The Fraternity of the Stone (3 page)

"Then...? "

"I've already discovered my potential."

"And? "

"I didn't like it."

"I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate."

Drew glanced at the floor.

"Eventually you'll have to." Father Hafer seemed troubled. "But never mind. For now, we have other matters to discuss. Our applicants are usually past their maturity, to use a delicate phrase, when they make their request." He shrugged. "Of course, very few request, and even fewer... "

"Are chosen. Less than five hundred worldwide. And here in the United States, only twenty, I believe."

"Good, I see that you've done your homework. The point is - to use a less delicate term - most of those men are old." Father Hafer stubbed out his cigarette. "They've pursued their ambitions. They've accomplished, and sometimes haven't, their worldly aims. Now they're ready to spend their dwindling years in retirement. Their decision, though extreme, can be viewed as natural. But you - so young, so robust. Women no doubt find you attractive. Have you considered the implications of giving up female companionship?"

With a stab of longing, he remembered Arlene. "You gave it up."

"I gave up sexual relations." Father Hafer sat straighter. "Not female companionship. I encounter women many times a day. A waitress in a restaurant. A clerk at the medical library. A secretary of one of my lay colleagues. All perfectly innocent. The sight of women, rather than tempting me, makes my vow of chastity seem less severe. But if we accede to your request, you'll never see a woman again, and very few men, and even then rarely. I emphasize. For the rest of your life, what you're asking to be is a hermit."

Chapter 5.

The unit's second level, reached by crude pine stairs, consisted of three sections. First the oratory, otherwise known as the "Ave Maria" room, where a simple wooden pew, its kneeler an unpadded board, faced an austere altar with a crucifix on the wall. Beyond it was the study - sacred texts, a table and chair - and then the sleeping quarters - a wood stove, but no bed, just an inch-thick woven-hemp pallet.

The pallet was six feet long and three feet wide. It could easily have been rolled up and placed downstairs in a corner of the workroom, spread out when he needed to rest. But the point was to segregate his various activities. To go from his workroom up to his sleeping quarters, or from his sleeping quarters down to his workroom, he had to pass through the oratory, and the rule required him to stop there each time and pray.

Chapter 6.

"If it's simply a life of devotion that appeals to you," Father Hafer said, "consider a less strict order. The missionary fathers, perhaps? "

Drew shook his head.

"Or possibly the Congregation of the Resurrectionists. They do good work - teaching, for example."

Drew told him, "No."

"Then what about this suggestion? Earlier you mentioned how the sacrament of confirmation had made you a soldier of Christ. I'm sure you're aware that the Jesuits have intensified that concept. They're much more rigorous than the Resurrectionists. Their training takes fifteen years, ample reason for their nickname -the commandos of the Church."

"It's not what I had in mind."

"Because they confront the world?" Father Hafer hurried on. "But during a considerable part of the training period, you'd be cloistered. It's only toward the end that you'd be nudged from the nest, and perhaps by then you'd appreciate the push. And even earlier, at various stages, you'd have a chance to reconsider your priorities, to change your direction if you cared to."

"I don't think so."

Father Hafer sounded more distressed. "There's even another option. The Cistercians. The second most demanding order in the Church. You live in a monastery cut off from the world. Your days are filled with exhausting work, farming, for instance, something that contributes to the order. You never speak. But at least you labor - and pray - in a group. And if you find the life too difficult, you can leave and reapply at a later time, though not beyond the age of thirty-six. The advantage is that there's a system of checks and balances that allows you to change your mind."

Drew waited.

"Good heavens, man, why must you be so determined?" Father Hafer lit another cigarette, flicking his butane lighter. 'I'm trying to make you understand. In the fullness of your youth, you're asking to be admitted into the most severe form of worship in the Church. The Carthusians. There's nothing more extreme. It's the total denial of a human being as a social animal. The eremitic way. For the rest of your life, you'd live alone in a cell. Except for an hour of leisure, you'd do nothing but pray. It's complete deprivation. Solitude."

Chapter 7.

He wore a coarse hair shirt, designed to irritate his skin. At times, its aggravating sensation became a pleasure since at least it was an experience, something intense. When that temptation aroused him, he fought to distract himself, praying harder, sometimes flagellating himself with his skipping rope, stifling his groans.

You're not here to enjoy yourself. You came to do penance. To be left alone.

Over the hair shirt, he wore a white robe, and above that a white biblike scapular, and then a white hood. On the limited occasions when he was forced to endure communal rituals such as choir, perverse requirements designed to test his fortitude, he wore a drooping white cowl that hid his face and allowed him to feel invisible.

Chapter 8.

"There's no need for us to be this intense," Father Hafer said, forcing a smile. "Why don't we relax for a moment? Debate may be good for the mind, after all, but not for the constitution. May I offer refreshment?" Stabbing his cigarette into the ashtray, he approached a cabinet, opened it, and removed a carafe of glinting emerald liquid. "A glass of Chartreuse, perhaps?"

"No, thanks."

"Its taste does not appeal to you?"

"I've never... "

"Now you have the opportunity."

"No, I don't drink."

Father Hafer narrowed his eyes. "Indeed? A weakness that you guard against?"

"I've never indulged. In my line of work, I couldn't afford poor judgment."

"And what was that? Your line of work?"

Drew didn't answer.

Father Hafer considered him, swirling the emerald liquid. "Yet another topic for later discussion. I wonder if you realize how appropriate this substance is."

