and Kat were all at the school for the blind in nearby Riverton and she had gotten all of the solos in the high school choir. Lucy had been two years younger than herself, and three years younger than Kat, but somehow they had all found each other and had become fast friends in their teens. They had all shared a love of Celtic music as well as Classical, and they had all loved to read. Their friendship had continued into university, though Lucy had not gone to Alanville as had she and Kat, but only Kat had remained in touch with Lucy after she had met Paul Cameron. She had been getting into some strange things at that time, and this new guy, an artist who was almost twice Lucy's age, had been the last straw for Ellen Mitchell. Now here she was again. And what was she singing?
The music had been going on in the background for some time with her not noticing what it was, but as she listened, she realized it was a setting of the poem 'The Hound of Heaven' by Francis Thompson. This surprised her greatly, as the last thing she thought she'd ever hear from Lucy Jordan was a song with a Christian theme, except of course when requested by a friend for her funeral. The song being over, Mrs. Milton suddenly applauded.
"That's wonderful! I've never heard anything like it! Will you come again?"
"I can," said Lucy. "I can come next Friday. Can you wait till then?"
"Sure!" said the old lady in as strong a voice as Sister Helena had heard yet.
"And Tara will keep coming in to make sure you're alright."
"I know. That's what Debbie wants. It's alright."
"But what do you want?" This was from Tara.
"I want to hear that song again," Mrs. Milton replied quickly, "but I can wait till next Friday."
"Good," said Tara. "That's settled then!" And it was. Sister Helena noticed a definite change in Mrs. Milton from that time on. She couldn't believe that music had accomplished it.
"Sometimes it's all someone needs," said Lucy later. "Even if a person does not have Alzheimer's, they can somehow disengage from things. Sometimes, that's part of dying, as you know, but sometimes, it's just their way of protecting themselves from the truth."
"Is she no longer protecting herself then?"
"I don't know, Sister," Tara put in. "Only time will tell if we're getting through to her about the fact that she's going to die. But, we will hopefully be able to do so before the end. The going is easier that way."
"Will you be there next Friday?" Lucy asked as she got out of the car at her apartment building.
"I guess so," said Sister Helena, "but I guess one never knows." And as it turned out, she was right.
Against her better judgment, Sister Helena had accepted Lucy's phone-number, and when Mother Anna told her later that evening that she was going to accompany Father Brendan to Saint Hilda's for the monthly Mass and to look over food supplies and such, she hatched a plan which would end up changing everything. Waiting till the other nun was in bed, she used the phone in the little apartment to call Lucy.
"Listen," she said, almost whispering, "Do you want to come for tea tomorrow?" Suddenly, her palms started to sweat. Was she actually nervous about this call? Of course she was. She was nervous because the Nell part of her was the one making the call, not the Sister Helena part. She wondered if the two would ever be made whole, but for now, all she wanted was to see her old friend again and to ask her about that song she had played.
"Is it--is it allowed?"
"Oh yes." What was she doing? Was she actually lying now? Still, it was too late to turn back now. "I'm allowed to have guests for a couple of hours on the weekend, and besides, the nun who is on the placement with me will be gone for the weekend, so it'll be just us." There it was. She had said it. She had explicitly decided to go against Mother Clotilde's injunction against privacy, and despite her nervousness, she found that most of her just didn't care.
"Well," said Lucy, "if it's alright, then sure! Can you tell me what buses to take? They discussed bus routes and arranged a time for Lucy to be there, and then Sister Helena, if she was indeed still Sister Helena in truth, hung up the phone and went to sleep.
Mother Anna left with Father Brendan at eleven the next morning. Father Clement took Sext forty-five minutes later, and Sister Helena returned to what was rapidly coming to be her den of iniquity to set things right for Lucy's arrival. Really, she thought as she wiped down the kitchen table and other surfaces with a damp cloth, it's only tea and cookies. What could be wrong with that? What could be wrong was that if Mother Clotilde found out, she would have every right to stop her receiving Communion for a number of weeks, or could even delay her vows, which were due to be taken on the Julian-calendar feast of the Annunciation in April. She had been admitted as a novice on that feast-day, and it would be sad to delay the taking of her final vows just because she had had tea with a friend. Still, it wasn't the tea, it was the permission. Just like Adam and Even in the garden, it was not the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil that was the problem; it was the fact that they took it without permission and that they justified themselves rather than simply admitting what they had done. But then, was that really a good analogy? Was Saint Hilda's an Eden to be cast out of?
