Fighting With Shadows

Fighting with Shadows (Note from the author: the undertold story has been translated into Modern English for the comfort and ease of the reader, except in few rare places where it proved too difficult) “Dear Sir, I hope you are keeping well and that the air is milder in your region than it is here. This letter that comes abruptly after twenty years of unbroken silence may surprise you, but since you placed me in this convent and since you gave me the responsibility of all its sisters I never asked nor begged anything from you. I administrated this abbey and its walls as I thought it was right, and as I never had the privilege of your honourable presence amongst us, I certainly did well. But I do not break this silence to complain: I need advice and perhaps help in a case that goes beyond my knowledge and capacity. You may not be without knowing that I help the poor, the disabled, the rejected and the orphan as much as I can. The Lord giveth them food and a shelter, warmth and care. Your continuous, generous support has always been spent to preserve this abbey and to help these poor souls. Twenty years ago, by coincidence, the sisters found a baby girl wrapped up in filthy rags lying on the ground by the door. The forlorn creature was blue with cold, at the very gates of Death. So I decided – it was my first decision as Mother – to keep the baby. Since then, the little girl recovered and grew up in this abbey and helped us admirably. After her communion she pronounced her vows, which you may find odd, but she had my full consent. Five years passed in prayers and in total abandonment of herself. She is very devoted and ingenious to save food, wood and clothes. But about two weeks ago she started complaining about headaches, though she never ever complained about anything. I saw her waiting for hours for lost souls under the pouring rain, eating nothing, and then coming back in the convent, soaked to the heart, with some starving child. She would help it sit by the fire and give it food and then wait until the now satisfied child got to sleep to go herself get some rest late at night. You can guess like me that the headaches were fake, a pretext for something else. And one day she did not come to vespers. Immediately alarmed by this strange behaviour – the sister is very pious – I went to her cell, which I found closed – barricaded from the inside. I knocked to her door but she kept on staying mute. I appealed to her senses and to open the door. Eventually, after hearing some scratching noises, a piece of torn parchment was slipped out from under the door. Two words were scribbled on it with a handwriting that would be handsome were it not shaking. Nobody knew she could write. Silentium and Insularius. You know she could not have pronounced these vows without my knowledge and total consent. But that is not the problem: she scarcely eats what we can slip under the condemned door, she is not muttering at prayers’ time, and has not come out for the past two weeks. Now you fully conceive my distress and the helplessness contained in this trembling hand. I know it is a long and hard way to come in the green island where you sent me twenty years ago, but only you can help me. John – you know I would not allow myself to call you by your Christian name unless I was desperate – do come to my abbey, strange things are happening, and I fear something irreversible might happen. Forget your ancient grudge – if grudge it be – against me and give me a helping hand. No one else can do it, you know this too well. You have dealt with these cases many times, and I cannot run this abbey properly. The atmosphere is very tensed here, the sisters are suspecting some evil spirit to be at work – and would not it be for the unusual frost – I would believe it. Make haste. Your friend, M.S. Elizabeth.” The worried, trembling hand carefully folds the large piece of parchment in four and, after melting some carmine wax over the opening, resolutely seals the letter. A cavalier is waiting at the gates, she must make haste herself; the sooner John hears from her the sooner the source of her distress shall be dealt with. Very carefully, she slips the letter in one of her sleeves and leaves her © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

cell. She immediately feels the biting cold of November stinging her face like hundreds of needles. It has also been raining for two days on, but the air did not get milder for all that. She hurries along the dark corridors, her leather shoes making no noise on the limestone floor. She might put her clogs tonight. The horseman must be soaked to the bones by now. She crosses the communal room under the worried look of the sisters, and finally comes out of the door of the abbey. A cornice of the same limestone offers some protection against the lashing rain, not like a porch though, but the horseman does not look angry at all. Well hidden under a leathery hooded cloak, the man, holding his horse with one ungloved hand, takes the letter with the gloved one and puts it quickly under his cloak. The sister smiles at him, saying nothing, but she does not have to justify herself, as the cavalier knows the price of silence. Then he expertly climbs into the saddle, smiles at the coenobite and rides away with the clap of the thunder. The Mother does not like this ominous