"Chartreuse." Drew spread his hands. "The liqueur is reputed to be the finest. Its distinctive flavor -something I wouldn't know about - is due to angelica root. And, of course, one hundred and fifteen different herbs. It's the principal source of income for the Carthusians. Manufactured at the fatherhouse at La Grande Chartreuse in the Alps of France. The name of the liqueur comes from the place where it's made. Chartreuse. The green type you're holding has an alcohol content of fifty-five percent while the yellow type has forty-three percent. Its recipe was concocted in the early sixteen hundreds, I believe, by a layman who donated its formula to the Carthusians. A century later, a chemical genius in the order perfected it. A bogus version appeared on the market, but those who discriminate know which label to look for."

Father Hafer blinked. "Remarkable."

"In more ways than one. An order of hermits maintains its independence because of the income generated from a liquid designed to produce conviviality. Of course, the liqueur is manufactured by a lay fraternity. Even so, I ignore the contradiction."

Chapter 9.

His needs were attended to by non-eremitic brothers, whose quarters were in the lodge, which also contained the chapel, the refectory, the kitchen, and a guest room. His spartan meals were given to him through a serving hatch beside a door in his workroom. On Sundays and major feasts, however, the rule required him to leave his cell, which was never locked, and eat with the other hermits in the refectory at the lodge. On those occasions, subdued conversation was permitted, but he never indulged. He was also required to leave his cell and join the other monks in the lodge's chapel at midnight for matins, at 8 a.m. for mass, and at 6 p.m. for vespers. He disliked these interruptions, preferring to worship in the isolation of his cell. His only distraction was the mouse.

Chapter 10.

"The vows," Father Hafer said, distressed. "Have you truly considered their gravity? Not only those of poverty, chastity, and obedience, arduous enough on their own. But add to them the oath of fealty to the principles of the Carthusians. I have to be brutally direct. When the committee meets to judge applicants, we customarily reject young men as a matter of course. Their immaturity makes us question their ability to keep their vows of solitude. The consequence of disobedience is unthinkable."

"If I broke my vows, I'd be damning myself." "That's right. And even confession could not return your soul to a state of grace. Your only alternative would be to request a dispensation. So serious a request takes months to be considered. In the meantime, if you should die... "

"It wouldn't matter."

"I don't... "

"I'm already damned."

Father Hafer flinched and raised his voice. "Because you failed to make your Easter duty for thirteen years? By comparison with violating sacred vows, that other sin is minor. I could reinstate you now by hearing your confession and giving you communion. But even confession could not return your soul to a state of grace if you had no dispensation and you continued to violate the vows. You surely understand why the committee would turn down your request to join the order. If we accepted you but doubted your ability to endure the Carthusian way of life, we ourselves would be scorning the vows you would take. To a great degree, we'd be helping you to damn yourself, and that would make us culpable. We'd be threatening the state of our own souls."

"But if... "

"Yes? Go on."

"If you don't admit me, you'd be culpable anyhow."

"For what?"

"For what I'd be driven to do. I said I felt damned. I didn't mean because of my failure to make my Easter duty."

"Then what?"

"I want to kill myself."

Chapter 11.

During his fifth year at the monastery, after the first chill of autumn had colored the maples, he sensed a movement to his right as he knelt on the hardwood floor of his workroom, praying for his soul. The movement was minuscule, a subtle blur that might have been due to eye strain, the result of his anguished concentration. Sweat beaded his brow. Ashamed that he'd allowed himself to be distracted, he meditated with greater fervor, desperate to shut out the horrid images from his past.

But the movement continued, barely perceptible, nonetheless there. For a moment, he wondered if he'd reached the stage of experiencing hallucinations - other monks, after intense devotion, were rumored to have witnessed presences - but skepticism as well as humility discouraged him, and besides, the movement was on the floor at the base of a wall. What sort of religious vision would be appropriate there?

Deciding that his fortitude was being tested, he resolved not to look; but again the blur caught the corner of his gaze, and in a moment of weakness that eventually saved his life, he turned his head to the right, toward the floor at the base of the wall, and saw a small gray mouse.

It froze.

Drew was taken by surprise.

But so, apparently, was the mouse. Each watched the other for quite a while. As if losing patience, the mouse twitched its whiskers. Unconsciously, Drew scratched the side of his nose. Alarmed, with amazing abruptness, the mouse sped toward a hole in the wall.

Drew astonished himself by almost laughing. As the mouse disappeared, however, he frowned at the implications. The hole had not been in his workroom wall when he went to the vespers service last night. He focused on the freshly gnawed wood and wondered what to do. Tonight, while he was again away at the vespers service, he could ask a custodian brother to obtain a trap or possibly poison. After slipping one or the other into the hole, the brother could use his carpentry tools to plug up the hole.

But why? Drew asked himself. In the chill of autumn, the mouse had come to the monastery for refuge, as he

himself had wanted refuge. In a sense, they were two of a kind.

The thought was comic to him. Sure, me and the mouse. He did consider the danger of chewed electrical wires, of mice reproducing behind the wall till the monastery was vermin-ridden. Common sense suggested that to tolerate the mouse would be impractical.

But the mouse intrigued him. Something about its daring. And yet its...

Helplessness, he thought. I could easily kill it.

But not anymore. Not even a mouse.

He decided to let it stay. On probation. As long as you don't raise hell. As long as you're celibate, he allowed himself to joke.

Chapter 12.

Father Hafer turned pale. "You admit... ?"

"I truly believe," Drew said, "that retreat from the world is my only chance to be saved. Otherwise... "

"If I deny your application, I'd be responsible for your suicide? For your unforgivable sin of despair? For your going to Hell? Absurd."

"It's the logic you used a moment ago. You said that you'd be culpable if you let me in despite your misgivings and I later damned myself by breaking my vows."