"You have been on the edge of something for months now," Mother Clotilde had said. No. If she was going to be cast out of paradise, it would be herself and no one else who would be doing the casting. By the time she had thought better of her plan, however, she knew that Lucy was already well on her way, and it was pouring rain outside, and so she let things take their inevitable course.
In the event, the afternoon was extremely fun for Sister Helena. The two drank cup after cup of strong tea and ate cookies that Lucy had brought. Merlin, grateful to be out of the rain, lay contentedly under the table, and the talk went on and on and on and on. It turned out that Lucy was now a Christian. In fact, she was attending services at Saint Cuthbert's of all places.
"I wish you could come for Liturgy sometime," she said.
"Yeah, I don't think I'll be able to, unless something really extraordinary happens. They expect me to be at services."
"I'm sure they do," said Lucy, "and do they really let you have guests for a couple hours on the weekend? I can't believe that they would."
"Well, no, but I was feeling lonely. Can't a person feel lonely?"
"Do you really want to continue in this--this life?"
"I honestly don't know," she said, and then she was crying on Lucy's shoulder, her usual outward quietude shattered under the full brunt of this realization. "I just don't know!"
"Well, maybe starting from that point is better than breaking the rules, eh? Are you done your tea?"
"Yes," she said, "and the cookies were really good."
"Okay then," said Lucy, assuming the same sort of counselling tone that Tara and Mother Clotilde often commanded. "Why don't I get out of your hair? I'll likely see you at Mrs. Milton's on Friday, and we'll take things from there."
"Yeah," she said, sniffing and searching for a tissue. "Alright, I guess that makes the most sense."
"Okay. I'll see you Friday, right?"
"Right. Bye, Lucy!" And after a vigorous shake of Merlin's head as he rose and righted himself, the two were off as if they had never been. They had been there though, and Sister Helena would have to set about ridding the apartment of their presence as well as she could before Mother Anna's return. She did some of that to clear her head before None, but the rest she would have to do after Sext the next day. At dinner, however, something happened that changed all her plans.
The meal itself was eaten in the usual way, Father Clement reading from a sermon by Saint Augustine, but as he stood up to lead the prayer after the meal, he suddenly seemed to crumple at the knees and go down. Sister Helena could do nothing but stay out of the way while Brother Stephen, whom she had now gotten to know but had never seen in a crisis, took over.
"He's alright," he said. "He's not unconscious and I don't think it's a stroke. I think I know what it is. There's a number we're supposed to call when he gets like this. Can you do it, sister? It's 555-1212, and don't forget the area code."
"What about 911?"
"We'll try this number first. Tell whoever answers that he's collapsed but he's not unconscious and that he's shaking."
"Okay," and she went to the phone on the wall between the office and the kitchen.
"Hello?" Sister Helena was almost speechless.
"Tara?"
"Yes, this is Tara McLean. How can I help you?" Then, presumably looking at her caller ID: "Sister Helena? Is Father Clement alright?"
"Um," she began lamely, "he's collapsed, but he's not unconscious. He's shaking and Brother Stephen is tending him."
"Alright. I'll be right over. Don't move him!" And she hung up.
"She's coming right over," Sister Helena said. "She'll be here soon. We're not to move him."
"Of course not," said Brother Stephen. "We'll just monitor his condition from here." She was struck by the clinical terminology.
"Were you a paramedic or something?"
"Something like that," he said. "I was a medic in Afghanistan. I came back and rented that apartment you're in now for a bit, but I kept having problems with PTSD and such, got into drugs and ended up on the streets. I got into several messes that Father Clement helped me out of, and eventually I was baptized and decided to come here and be a monk."
"I bet there's more to the story than that," she found herself saying.
"Sure there is," said a voice from the floor. The shaking had subsided but Father Clement made no effort to move. "You'll know it if you need to know it. Now. Did you call Tara?"
"Yes they did," said Tara's own voice as she entered without ceremony, evidently used to coming and going as needed.