sign; she sighs and remains for some time on the threshold, then resolutely returns into the greyish building and shuts the door behind her. Mother Elizabeth is right; there is something strange with the weather. Usually, at this time of the day and of the year, the sundial would indicate, with a gnomon by shape and constitution closer to the arrow, terce. But the sun, covered with a thick blanket of sombre clouds, has not emerged from its lethargy for what seemed to the sisters to be never-ending months. The days seem utterly dark compared to the nights that are awfully bright and starry and full of shadows. Cold and dampness are two elements easy to cope with separately, but Ireland seems to conjugate the two with wicked perfection, with patient and stalking harmony. By now all the sisters but one are gathered in the chapel and pray silently according to their order; they are praying for their sister who is tried by God. All the dark brown wimples are bent in silence, hands are clasped religiously; only the murmur of the rain battering against the stained glass windows representing a mosaic of different colours, can be heard in the cultivated silence. The order of the Carmelites could be described as hermits living in community, and objectively Elizabeth described it in two words: solitariness and contemplation. She had been established in her functions twenty years ago by John, though he was not himself a Carmelite. He always told her, in their moments of intimacy, that by advocating silence you foster holiness, which she believed to be true. But she always thought that it implied to put one’s self aside, that one should be deprived of self-satisfaction and all those arrogant and selfish feelings that distract one from the love of God, and from His laws. The rule of Carmel, written on the eponymous mount by Albert of Jerusalem for the faithful crusaders, probably now five hundred years old (still according to John who is considered an eminent historiographer by many), was very strict and simple at the same time. The patriarch of Jerusalem told the crusaders who took refuge, each in a different natural cave, on Mount Carmel in Palestine, the Land of Our Lord that they had to ponder on the laws of God in silence in order not to be distracted by any impious soul, or by anything material, or by any treacherous word. Seclusion was the basis for belief, stripped off every material needs. John told her that the crusaders soon had to move for reasons she did not understand at the time, and they came to us. The order eventually reached our beloved Ireland two centuries later and settled down in the beautiful estate of Leighlinbridge near Ceatharlach. These are all the facts Elizabeth knows about the historic part of Carmel. She opens her eyes and leaves her meditation. As time is a matter of personal judgement, most of the sisters have already left their meditation and are fixing their gaze on the tergal part of Elizabeth’s scapula. She is aware of that and does not wish to nurture the tensed atmosphere of the chapel. But she will not be bold: the chapel must keep its atmosphere of serene silence, so they will go outside if the sisters really want to speak. And they really want it. She stands up, crosses herself, turns towards her sisters and indicates with a brief movement of her hands to leave the sacred altar. Obediently, the sisters cross themselves and scurry along to the corridor. They wait until Mother Elizabeth has shut the doors behind her to ask her with an elaborate look permission to speak. Elizabeth is pleased to see that they retain some of their dignity. She is the first to break the silence (uncorrupted since they woke up early this morning: ‘Let us go in the community room.’ Her voice is hoarse as if © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

twenty years mostly passed in silence were enough to ban expression. She is followed by a trail of inquisitive sisters into the communal room. It is a square room accessible by three doors with a low flight of stairs each. The eastern wall has been pierced three times to allow some light by large sealed windows. In the Northeast corner sits a large fireplace where two sisters are, at the moment, rekindling the embers from last night. This is a large room for a small community of nuns, even though a huge oak table is holding its place in the middle of it. The table was a gift from John that arrived by the same carriage as Elizabeth twenty years ago, but the table would obviously see other days, though it was not in mint condition – several banquets had left their scars on its legs and top – but the massive wood showed no sign of weakness. The sight of the table only would re-assure anyone, but the warmth of a timid fire was presently more attractive than the benches of solid oak. The sisters gather around Elizabeth, their hands stretched above the growing, yellow, flames are waiting patiently, shadows elongating themselves across bodies, chairs, ground. They were six in all, so when one sister was missing like now, you were bound to notice it. But patience has limits of its own, especially when you have, like our sisters, only two hours or so of allowed speech every day. This custom had been introduced to balance the silence and to enable the nuns and the friars to express their views, opinions and convictions or more commonly to enliven