And Then There Were Nuns (15 page)

“No sex. None today,” he repeated.

Should I lob back something equally risqué such as, “Well, I'm not so sure of that. There are eight monks here after all, so it might be one of my busier days.”

Or should I play it straight and just nod? Give a loud huff of indignation and stomp off to my cell?

I glanced across the table at the other two guests to gauge their reaction to Benedict's comment, but both were nodding their heads and pursing their lips in a thoughtful, avuncular way while slurping their cereal.

I looked at Benedict again, then back at my cereal bowl. Was he referring to his sex life or to mine? Was this sort of talk indulged at a monastery or just at this particular one? A wave of panic surfed through me as I ran down a mental checklist of what I could recall from the monastery's website. Had I missed something? Perhaps some fine print? Had I inadvertently handed myself over to a sex cult?

I closed my eyes to make it look as if I was saying grace, hoping to buy time before I had to respond.

I heard Benedict sliding a piece of paper toward me. I gave it a sidelong glance. The message was printed in Father Nicholas's hand:
“No Sext, None today.”
Sext and none are brief offices—sext is usually around 9:00 a.m.; none (pronounced no-n) is around noon.

I nodded curtly and set my lips in a serious expression hoping Benedict would interpret it as, “Yup, thanks, got it the first time.” Inwardly, however, I was screaming hysterically:
You moron! Can you imagine the fallout had you unbuttoned that great gob of yours and blurted out something inappropriate? And you want to be a nun? Do you think a nun hears the words “sext” and “none”—even when they're not correctly pronounced—and immediately thinks of “not getting any”?

Sadly, the incident wasn't an isolated one. I adore British accents, but despite having an English beau for several years, my ears were not completely trained.

Later that morning, I had an exchange with the elderly Scottish priest who was visiting. It went something like this:

“So, you're returning to Glasgow tomorrow, Father?” I asked.

“Rover,” he replied with a smile.

“Pardon?”

“Rover,” he repeated, louder but not any clearer.

“Your name is Rover?”

“Brother,”
someone finally interjected wearily. “He's telling you that he's a brother.”

“Oh, you're not a priest then?” I continued blithely. “You're wearing the collar of a priest, and I just assumed...”

“The line,” he said, pointing a shaky finger to what, to my eyes at least, appeared to be a faint pencil smear on his collar.

“The line means I am a brother,” he said sweetly.

This is the sort of stuff that drives me crazy about organized religion—obtuse symbols such as these. Who can keep track? Why not give brothers a bright blue collar instead of a white one so that the average person on the street can clearly and immediately identify their role? A white clerical collar with a barely visible line up the middle—and you have to lean in uncomfortably close to a person's face to see it—just looks like the priest had dampened the tip of a pencil on his lip (I know, who does that anymore?), and the pencil slipped, marking the collar. Some religious customs are just not helpful, and they reinforce the impression that religion is more secret society than transparent communion.

( 3:ix )

THE DAY
had dawned bright and mild; it could almost be called warm. It was only early February, and I added a prayer of thanks for being brought to a place where winter does not mean five feet of snow and icy temperatures in the minus double-digits.

I did not get out for my daily walk until afternoon, and my intention was to push beyond my usual end-point and walk all the way into Ryde, but midway into my journey, ominous clouds the color of steel wool began to gather and the atmosphere seemed charged with a deep and unexplained foreboding. I turned around and walked briskly back to the abbey.

It was just before five o'clock when I left my cell for vespers. I was about to push open the door of the guesthouse when, through the window in the door, I noticed a man on the stoop, his back to me, facing a wall. It appeared that he was urinating, so I rattled the door a bit before opening it to give him time to compose himself. I was halfway through the door and was thinking of berating the guy for peeing against a monastery wall
(Buddy, what kind of an animal are you?)
when it became apparent that he was not peeing but masturbating. I kept my back to him as I closed the door, but when I turned to go down the steps he swung around and stared directly into my face. He had the darkest, hungriest eyes I have ever seen. Stringy dark hair obscured part of his face, and he had a short dark beard. His mouth was curled into a lascivious smirk. But it was the eyes that I will never forget: black and soulless. There was an aura of evil about him. A chill shot into my marrow. I scurried down the steps and briskly headed to the church, pulling determinedly on the heavy wooden doors.