"Now then, Father! How many times have I told you that if you have a fever, you should stay in bed?"
"Too many to count," he said, "but it seemed like it was only slight earlier today."
"As it is," she said, proceeding to examine him, "I think it's easing off, but you'll have to be in bed for a while. If I could, I'd take you to the hospice right now, but knowing Brother Stephen as I do, I know you're in good hands."
"Don't worry," said the young monk. "I'll stay with him."
"It'll not be long now, Father," Tara said in a voice that Sister Helena was certain was not meant to be overheard. "We're coming to it at last. Eh?"
"Yes, we certainly are," he said, "and I guess Sister Helena might as well know just why she's really here."
"Right," said Tara, "but first Stephen and I will get you into bed," and each of them taking him by an arm, she and the former medic supported the Abbot of Saint Caedmon's to what Sister Helena now knew would be his deathbed.
"I've left Stephen to see to his needs," Tara said when she came back.
"There's still some dinner going spare if you'd like it," said Sister Helena, unsure of what else to say.
"That would be lovely."
"Now," said Sister Helena as she helped the nurse to some soup and bread, "what's all this about why we're really here?"
"You're here to help Father Clement to die at home. You're here to practice what you've learned in your course while helping to manage his end-of-life care."
"But what is it? What does he have?"
"Leukaemia, and the Cancer has spread to his bones. The Chemo he has been taking has also suppressed his immune system, so he's susceptible to any number of little infections. He comes on feverish at the drop of a hat."
"Did Mother Clotilde know about this?"
"Yes," said Tara. "I have no idea why she kept it from you. It may not be the end just yet. we'll only know that in the morning, but if it is, you'll no longer be going with me on my rounds, because my rounds will be here."
"But why would you need us to help you?"
"It's not about you helping me. It's about you being able to do your jobs when it's someone you know. This will be a good test for you."
"More like an ordeal by fire." The words came tumbling out before she could bite them back.
"Fire purifies and tempers. Doesn't it?"
"Yes," Sister Helena said, suddenly feeling very tired indeed, "but it also consumes."
"Why don't you go to bed? I'll stay on a bit here and then lock up when I leave."
"No. There are still Vespers and Compline to do. Will you say them with me?"
"Very well," said Tara, and the two went into the church.
"Father Clement isn't well," she said to the few parishioners gathered there, "and I doubt we'll be able to have a Mass here tomorrow either."
"Should we go?" asked one.
"No. we'll say Vespers at least, and if any of you wish to stay for Compline, you may."
As it was, no one decided to stay for Compline, for which Sister Helena was eternally grateful. They all filed out the outer door of the church, while she and Tara returned through another door to the refectory and kitchen area. As at Saint Hilda's the cells of the monks were separated from this area by a heavy door, and it creaked now as Brother Stephen came in.
"He's sleeping now," he said. "The Oxys are doing their work. He didn't want to take them, but I knew he was in a lot of pain, and he finally said he would."
"Were you alright with that, Brother?" Tara evidently knew his history.
"I was alright, though it took a lot of praying and deep breathing to get through it. Should you perhaps stay on-site tonight, Tara?"
"There's a room downstairs," Sister Helena put in. "Even if Sister Anna were here, there would be a room."
"Yes," said Tara. "Perhaps it makes sense. I have my cell phone if I'm needed somewhere else, but I doubt I will be." So, after Compline, Sister Helena and Tara adjourned to the erstwhile den of iniquitous meetings and got ready for sleep. All of a sudden, the elicit meeting with Lucy just didn't seem to matter anymore. Still, she hoped she would be able to explain herself if anyone asked, explain herself and not justify.
There was no Mass the next morning. Father Clement was still feverish and unable to get up for Matins or Lauds. Tara went to sit with him while Sister Helena and Brother Stephen performed the services. She being the more accomplished liturgist, he asked her to take the lead. She inwardly blessed him for this, because it enabled her to distract herself from Father Clement's condition and from last night's revelations about it with the simple and soothing act of saying one psalm verse after another. Brother Stephen read anything that she could not readily find for herself, and all was well for the most part.
"I guess I'll get the sign out," he said as they left the church after Lauds.
"Sign?"
"Yes. The one that says no Mass today. We've had to use it rather a lot lately."