the everyday labour. From the moment they awake until after terce, they have to observe the rule of silence strictly. After this hour of talk the observance of the rule is applied until after nona, when the Carmelites are once again allowed to converse. Compline closes the day of prayers, and the ability to talk becomes obsolete, vain, as the Great Silence has to be respected. The Great Silence is the apex of Carmel: no sister, under any circumstance, is allowed to proffer a word, even to herself. There are other means of communication that were soon discovered (“be inventive” was Mother Elizabeth’s favourite comment). From evening until daybreak, the atmosphere of silence is at its paroxysm. Knowing this, it is not surprising that the lips of the sisters are burning with words and that their mind is buzzing with thoughts. Unsurprisingly, they break the silence for good. ‘Quid nunc, Mother?’ ‘Quid nunc, Sister Mary?’ Sister Mary was by far the one who had read the most, because she was the most curious. ‘Well, I sent for help.’ A sigh of relief force the fire to bend its flames for a brief instant, blazing more fiercely the next second; the shadows wriggle and break. ‘Who shall help us Mother?’ ‘I have sent for the man who set up this abbey, my friend John.’ ‘Oh, that is your friend you always talk about. Is he English?’ ‘He is’ replies Elizabeth blushing at Sister Mary’s previous remark. ‘Like me. He is very nice you will see.’ ‘Will he help Sister Joan?’ asks Sister Edel weakly. ‘I do not see why he would not, Sister Edel,’ cuts Sister Magdalene sharply, “he helped Mother Elizabeth. ‘Be kind to Sister Edel, Sister Magdalene, you know how sensitive she can be’ says the Mother calmly. Blushing with shame Sister Magdalene simpers ‘Sorry Sister’ taking Sister Edel’s hand. ‘I am fine, Sister Magdalene, do not worry. I know you really feel concerned with Sister Joan’s present state, but so are we all, are we not, Sister Felicity?’ ‘We are,’ says the oldest of the sisters, Sister Felicity. ‘God gives us a challenge in order to re-affirm or to strengthen our faith in Him. But I dare say Sister Joan is the one who suffers the most, we must help her through this difficult moment, as she would no doubt do for me or for you. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

“The path of the virtuous is full of obstacles the Devil has spawned, but the virtuous follows God’s steps and triumphs over Evil.”’ Sister Felicity is by far the oldest and also the most zealous of the community, quoting the bible with all her lack of memory. ‘Well spoken,’ says Sister Mary, nodding along with all the Sisters. ‘Mother, when Friar John is due to arrive?’ All eyes shift towards Elizabeth whose face and eyes reflect the dancing flames. Elizabeth’s former sympathy towards the Augustinian order had left certain traits in her appreciation of a fireplace: she was in the middle of the group, the closest to the burning wood. Sometimes she was so cold she would have jumped into the hearth, amidst the glowing embers and the comforting flames. ‘Mother?’ tried Mary. ‘Hum? Excuse me. I was lost in my thoughts. I do not know when he will come or if he will come at all. Friar John may not be in Ireland, and if he is, he is certainly in the big city, so he might not be there after a long while, as he is always busy.’ ‘Would he have anything more important than Sister Joan?’ ‘He may, he may not. But he owes me something, so I hope he will stay true to his word and will come to us as swiftly as he can afford.’ ‘What if he does not come?’ Sister Edel’s question froze the air around her and imposed a silence of the embarrassed kind. ‘We will pray for his coming. And if he does not come, we will have to react and force Sister Joan to react as well. Idleness spawns nothing but Evil things whereas action, if used to a good end, is the remedy and brings good. But for the moment I suggest we all go and do something worthwhile. This after-noon, we shall prepare Hosts.’ In silence, the Sisters part from the fireplace and go to their embroidering, food store, wood store and clothes mending. As soon as Mother Elizabeth is gone to her own affairs, certainly to try and talk to Sister Joan – vain, that is all vain think the Sisters, the four Sisters take their stool and sit close by the fire, talking idly to each other. In the corridor, leaning against the wall, Elizabeth listens to the sisters for a moment and then makes her way to Sister Joan’s cell, the only one, with her own cell, to be inside the building, the others being adjacent to it protected by a wooden armature, and accessible through a breach in the wall the local farmer had made at Mother Elizabeth’s request. The corridors are dim; they should ask somebody to break an outer wall to make a window. Quietly she arrives in front of Sister Joan’s cell and knocks. Still nothing. Looking down she notices that Sister Joan once again refused the bread the slip under the door. She had barely eaten for two weeks and, Elizabeth shivers at the thought, she is in complete darkness: her room is deprived of any opening. The oldest locals could remember a time when there was a religious construction where the abbey stands, but which religion they could not remember. It should not have been a consequential one as regards its way of treating light, but still, Elizabeth thought, we all come from a dark age on which we are still very dependent. A dark monument of worship that emerged from a dark age. A dark nun in a dark abbey in a dark age. A shadow within a shadow within a shadow. Sister Joan herself had chosen this room to let the other Sisters keep the ‘better rooms’, proving again her kindness of heart and total abnegation. Elizabeth does not understand. ‘Sister Joan, it is I, Mother Elizabeth…I have sent for help.’ At first she hesitated but now she is confident in her words. ‘I have sent for John, my friend, you remember me talking about him?’ No answer. ‘Well, he is on his way and he is determined to sort out what is going on here, whatever is going on. You should at least tell me why you are secluding yourself, why you do not want to eat or talk to us, why you are pushed to such extremities…’ Elizabeth stops, because she can faintly hear something, but that is not a murmur. She goes on again, but softer: ‘because I © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

believe you are pushed by somebody or something, am I right?’ She is sobbing, Sister Joan is sobbing; the poor soul cries and she would deny herself a shoulder to cry upon. Elizabeth is persuasive, cunning, but that is not enough. Conscious that her words have a certain power on the Sister, she approaches her mouth closer to the door, the vaporous breath she exhales scatters over the wooden battered door. ‘Tell me, Joan, who is your tormentor? Who inflicts such pains on you? Tell me the truth, Joan.’ Elizabeth is now totally pressed against the cold wood and – ‘I cannot.’ The words, blended with sobs and tears, strike Elizabeth fully. Her chest and throat tighten painfully under the emotion and for a moment she cannot speak. ‘Why can you not, Joan?’ No answer. ‘Please open the door, Joan.’ No answer. ‘Open the door, in the name of God!’ Now Elizabeth cries as well. Her left fist is red from banging at the door, and the malignant cold increases the pain. ‘Open the door…’ But the door remains immutable, ominous, though you can clearly hear cries behind it. The four Sisters, red from being too close to the fire, come running, holding their habit from the ground, and help their Mother to stand up. Sister Felicity wipes the tears off Elizabeth’s face with the back of her sleeve. ‘What happened, Mother?’ She alone could speak. ‘She…talked.’ ‘Did she?’ An expression of genuine surprise and invariable hope passes across every Sister’s face. ‘What did she say?’ Steadying herself a little, Elizabeth removes the dust from her habit and says: ‘she said she could not tell me who, or what, the cause of her torment was.’ The Sisters are horrified, hope fades inch after inch, and their face shows red no more. They cannot but look at the sealed door or at their Mother’s visage and see despair carving another deep wrinkle on her forehead. Sext, nona and vespers come and go without hearing a single word from anyone: even the poor, the crippled, the rejected and the orphan are silent. The Sisters do not speak even during their usually merry twice-daily hour of speech. It had been commonly accepted that words were unnecessary and destined to a better purpose. It had also been accepted that they, as united Sisters, should pray more and ponder more in order to question their consciousness in search of a fault, a mistake, the shadow of a mistake, or worse, a disguised sin. But nothing was found, though earnestly sought. In its turn Compline came and went, the Carmelites’ eyes swollen with sorrow. Just before the hour of prayer of prayer a desolate young mother came to the abbey, holding a baby in her arms. She asked Felicity, as she had opened the door, to heal her baby. But it was dead. The blind cold had claimed its first victim. Felicity let the young mother in the communal room and gave her, silently, the charity. The young woman ate the boiling soup voraciously. She then reiterated her favour but Elizabeth, because that was her duty, told her that her baby was dead. An intense sadness shot across the woman’s face. A single big tear rolled down her dirty cheek, hung for a timeless second on her chin and fell in the empty bowl that was still steaming. That was all. She suddenly respected the atmosphere of silence, clasped Mother Elizabeth’s hands, looked at her with thankful eyes and left, without her dead infant. Though it seldom happened, the Sisters knew what their duty was. They all gathered round the little body, their tears still hanging in the eyes, and carried it in the freezing chapel. Silently, they gave it the first sacrament – baptism – and the last – the extreme unction – so that the infant could enter freely into the Kingdom of God. Without a word and without shedding a single tear, they carried the blessed body outside, under the pouring rain and buried the anonymous infant. A silent prayer, during which all the Sisters joined their clenched hands and let go their tears, was said silently, still without a word hurled. There, under the rain, tears could be hidden and sorrow not © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

