Page 5 of Sacred Virtues
Ican’t breathe, I’m drowning. I’m trying to swim to the surface but my legs are snared. It’s pitch black and I can’t see what’s holding them. I kick furiously, trying to free myself, panic rising in my chest that burns with the effort of trying to hold onto what breath I have left. I can’t do it, I can’t hold on any longer. My lungs are fit to burst. I gulp in a breath knowing it will be water.
I wake gasping, sweat pouring down my face. My legs are tangled in a woollen blanket. I kick them free, needing the freedom even though I’m no longer in danger. It takes me a short while to remember where I am. In the abbey.
Still trying to breathe normally, I lie back on the bed. Shame burns my cheeks even though there’s no one else to see it. I haven’t had that dream for years, probably a decade or more. When I was young, three or four, I fell into one of the ornamental lakes where we lived at the time. It felt like the longest time of my life but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds that I couldn’t get free. I was pulled from the lake by mypapa, and I remember clinging to him while he soothed me. For weeks dreams plagued me, and I couldn’t sleep alone, afraid of the dark. I’d call out to Papa and cry until he would come, and he’d take me to his bed and hold me until I fell asleep. He was my safe place. After a few months they stopped and I could sleep alone again, but since then I’ve never liked the dark.
I didn’t have the dreams again until after my father died. For a few weeks I’d wake up panting and sweating. But there was no Papa to console me anymore, and I was eleven, too old to be comforted anyway. I kept them to myself and eventually they subsided. Why I should have the dream now, I have no idea.
With clammy skin and a roiling belly, I rise and dress. I stumble out of my room and see Abel, the manservant, in the corridor.
“There’s food in the dining room if you want to break your fast,” he says, but the thought of anything touching my stomach right now makes me want to retch. I push past him and through the outer door. I blink in the sunshine, disoriented by the myriad of stone buildings in front of me. There are few people about, and none of them are dressed in the distinctive black robes of the monks. Then I hear the singing. Rich and sweet at the same time. Still feeling sick and unsteady, I stagger towards the sound emanating from the vast abbey church. I can’t see an entrance, so I lean against a buttress and press my head to the cool stone. The ecclesiastical and melodic verses wash over me and the nausea eases. They finish and a single voice takes over, a chanting. It’s deep and sonorous and I realise it belongs to Father Theobald. I can’t tell what he’s saying but the sound alone soothes me further, and finally I feel well enough again. I’m still confused by the experience when I see the monks filing past me in pairs. Silent and with their hoods raised, it would almostbe eerie if it wasn’t happening in the bright spring sunlight. A shiver runs down my spine anyway.
“Emmett?” I startle at the voice and look to see Theobald standing on the path, peering at me.
“Father.” I mutter a greeting as I step out of the shadows of the buttress, partly feeling like I’ve been caught where I shouldn’t be.
“I didn’t expect to find you out here, but now that you are, I’ll show you the grounds as I promised.” I look for any rebuke in his expression but I find none, just his usual kindly features and a hint of the resonance in his voice I heard a few minutes ago. I find that I want to hear it again, and soon. He doesn’t seem to mind my silence as we start walking.
“Over to this side of the abbey we have the cloisters, dormitories, and the chapter house. These are private areas reserved for monks, novices, and a few of the lay servers. I ask that you do not enter those areas.”
I feel his gaze on me and I nod my acquiescence.
“This is obviously the church.” We’ve now come around to the north side and I can see the entrance.
“Can I see it?” I’ve never had much of an interest in churches before, but I suddenly want to see the place where Theobald preaches.
“It’s not open to the public in general.” The dismissal of me to the ranks of the public stings a little, but I don’t argue. “But you may attend Mass tomorrow if you wish.” He makes the last word sound like a query, almost surprised that I might want to take Mass. Again I nod, unable to find a suitable answer in my head.
I follow Theobald as he leads me through some pretty flower beds and towards long lines of growing vegetables. Monks tend to them, silently bending over and weeding and watering. Theobald tells me in quiet tones what they’re growing, again emphasising that they give away anything they have an abundance of. There’s a peaceful quality to their work, which helps further after my unsettling experience earlier.
Bordering the growing areas are a large number of beehives.
“You make honey too?” I can’t help asking, as I’m trying to understand how industrious the community is.
“Of course.” Theobald smiles and leads me towards a couple of low stone buildings.
“The bakery and the brewery.” He indicates with his arm. We enter the smaller of the buildings which has a large chimney up the side. The delicious smell of freshly baked bread hits my nostrils, and I groan a little as my stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten yet today. Theobald gives me a curious glance but then looks away.
“The bakery was where I started. When I was just a novice, before I took full orders. And even then I continued, managing it until abbey duties took up more of my time and I became the abbot.” There’s a wistful tone to his voice.
“Do you miss it?” I find myself asking.
“Sometimes. I enjoyed the work, and of course life was much simpler then.” He presses his lips together as if remembering why I’m here. I avert my eyes and look around the clean and well-swept bakery. There’s no one working here at the moment, but there is a table set with what looks to be around four dozen round loaves. I see Theobald swipe one from the neat row. Hecatches me looking and with a twinkle in his eyes holds his finger to his lips. I quirk a smile at him.
“This way to the brewery next,” he says in a voice which is slightly too loud, and I follow him across to the next building.
This one is occupied with two monks who are standing near a barrel set on its side. Beyond I can see racks of barrels lining the walls and then an area with some large vessels and grain sacks stacked in piles. The smell is both slightly sweet and sour.
“This is where we make our mead,” Theobald says. “This is Brother Francis, who is in charge here, and Brother Sean, who is in charge of the stores.” Both monks bow their heads to me.
“You’re just in time as we’re about to sample the latest batch,” Brother Francis says, coming towards us.
“In that case, this would be welcome.” Theobald holds out the loaf of bread.
“Most excellent.” Brother Sean takes it from him and bustles off.
“Come sit down,” Theobald says and leads me to a rough wooden table. Within minutes Francis comes across carrying two tankards in each hand, which he sets down on the table, followed by Sean holding a large platter with hunks of the fresh loaf and a pot of honey.
“Help yourself,” Theobald urges as he picks up a piece of the bread and drizzles some honey on it. I notice that he doesn’t insist on saying grace, and I’m not sure of the rules, so with only a second of hesitation I follow suit. Brother Francis nudges one of the tankards in my direction. Suddenly ravenous, I take a gulp of the golden liquid. Along with the still warm bread and the sweet honey, on my empty stomach, it feels like one of the bestmeals I’ve ever had. I focus on enjoying it while they talk, Francis recounting how the brewery is doing and Sean expanding on the state of the stores and which foods are likely to spoil in the next week, and Theobald making recipe suggestions. They pay me no heed as they discuss matters, with occasional laughs and banter. It feels like this impromptu meeting is a regular occurrence, a gathering of friends kept away from the formality of the regimented monastic life.