"And do the parishioners know how sick he is?"
"Some of them do, but not everyone. I suppose we'll have to tell them soon."
And what about me? When were you going to tell me? Sister Helena was suddenly seething with pent-up fury. He had been the one to give her the confidence to even try this monasticism thing, and he hadn't had the decency to tell her that he was sick? They could have prayed for him or come and visited. She was beside herself thinking about all the opportunities missed. But why hadn't he told her, or anyone else for that matter? She had never suspected Father Clement of being an overly proud person or a person who could not ask for help. So what had been the thinking between himself and Mother Clotilde? Had the other nuns known but not her? Had Mother Melangell known? Surely she would have told her if she had, unless of course she was told not to by Mother Clotilde. Was it all some big conspiracy for her sake? And if so, then what was it meant to accomplish?
"Should we go to Saint Cuthbert's?"
"We usually do when there's no Sunday Mass. The sign says for the people to go there anyway, but I think today, it's better to stay here." Sister Helena had to agree with him. "I think so too."
"I've already called Mother Clotilde to tell her what happened, so Father Brendan and Mother Anna will be up-to-speed when they get here."
"Alright," said Sister Helena. "I'll wait and see if anyone's going to come by and pick up the meals they left here last night."
"I don't think they will. They'll probably think we'll find them useful in the coming days, and they'll probably be right."
"Still," she said, "I'll wait for a bit after you've put out the sign."
There were a couple of people who came by to collect their frozen meals in order to take them to Saint Cuthbert's, but as Brother Stephen had suspected, most people left their offerings for the use of the monastics. So, having nothing else to do, she decided to put the kettle on for tea.
"Is that a kettle I'm hearing?" Tara had come in just as the water began to sing. "I could use some tea and a little something to eat if you have it."
"There's the pound cake we were going to have for dessert last night. It's one of those little Costco jobs."
"Oh those are lovely! Yes! I'll have some of that!" Sister Helena set about cutting two slices of cake in the kitchen and by the time she had put them onto plates, the kettle had boiled.
"I think I'll just use teabags," she said, "in mugs. I wouldn't want to ruin Father Clement's oh-so-perfectly-seasoned teapot."
"That's fine by me. He seems to be rallying a bit, but I don't know if he'll get up again before the end." Sister Helena was always taken aback by the matter-of-fact tone that hospice-workers used when describing impending death. "How long the end will be though is anybody's guess. And, I could be absolutely wrong about his not getting up again. It's all a very mysterious dance of body and mind, and I suppose, soul."
"You suppose? Don't you believe in the soul?"
"I do," she said, "but we have no studies about its role in the process of dying. All I can say for certain is that if the mind does not buy into the process, it takes longer and is more difficult for the body to deal with."
"Well," said Sister Helena as she passed Tara her cup, "he's had one foot in eternity since I met him. He's always talked about it, just talked about it as if it was real. I mean, it is real, but most of us don't talk about it like that. You know?"
"I do indeed, and you're right. He'll go when it's time, but I think he'll have a bit more to do before he goes. He just seems like that kind of person, the kind that makes some gesture or does something memorable before the end."
"Or he could just stay in a drug-induced haze for the rest of his life." Sister Helena found herself almost spitting the words. "Do you know why no one told me about this?"
"No," said Tara, "I don't. But you know it now, so you'd better make your mind up to it as soon as you can. Being angry about what's past won't help anything."
"I know, but I wish I could figure it out all the same."
"For now, why not drink your tea?"
She did so, letting the warm brew slide down her throat to mix with the sweet and slightly buttery taste of the store-bought pound cake, and for a moment, she was happy.
Mother Anna was subdued on her return to the basement apartment. She only gave Sister Helena the shortest of greetings before retiring directly to her cell to read. Granted, this was what they always did on Sundays, but with everything that was happening, Sister Helena could not help imbuing this quick retirement with layers of hidden meaning. Perhaps, she thought irrationally, Mother Anna had seen some sign of Lucy's presence the day before and was avoiding her until she was able to address the issue without anger. Or perhaps she was feeling guilty about being a party to the conspiracy of silence surrounding Father Clement's failing health. The last thing on her mind was that the older nun was simply seeking quiet and solitude to deal with the Abbot's sudden turn for the worse, though a more logical part of her mind kept trying to insist that this really must be the case.