heeded. The Heavens ope had set off a downpour that cascaded on earth, turning it into mud. The wooden shovel did its fearful duty and soon the lifeless infant returned to its tellurian origin. The Carmelites went back to their shelter of stone. Sitting by the blazing fire, they were still crying silently, their tears pretending to be rain, their shadows invariably under them. They really did not need that; they could have done without. They stood motionless, almost breathless, for a long time, before their circadian clock told them it was high time to say the matins. They went in the chapel, but as it was still freezing they went faster than usual. Time is a matter of personal appreciation. Then they went by the fireplace again and silently, their shoulders sagging under the weight of their burden, they went to sleep in their respective cells, forcing their way through the dark with a single torch – the shadows cast on the walls were filmy, trembling, and inevitably disproportioned. The night was hard and agitated. They all dreamt the same dream, once again, but they did not tell each other anything, once again. At that time, it might have helped. The sun rises slowly and takes advantage of a lull to cover the unploughed fields around the abbey and then, as it soars higher, the abbey itself, with anthelia. The fresh grave of the anonymous infant can be distinguished on the washed ground. A long-eared owl catches a grey mouse near the grave, almost on it, and breaks the mouse’s neck with its expert yellow beak. For an obscure reason the owl remains on the ground and seems to look at the grave, as if seeing and contemplating the content, not the container. An inconspicuous anthelion strikes its yellow eyes. Suddenly the longeared owl takes flight and unfurls its grey-brown wings, still clutching at the mouse in its powerful claws. The wind shakes the golden feathers of its plumage and the warm grey skin of the dead mouse. The shadowless owl disappears from view, with a distant echoing call. Mother Elizabeth is always the first one to get up, though she is the last one to sleep as she keeps a record of each day, dutifully written on a collection of parchments that John never fails to send. The first hour of prayer of the day is said after a frugal breakfast of milk and bread. The lauds and prime are the favourite prayers of Elizabeth because they are the warmest at that time of the day, and because the sense of newness of the morning has tremendous effects on a dreadful yesterday. The Sisters took the habit of knocking at Sister Joan’s door coming back from the chapel, just in case. Today, they do not fail and knock. Today the door does not fail either for she does not let any answer out, just a sigh, the same sigh day after day. In the communal room, they question each other with a simple look; they are worried because their supply of dry wood gets lower and lower. But the main preoccupation is still Sister Joan, not that the anonymous infant is forgotten, far from it. It will come out again in time and claim a name. A loud bang makes them startle. After twenty years Elizabeth is still not used to having every expectant eyes turned to her. The Sisters all know too well that it is not a caller at such an early time, but somebody else. They gather round the table, leave their work aside. In the meantime Mother Elizabeth is walking fast to the door, checks that her habit is clean, her scapula well placed, her wimple falling neatly on her shoulders. She draws back the piece of wood from the hole and peeps through the wire mesh. Standing outside is that same cavalier that carried her letter to John. Slightly but visibly disconcerted by the invisible figure behind the door, the horseman stammers: ‘I have a message for Mother Superior Elizabeth. Is that you?’ The horseman cannot hear any answer though he has heard, or thinks he has heard, a gentle tap on the door. He swears to himself he saw the figure nodding. Taking courage in the invisible blueness of the eyes that pierce him, he delivers his message rapidly: ‘The message is about Sir John. I left him thirty miles or so to bring news of his coming to you, because I thought you’d be happy to learn he’s coming here, on horse. I believe he’ll be here before we can say ‘Caiseal’!’ Suddenly the doors fling open and the cavalier’s free hand is taken by the now visible figure’s. Totally bewildered the horseman does not know what to do but to look at these deep blue eyes that would feverishly haunt him for days and nights. The nun is looking at him and he swears she is thanking him, though she does not speak a word. He swears he understands © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

what she thinks. “Your kindness shall be rewarded” is what his heart hears, or so he reckons. The nun opens her hands; the cavalier’s hand falls to his side. The nun walks backwards to the door. ‘Well madam, God bless.’ In a supple movement, the horseman climbs into the saddle, his immense dark cloak flapping in the air behind him. The bridle firmly in hand, he nods at the nun and pricks the horse’s sides. A brief neigh of the horse and the pair rides back through the field, in the morning drizzling rain. A curtain of clouds shades the Sun; the lull was short. The sky is grey and dull, the puddles tremble under the thin, delicate drops. “So he was in Leighlinbridge and not in Dubhlinn nor in England as I feared. Thank God” thinks Elizabeth. The worried Sisters come to the door, suddenly fearing the worst had happened, fearing that hope had faded with the sun. Sister Mary presses a shivering hand on Elizabeth’s forearm – she smiles. The day will be brighter now. The five Carmelites wait under the drizzle, the limestone cornice not bothering to shelter them. They scan the fields around the abbey and the plain that slopes down in the valley with inquisitive eyes. Soon, hooves splashing into puddles echo in the fields and reach their ears and gradually fill the morning’s unbroken silence. Elizabeth’s heart beats louder and louder as the hooves are more distinct second after second: twenty years have passed since they last saw each other. The Sisters do not dare step out completely, though they would clearly see who is coming, instead of peering at an empty corner of stone. And without warning the horsemen, led on by John, stop their cavalcade in a burst of mud. ‘Excuse us, Sisters, of this inappropriate early arrival.’ His voice has the same echoes, as far as Elizabeth could remember them, the same mildness in the vowels. John has addressed the Sisters quickly and without ceremony, but he sounds milder as he speaks to the other cavaliers: ‘Good men, I will remain in these premises for the day. If you could go to the castle on this rock we have just passed, you shall find shelter and food. Also, ask the lord if he can share some of his dry wood – the smoke drifts in dull shreds, the supplies of wood must be low and wet.’ ‘Yes, Sir.’ The chorus of coarse voices reminds Elizabeth that John is still a leader of men, even though the crusader in him had long ago forgotten the sword. The group of horsemen noisily departs, leaving the Sisters bedazzled. John finally climbs off the saddle and ties the bridle to some protruding stone. He looks at the sundial: ‘What time of the day is it now? Ah, I do not know what the use of such a thing in this country is.’ Turning to the Sisters he adds: ‘Well, Sisters, we should go in before the rain turns us all into mud, should we not?’ The Sisters do not wait for their Mother to run towards the communal room – the cold is still biting and the vapour they exhale adds to their general feeling of anxiety. Without a look, Friar John invites Mother Elizabeth to enter before him; he follows her into the communal room. ‘Dear Sisters,’ starts John, after Elizabeth has sit down on a low stool, ‘we do not have much time for arguments and soliloquies, for this abbey shall be closed by tomorrow. I am sorry’ he pursues a little louder to cover the Sisters’ first signs of indignation, but the waving hand of Mother Elizabeth puts an end to them. ‘I am sorry for being abrupt, but the reality of the situation exposes us to drastic measures. This decision is not related in any way to the problem a Sister is currently facing.’ Seeing the surprise and horror distorting the traits of the Sisters he adds: ‘As you are theoretically no longer belonging to the Carmel order, you are entitled to speak.’ Once again, all expectant eyes are turned towards Elizabeth. Should they really abandon twenty years or more of silence just at a Friar’s request? ‘I am profoundly sorry, Elizabeth.’ Then, shifting his eyes to the other Sisters, as if discovering their presence for the first time – and realising that their newly-found presence was disturbing, he says: ‘Sisters, will you leave us alone for a short moment?’ ‘No, we will leave them alone.’ The tone of Elizabeth is without appeal, even John is surprised, impressed rather. Elizabeth stands up and walks out of the room, not waiting for the Friar. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

‘Wait for me, Elizabeth, wait!’ ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Her eyes are full of tears; John pretends not to see them – the tears not pretending to be rain. ‘Keep your calm, please – I will not talk to you if you act this way.’ ‘Then I should not be talking to you!’ John is not sure if can make sense out of this – or if he wants to – but he does not have time for this. ‘Listen, I have come as a friend, not as an enemy. I was in Leighlinbridge when I received your missive, and I took my men and rode as fast as I could.’ Elizabeth’s eyes are glittering; her hands are clasped and hidden under her scapula. John is not nervous though he constantly pulls off his gloves to put them on again. Elizabeth flushes. ‘Your pugnacity in ruling this abbey is greatly appreciated, and there is nothing we could reproach you, at any level.’ Elizabeth cries and consciously lets the tears blemish her complexion. John continues: ‘I know it will be hard, there is no other way it can be done. The fate of this abbey does not lie in my hands, but, given the circumstances, I would not do otherwise. Elizabeth, tell me all about the Sister who is ill.’ ‘Let us be decent and go into my cell. Follow me.’ Elizabeth and the Friar leave the corridor, past the barricaded door, past the chapel. Confidently she lets the Friar enter the modest cell. He is instantly taken aback by the light: the large, plain window allows the greatest light to flow into the small, square room. The sun might have at last pierced the cover of the clouds, scattered the rain and might want to flood the country with blessedness. He sits on the straw bed covered by a rough celadon blanket; she sits in front of him on a stool that constitutes the only piece of furniture in the cell. For the first time since he arrived, she has the opportunity to look at his face entirely, anointed by the beam of sunlight. Twenty years later he was still the same, though worries and responsibilities had carved their stigmata upon his face, under the form of a gathering of delicate wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Did she love him still? ‘Tell me all now. When did it start? Is she compos mentis?’ ‘What…what are you trying to tell me?’ ‘Do you think Sister…’ ‘Joan’ ‘Sister Joan could be simply crestfallen? Everybody has a hamartia grafted to his heart, especially a coenobite, and as he or she plunges into the deepest recesses of his soul to find God, he or she discovers something unexpected: what is hidden in one’s human nature.’ ‘What is hamartia?’ ‘It is an inherent flaw, a flaw you are born with, like a chink in a weir that menaces the plain of thoughts.’ Elizabeth is dominated, her look tries to find something worth looking at because she does not want to look at him; she knows she is subdued. Friar John feels her uneasiness, so he approaches, takes her hand in his and speaks, so close to Elizabeth’s close visage. ‘Elizabeth, I am not angry with you and I never was. I may have been if you had renounced your faith in God. I not only come as your paraclete, but also as Friar John to say that I am terribly sorry, to ask your pardon.’ ‘I never wanted to abandon God.’ Elizabeth had prepared herself for twenty long years for this moment, and her mind was solid enough now, strengthened by many anonymous graves, rain, © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

isolation and silence, to undergo this painful and dreaded conversation. ‘You never understood that. I wanted you to marry me and to live our faith still, by going to the church like ordinary people, by helping the church herself. But you think that one cannot prove his faith but by belonging to an order. How do other people do, people who are too poor to belong to a church or to an abbey or to have access to instruction? They still believe in God’s puissance like us. I never wanted you to abandon your faith, that is a thing I never wanted.’ ‘But my commitment and love to God have found a setting in Carmel, you cannot deny this.’ ‘I do not deny it but you –’ ‘Then this discussion is over if you do not want to give your –’ ‘Pardon? My pardon? You had it before sending me here.’ Friar John’s mouth opens but no sound comes: he had not imagined this reaction. His lips remain inert, like his eyes, fixed on Mother Elizabeth’s face. Then, turning his look to the sunlit ground, then again to Elizabeth, he asks weakly: ‘Do you still have feelings for me?’ ‘Not still, de nouveau.’ says she, returning the contemplative stare. ‘Quod fasciendum’ thinks the Friar. Instantly, old feelings resurface, unrequited but too powerful, to ancient to struggle with – his face moves closer to hers, her purpurine lisp like an unpetalled rose attracts his thin, flushing lips. A distant call of a bird pierces the silence, breaks the spell and flutters away. Reality collides headfirst with two refrained souls. An embarrassing silence fills the cell; they both look away; suddenly the shadows lying at their feet seem more interesting. ‘We should be helping Sister Joan,’ starts Elizabeth after a moment, still blushing. ‘Hem…yes, what…what can you tell me?’ stammers John. The floating light reveals Mother Elizabeth, his Elizabeth, in all her pulchritude (as he used to describe her). “I have to steady myself. John, wake up!” screams he in himself. ‘It started yestermonth’ begins Elizabeth, unaware of the fight in the man sitting next to her, ‘when a young man came begging for some food, just before vespers. It was raining. He was soaked to the bones. He took off his clothes and let them dry by the fire.’ ‘Naked?’ ‘He was, yes, as naked as a new-born. But I gave him a blanket to hide his nudity, and I stayed in the room with Sister Joan until the young man took his leave. Nothing happened until after the following evening, at vespers, when Sister Joan did not come to pray.’ ‘Do you think the lad could have entered the abbey without your knowledge?’ ‘What is happening here Friar John, is not a farce, and I hope it is not a quodlibet you will discuss idly with some fellow Friar –’ ‘Scire licet?’ ‘Sister Joan did not have my quietus nor yours to seclude herself in this way. She had no right to pretend to undergo what these admirable crusaders underwent on Mount Carmel.’ ‘Does she have any personal belongings?’ ‘Not to my knowledge. She borrowed the hexateuch from me.’ ‘Does she also read?’ ‘I have taught her, but she learnt to write by herself. Nevertheless, she cannot read where she is: there is no window in her cell.’ © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