Safely inside, I paused to catch my breath. My heart was hammering.
What a scary guy. And what an awful, ugly feeling he gave off.

I took my usual seat in the upper nave and slid down onto the kneeler to pray. A slow, loud creak came from the church door. I turned around. Wanker Man had poked his head inside; and in the dim-lit area of the lower nave it looked like a disembodied head with wide maniacal eyes staring directly at me.

I glanced across the aisle to the only other person in the church, an elderly monk whose job it was to greet visitors. He had nodded off.
Terrific.

I rolled my eyes, as much in disbelief as in an appeal for divine intervention, and turned to face the altar to continue my prayers.

Another sound from the back of the church—this time the scraping of chairs across the stone floor. Again, I looked behind me. Wanker Man had entered the church and was now sprawled carelessly and defiantly on one of the chairs in the lower nave. He continued to glare at me, still smirking; more challenging than lascivious now.

Panic surfed through me. By this time the monks had processed in and had begun to chant vespers. The old monk across the aisle had stirred to life but was oblivious to anything beyond the chanting monks. I tried to resume praying, but I could feel the heat of the stranger's stare boring into me.

Then I heard footsteps moving slowly toward me. I spun around. Wanker Man was now at the top of the stairs, a mere three rows away, still fixing his dark eyes on me. At this point the old monk got up—Finally!—and approached him, but Wanker Man raised his hand, and the monk virtually froze in his tracks. In a deep, authoritative voice, the man said to the monk, “It's
OK
,” and he kept his hand raised toward the monk while continuing to glare at me. I stared back, hoping my defiance would deter him, but he was stronger than me.

I turned away and faced the altar. My body began to convulse with a fear like nothing I have experienced. I began to cry silently because, strange as it may seem, I was certain that my life was about to end.

Looking back on this episode, I am at a loss to explain such an overreaction. At the same time I can vividly summon the fear of that moment. It was awful. I have never been so scared in my life. Then again, I have never been followed into a church by a man who had just been masturbating.

I considered calling out to the monks, interrupting their chant, but what would I say?
A scary man who I caught masturbating by the guesthouse door is staring at me?

But this was no ordinary man; I sensed that intuitively. I have encountered plenty of unsavory types in my life—drunks, drug addicts, gang members, back-stabbers, thieves, rapists (and these were just the people I've worked with)—but none had made me reel with fear like this man. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed harder than I have ever prayed:
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Vespers ended and the monks swooshed by my pew, their voluminous black cloaks whipping the air. When I first arrived they had sounded like swans; now they sounded like ravens. A murder of ravens. I tried to get their attention but their hoods were pulled over their bowed heads. With a thud of the cloister door they were gone, and I was left alone in the church. Well, the old monk was still there, but my faith in him as a protector had pretty much evaporated.

I remained in my seat to compose myself and to think of a way to evade Wanker Man or decide what to say or do if he confronted me. When I stood up and turned around to face the back of the church he was nowhere to be seen. Or rather, nowhere I could see him. I could still feel his presence.

By now, it was pitch black outside. There was no way I was leaving the church alone.

I approached the old monk and asked him to walk me back to the guesthouse.

“Did you see that weird man? He followed me in. I don't feel safe.”

“Well, we get a lot of odd people up here,” the monk chuckled. He reminded me of Clarence, the kind-hearted but bumbling angel in
It's a Wonderful Life.

He fumbled around and produced a flashlight. It looked painfully inadequate. I wanted to ask whether he had something more substantial. Like a gun. With a silver bullet. And where was a crucifix when you needed one?