They both went to the chapel for None, but Sister Helena had to tell Mother Anna three times that it was time for service. It was unlike Mother Anna to sleep during the day, but she appeared to have been doing so today. However, she was her usual self during the service and the simple dinner they had afterward.
"Everyone," Father Brendan said after the meal was concluded, "I think it's time to prepare for Father Clement's departure. If he does not rally in the next three days, Tara has told me that it would be a good idea to send for the other nuns and to begin keeping vigil for him. Though we are in separate monasteries, we are and always have been a family, so I want you to marshal your strength and get ready. This will be a trying, but I hope a holy time for everyone concerned."
Vespers and Compline passed as usual and again they came to the salve Regina. Both Saint Caedmon's and Saint Hilda's typically sang it in the Solemn Chant tone, but just now, Sister Helena longed to hear the more popular version, the one that seemed to drop sweetness from every note, soothing even as it made supplication. She did not relish the thought of returning to the apartment with Mother Anna. For one thing, she had the continual urge to tell her about Lucy's visit, but she was scared of what the nun might say or do. For another, she had felt like she was on the verge of crying all day, and didn't want to let go in front of the older woman. She supposed that it was because Mother Anna seemed to be made of equal parts whale-bone and piano-wire. She seemed to be able to stand up to anything, and beside her, Sister Helena always felt much younger than her years. She knew this to be a form of pride, but was unable to get past it no matter how hard she tried. Ah well, soon enough the thinking had been replaced with doing, and she was actually in the apartment with Mother Anna, and all that happened was that the two of them took turns brushing their teeth in the small bathroom and then betook themselves to their several cells for nighttime prayer and, at least in Sister Helena's case, some much-needed sleep.
They had now been a month at Saint Caedmon's, but nothing was as it had been before. By Wednesday of the week after Father Clement's collapse, it was apparent that Tara had been right. He had begun sinking, as she put it, and on Thursday, the nuns from Saint Hilda's all descended on Alanville and almost immediately set up a rota for who would be reading the psalms when. Even Mother Melangell had come, leaving the farm to the care of a trusted neighbour for a few days. Meanwhile, Father Clement's bed had been moved into the central room of the non-cloistered area of the monastery, and Father Brendan had then erected a screen to divide the room into refectory and sick-chamber. The move had been effected so that parishioners could come to pay their respects without entering the cloister. Not all the people of the parish came, but many did, though they never stayed more than five minutes at a time, Tara having made this a cardinal rule of the makeshift hospice. She herself remained in the apartment, or her sleeping things did at any rate. Getting her to actually use the bed that was hers was another matter entirely. The nuns only took small naps, doing it wherever they could, on chairs or sofas, or even at the refectory table.
Sister Helena took it by turns to read psalms and to assist Tara in talking with anyone who needed a friendly ear. Mostly, it was the parishioners who wished to talk, but occasionally one or other of the nuns or monks came to bare their souls as well. Sister Helena longed for a chance to speak with Mother Clotilde in private, but that woman was too busy running the death-watch as though it were a British naval vessel. Finally, however, she did take Sister Helena into the church when none of the services of the day were being performed and sat next to her on a pew.
"I know these past few days have been shocking for you," she began, but could get no further.
"Shocking? Shocking? I've been kept in the dark about things I should have been told about," Sister Helena almost yelled. "Who else has known about this illness? Has everyone known? Or just you?"
"I'm afraid that everyone has known, Sister, except you."
"But why?"
"We all knew of your regard for him," the Abbess tried to say, but a new voice broke in, curt and blunt as a small hammer.
"I urged them not to tell you." It was Mother Anna. "I thought you were too fragile at the moment to hear it."
"Fragile? Fragile?"
"Yes," said Mother Anna, taking the pew across the isle. "I thought we needed to wait to tell you, and Mother Clotilde agreed."
"But that's not like you, Mother," Sister Helena said, speaking to the Abbess rather than to Mother Anna. "You don't shy away from hard things!"
"No, but when it comes to a person under my pastoral care, I do what is needful. Do you think that none of us have noticed your behaviour over the past few months? You've been spiritually ill, my girl, and it's times like this when we have to be very careful. For example, what did you do this weekend?"
"What did I do this weekend? Nothing!"
"You're lying to me, Sister," said Mother Clotilde sadly. "Do you wish to proclaim your sister in charity, Mother Anna?"
"I'm afraid I must," the Cellarer of Saint Hilda's said gravely, but Sister Helena was sure that she must be smiling just a little bit under her wimple. "I believe she had someone to visit while I was gone. I found dog hairs on the carpet."
"Was it your friend Lucy?" There was no point in denying it now, Sister Hilda thought, but she hardly knew what to say.
"Yes it was," she finally managed. "I called her and made the date for tea on Saturday. She actually asked if it was alright, and I said that it was. I know it was wrong, and I'm sorry."
"What? No justifications?" Mother Anna seemed suddenly furious. "No excuses that old Mother Anna is too mean?"
"Mother," said the Abbess sternly, "please!"
"No, Mother," the nun said. "We've all been tiptoeing around this one for too long! Even I fell into her trap and look what happened? She went behind your back and did something she was not permitted to do and then failed to confess it of her own will! I don't care if she's your favourite or Father Clement's little friend. Why was she ever let into this community in the first place?"
"Why were you?" Mother Clotilde said evenly. "Because you had a calling, Mother. You both have that thing, that drive to be in this life. Sister Helena's candle is almost out, but it has not yet been extinguished. I think you can still make your full vows, Sister, if you'll just stop acting out!"
"Yes," said Mother Anna, "and she'll soon have me put out to pasture!"
"What? Why would I ever want that?" Sister Helena was absolutely astonished.
"Because I'm not good at anything compared to you. everyone knows it, and I'm the oldest nun here, so of course I'll be told that I'm not needed anymore."
"Mother Anna," said the abbess, "everyone's nerves are on edge just now. This is hardly the time to discuss this, but I will tell you that there are no plans to put you out to pasture, as you say. Certainly Sister Helena would not have plans like that, and if she did, she has no authority to execute them."
"Of course not," Sister Helena said. "But do you want to know why I try so hard to be good at everything I do? It's because of people like you who always try to make out that I'm to be treated like I'm made of glass and can't do things for myself."
"And why do you do that, Mother?" Mother Clotilde's former life as a practicing psychologist was coming into play now.
"I just--well--I can't imagine how I would cope if I couldn't see. It frightens me to see you trying something that I can't imagine myself doing without sight. I never want to see you hurt, Sister." This came out in a surprisingly tender tone that made Sister Helena's heart melt a little.
"I guess I never thought of it that way," she said. "I always figured that you were trying to take me down a peg or two."
"Well," said Mother Anna, "sometimes you say things that I just don't understand. You're much more educated than I am. All of you are, and it's hard to fit in sometimes. Sometimes I feel alone even when you are all around me, because you talk about things that I just don't know about."
"We should not be doing that," said Mother Clotilde, "it's true, but you can always ask about what we're talking about. We'd be happy to tell you about whatever it is."
"I thought that if you knew about Father Clement," Mother Anna said now to Sister Helena, "you'd worry and agonize about it until you felt you had no choice but to leave us. You were already in such a bad way. I didn't want you to leave us, not really, but I'm also jealous of you, I'm afraid. I thought you might over-react if you knew."
"Do you think I'm some sort of a drama queen?" Sister Helena knew that she was being extremely hypocritical at the moment, but she plunged on anyway. "I love Father Clement, yes, but I think I'm old enough to handle news like that without getting all soppy about it."
"Well, as it is," said Mother Clotilde, "it wasn't Mother Anna's recommendation that I followed in this case. It was that of Father Clement himself. He didn't want to worry about what knowing about this might do to. you. It is all quite moot now, and hopefully he'll talk to you about it before the end."
There it was again, that phrase: 'before the end.' Everyone used it. Tara herself had used it many times in the past few days, but when would the end be? No one could really tell. Would the nuns finally go home again if Father Clement lingered too long? What, really, was going to happen, and where did she fit into it all?
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, Sister," said Mother Clotilde.
"And I'm sorry I told her not to tell you," said Mother Anna.
"I'm sorry about Lucy's visit, Mother. I will try to correct myself with the grace of God."