The heavy doors of the church slammed behind Brother Clarence and me, and we shuffled across the gravel driveway toward the guesthouse door. A wild wind was knocking the helpless limbs of the trees together and blowing debris all over the place. The night before, I had paused in this darkness and stared up unafraid at the night sky, marveling at the wonder of the stars and the universe; now it struck me as a reckless thing to do especially on a dark and stormy night.

We reached the guesthouse door, and I thanked Clarence; then I bolted for my room. I flicked on all the lights, closed the shutters tight, and sat down on the edge of my little bed before erupting into a shaking, hyperventilating mess. I cried out of fear for the unknown sinister force that was tightening its grip on me, cried out of shame for my gutlessness in not seeking help for myself. Memories of the rape came rushing back, and I was reminded of my lack of courage back then in summoning help. Every fear I had experienced started populating my thoughts. Even Quarr began to take on a sinister feel. An hour earlier, the place had felt idyllic; now, it felt like a medieval prison.

I found Father Nicholas in the dining room and told him about the incident, though I softened the details by saying that Wanker Man had “been urinating, or something.” I also told him that I was not going outside in the dark alone, and therefore I would not be attending compline.

Father Nicholas did his best to reassure me that I was completely safe.

“I happen to have,” he whispered cogently, leaning toward me and patting the side pocket of his habit, “a phone number for the police.”

Well, I'm sorry: A handgun or a Taser I'd accept, even a mobile phone with the police on speed dial, but a piece of paper containing the phone number of the police? This is all that's standing between me and Satan?

I shook my head resolutely.
Nope, not good enough. Not going to compline; not going outside in the dark.

“I had an experience once,” I started, “and...” The vision of a strip of light beneath a closed hotel room door loomed into mind.

Father Nicholas looked at me, waiting for me to finish, but I didn't. I couldn't.

I returned to my cell after dinner. By now the gusts of wind had magnified into a deafening and frightening force, “like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour.” What had St. Peter experienced to prompt that metaphor? The window of my room rattled, as if someone was shaking it from the jambs. A sheaf of newspaper, bunched up and stuffed as insulation into the disused chimney flue of the little fireplace, rustled and pulsed like something breathing. Scratching and pawing sounds came from the other side of it. I could hear someone pacing outside my door.

I was beyond scared. I quickly changed for bed and dived between the sheets, pulling the blankets over my head.

It was a restless sleep—when I managed to sleep at all—punctuated with wild, awful dreams. The main dream starred Wanker Man, who snuck up and grabbed me from behind in the church. I managed to break free, thwarting him with the quick use of a clever Wonder Woman one-arm flip maneuver, and tackling him to the floor of the sanctuary. Then I tied him up and gave him a swift boot in the head, which produced a response of
Exorcist
proportions, complete with all the gory special effects. The monks were aghast but grateful that I had triumphantly wrestled Satan, and they rewarded me with a special Mass (in which they allowed me to take Communion). But Satan proved a slippery catch, and I constantly had to use more Wonder Woman kicks and chops to subdue him.

When I awoke from this mayhem in the morning, the bedsheets were twisted and damp, one of the blankets was balled up at the head of my bed, and my pillow was on the other side of the room.

Were these dreams a metaphor for my battle with my own demons or about my inability to speak up when I feel threatened? Was it possible that a devil, in the form of Wanker Man, had been sent to dissuade me from pursuing a religious vocation? Ridiculous as that may sound, faith is a realm without boundaries or boxes; it is the province of mystics and miracles, of the unexplained and the seemingly nonsensical, of the supernatural stuff you cannot see or do not want to see.

When I opened the shutters the sky was weighted down by pewter clouds. The wind had not abated, and its fury was wreaking havoc on the island.

“Might have to cancel the ferry if this keeps up,” Benedict reported at the breakfast table. “Lots of trees on the island came down overnight, and there are power outages everywhere.”

I told him about my encounter with the strange man. Benedict's brow furrowed.

“You don't know whether people like that are sent to this place by God for safety, or whether they're sent by Satan to disrupt things,” he said thoughtfully.