"So will we all, my child," said Mother Clotilde. "So will we all."
"Did I hear my name?" It was Lucy's voice, and Sister Helena could hear her manoeuvring her harp through the church door that gave onto the street. "Tara asked me to come. She thinks I might be of some use."
"Indeed I do," said Tara. "He's becoming restive. Perhaps the harp might soothe him a bit and give the medication a chance to work."
"Mother Clotilde," Sister Helena said, "this is Lucy Jordan."
"It is good to meet you, Lucy. Sister, will you return to your cell?"
"I will, Mother," said Sister Helena, and saying a quick goodbye to Lucy at which she was sure the Abbess must have frowned, she walked out the main church door and around to the separate apartment entrance. She knew that she was expected to read or to pray having been sent to her cell like that, but even through the floor she could hear the rippling strains of Lucy's lovely Celtic harp, and she longed to be up there listening as the others did. Still, she knew that being here was the right thing for her. She had to get over this attachment to Lucy and to think about the implications of her disobedience in having her come for what seemed like an innocent visit. Pretty soon, however, what with the argument, the long day and the lovely music, she found herself nodding where she sat, and decided to get some sleep.
In fact, the end came quickly for the Abbot of Saint Caedmon's. The nuns had almost decided to return to Saint Hilda's by Saturday, for there had not been any further change for better or for worse in Father Clement. He had spoken with people a few times, even apologizing to Sister Helena for not letting anyone tell her how sick he was.
"It was foolish and fond of me," he had said, his strong voice now muffled to a ghost of its former self, "and I'm sorry."
"It doesn't matter now," she had said, and she had come to realize that it really didn't. "You did what you thought was best. That's all anybody can do."
"You will take your vows, yes?"
"I hope so," she said.
"And I hope you get the name you want. I hope you get Evangeline!"
"You remember that? I'd forgotten I told you about that!" She had in fact told him about it long before she had actually entered the religious life.
"If I could be a nun," she had said, "I think I would want to be named Sister Evangeline."
"Really? Whatever for?" he had asked.
"Because it's just a great name! It's about the Annunciation and about how Mary had to respond to the good news before it was made real. She could always have said no, after all, and if she had, what would have happened then?"
"So you'd use it as a reminder to yourself not to say no?"
"Something like that," she had said, and that had been the end of it.
Now though, it was Monday again, and he had lapsed into the semi-consciousness that often attends people who are in the process of dying. Tara assured all assembled that he was not in any pain, but that all his energy was being focused on his final hours. Father Brendan performed the Anointing of the Sick, which most Catholics call The last Rites, and Father Clement had been able to receive Communion, but now, all they could do was wait.
Lucy came again at Tara's summons, and while they burned incense and read psalms and said prayers, Lucy played her harp and Sister Helena avoided being near her as much as she could. Finally, however, she was unable to avoid her anymore and she went and sat at her feet, listening to the thrumming vibrations of the harp and the rippling of its notes. Then came Lucy's voice, raised in a lovely Gaelic song called the dream-song. Sister Helena was certain that she heard Father Clement sigh when it was finished, and then came what is commonly called the death-rattle, and then there was nothing else. The death-watch was ended; now the corpse-watch would begin.
The body was moved to a funeral parlour so they could perform the needful tasks, but even there, the psalm-reading went on and Father Kevin from saint Cuthbert's came and chanted a Panikhida, a memorial service used in the Eastern Orthodox jurisdictions. Sister Helena was in attendance at that time, and she and her former choir director Teresa helped the priest with the service, Sister Helena not singing if she did not know a hymn-tune.
"It was good to sing with you again, Sister," Teresa said when they had left the viewing-room. "How have you been?" What on earth could Sister Helena say to that?
"Well," she said, "it's been hard, but I'm doing pretty well."
"I hope you're telling me the truth," Teresa said. "You'd say that you were doing pretty well if a bear had just come along and chewed off your arm. You're like the black knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail! 'Tis but a scratch!"
"Yes," said Sister Helena, "I know, but I mean it. Considering the alternative, I'm doing pretty well."
"Alright then," said Teresa. "I'd better go. Father Kevin's waiting. Did you have a chance to speak with him?"
"Briefly, but I could tell that he was tired. Still, it was good of him to do this for Father Clement."
"Well, he was always really happy to have a Western Rite parish in Alanville. He loved Father Clement as we all did."
"I suppose so. Well, I guess I can't say that I'll see you around, but I hope you keep well," said Sister Helena.
"I hope you do too," said Teresa, "and I hope someone can still hit you on occasion to keep your mind on the music!" Teresa had been one to use her hands to tell you what to do when you were in her choir. Sister Helena had resented these small taps at the beginning, but before she had left Saint Cuthbert's she had come to think of them as gentle proddings of the Holy Spirit, or at least as representations of the same.
"Oh, there are plenty of taps to go around, and plenty of times that I need them. Thanks again!" And they parted.
The funeral was performed at Saint Caedmon's, but the body was to be taken to Saint Hilda's for burial. Mother Clotilde had just finished getting all the paperwork done for the monastic cemetery which they had constructed on the grounds over the last couple of years. Not everyone was able to make it to the burying, but all the nuns were there along with Father Brendan, and when they had finished, a peculiar thing happened to Sister Helena. She suddenly found herself at peace. It had been a good death, she thought, the sort of death that everyone should have. It had also happened to coincide with the date of Kat Dylan's death and had hallowed it somehow. She did not know if she would always feel this way or whether the feeling was true or something dreamed up by her own mind, but she hoped it was true, because it would make the next six months or so much easier while she waited to take her final vows.
"It'll take a while for the stone," said Mother Clotilde later after Vespers, "but it will be good that he can be buried among his own."
"Did he not have any living relatives?" asked Mother Melangell.
"No," said Father Brendan. "He only had God and us. Now, we only have God."
"But you'll keep things going," said Mother Myriam. "Of that I have no doubt."
"Only time will tell," said the priest. "He really was the heart and soul of Saint Caedmon's."
"It was fitting that there was harp music at the end," said Mother Clotilde. "Caedmon was a harper and poet, after all."
"So he was," said Father Brendan. "So he was! I hope we'll see more of Lucy Jordan down our way."
"Oh," Sister Helena said, "I expect you will. She's still looking for baptism, and she wishes to become Orthodox. I know I likely won't see her again, but I hope you will."
Father Brendan served Mass for them the next day and then took his way home. Sister Helena went on with her life, now returned again full-time to Saint Hilda's. Mother Clotilde wasn't sure if they should continue the hospice work or not, so she decided to leave it in God's hands while everyone settled back into the accustomed round of work and prayer once more. Before long, Sister Helena did take her final vows and became Mother Evangeline. They had put three names into the chalice: one of her choosing, one of Mother Clotilde's choosing, and one that was voted on by all of the other sisters, and Evangeline was the one that was drawn. She was soon made mistress of novices, and she saw both Sisters Hannah and Jane to the next stage of the process. Time passed and not much changed. Then, all of a sudden, something did.
Mother Evangeline placed her hand on the weathered stone marking the grave of Father Clement and sighed. Now there's another stone to join this one, she thought, moving carefully to the next grave. This stone was newly-polished and its etching could quite clearly be felt. Mother Evangeline traced the letters with her fingers, pausing to read the date: December 15, 2021. It seemed that Covid had crept even to Saint Hilda's. Fortunately, there had only been the one casualty, but they were struggling in so many ways because of this pandemic. She had worked right up until the end though, thought Mother Evangeline. She had never been put out to pasture, and despite the fact that she had died in a hospital and that none of them had been allowed to read psalms or say prayers at her bedside, Mother Anna's death had been quick and without the need for a ventilator.
"Whatever happens," she said to the stone or to the body lying beneath it, "we'll keep singing the services and doing our work, Mother. We can do that much for you and for Father Clement. Mother Melangell's got some new projects on the go, and Sister Genevieve is really coming along in the kitchen. Of course, she's not a patch on you, but she'll get there in the end I'm sure. Thank you, Mother Anna. You were my mirror all those years ago. You helped me to see myself as I truly was, and you showed me that not every bitter pill is harmful. As for me, I'll wait here and do my work until eternity comes to meet me." And with that, she turned, following the sound of the bell. It was time once again to join the others for the Work of God.
The End