‘She has been in complete darkness for four weeks? Why is there no opening in the cell?’ ‘Ask the abbey herself. Perhaps this cell was first designed for prisoners. She herself chose to dwell in this cell to let the other Sisters have ‘the good cells’ in the adjacent wooden building.’ John nods. ‘What is wrong?’ ‘I am afraid that she has inflicted to herself the most painful treatment. By now I reckon she is struck with cecitis.’ ‘Do you mean that she is blind?’ ‘Light is what makes us live, it sustains the whole nature, makes our blood flow in our veins. After a long period in darkness, the body wilts.’ Mother Elizabeth bends her head, crosses herself twice and mutters: ‘God bless her.’ ‘Did you talk to her in propria persona?’ ‘Once. She told me that she could not reveal me what the source of her torment was, notwithstanding she ate more than she spoke; though she ate very little.’ ‘Did she go to the latrines?’ ‘She might have gone out of her cell, but only at night, between Compline and Lauds. To be honest, I don’t think she did, she barely ate…’ ‘Thus you tell me she lived in a chthonian atmosphere of silence, isolation and contemplation for four weeks on; but I wonder if this is too…zealous of her?’ ‘Zealous she is, though perhaps not the most zealous of us, but she is genuinely dedicated to mankind.’ ‘But what she is doing must not be a volition!’ John is still calm, even though now he stands up in the light by the window. The quiescent morning light outside is awe-inspiring. Nobody realised that the rain had really stopped, that the mass of clouds had thawed away, that the cerulean sky of Ireland was revealing its entrails. ‘Mother! Mother!’ The door flings open, Sister Felicity, forgetting every kind of respect, has been running; she is panting for breath, her face is crimsoned and you can see she is dishevelled under her wimple. Nevertheless, hope radiates in her eyes. ‘Mother Elizabeth! Thank God Almighty, Sister Joan is out! She is out! Come quickly!’ she no sooner finishes her sentence that she has already gone. John begins to follow her but suddenly stops on the threshold. ‘Are you not coming Elizabeth?’ says John turning to the nun. In the channel of light, the dark-brown habit of the Sister looks almost white – a sainted trick of the light? Small particles of dust, in suspension in still air, glisten serenely in the light that now embraces the entire cell, seem to be absorbed by the darkness of the shadow. “She looks like a saint.” The saint slowly stands up and walks towards the cowering Friar. The white habit fades away and puts on its duller, original colour, passes by the Friar and walks out of the cell. Friar John walks with a hand on the wall because his eyes are still encumbered by the remanence of the vision he just had. He stumbles from time to time on the uneven floor. Elizabeth leads the way in the less dim corridors and soon the Friar and her stop by Sister Joan’s opened cell. Sister Magdalene is in it. Her face, lit by a dancing candle, looks ghastly in the surrounding darkness; she is nodding. Then she sees Mother Elizabeth and Friar John standing in the entrance. She says laconically: ‘she slept and said her prayers all this time, that is what she says. She says she had to. Go and see her, Mother, she needs comfort.’ With tears in her eyes she resumes her cleaning of the despised room. The darkness in there looks darker, more ominous and more terrible than night herself. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

John feels better now, but his face is still pale. Anyhow, the wings of relief have grown on his back, but not on Elizabeth’s, which explains why she enters the communal room with unhidden apprehension. Unfortunately, she can read the same apprehension and even despair on the face of Sister Mary and Sister Edel. Sister Joan is sitting on a stool, eating the soup Sister Magdalene is giving her with a wooden spoon. “This room is well endowed with a great amount of that extraneous morning light,” thinks Friar John. What strikes Mother Elizabeth is that the back of their habits looks white with sunlight slanting through the windows, but the front and especially the scapula looks darker, almost black, a dark spot in the shadow of her head. Sister Joan raises a hesitant hand to stop the feeding spoon. ‘Mother Elizabeth?’ her voice has a strange echo that remains vibrant and stretches the air into a silent thread. ‘I am sorry.’ The silent breaks in two, right in the middle. “After that the silence will never be the same again,” thinks Sister Edel taking her head in her hands. You will always expect any sound to be these words oscillating In mid-air, crushing years of contrived silence. ‘That is all right, my child.’ Says Elizabeth kindly, but her lips are quivering. John finds a place near the fireplace. His chest is cut in two by the ray of light, which, in the room, looks more like a ray of darkness. Mother Elizabeth walks to Sister Joan and presses her head on her bosom. ‘That is perfectly alright.’ She strokes her wimple maternally, as if she had found a dear child that was lost. ‘But tell us all, please, I cannot suffer not to know.’ Sister Joan hesitates, sighs heavily, crosses herself but tells her story, uninterrupted by her attentive audience, with a voice full of tears and angst. ‘It started the night this young man came. I had a dream, of the prophetic sort. I dreamt that I was dreaming. And in my dream I was asleep. I woke up not knowing if the world was real or not. I was lying on a blanket laid on the bare ground, in what appeared to me to be a cave. I was alone. The air was dry and I could see a very bright light, the sunlight I thought, bathing the entrance of the cave. I stood up but my feet and legs were trembling as if my body was suddenly too heavy, and I felt very weak, so weak I had to sit down on the blanket. This part of the cave was plunged into the darkness, I could not see things, I could just touch the rugged walls and smell the heat that was coming from outside. A hidden fountain was dripping slowly somewhere further at the back of the cave; I could distinctly hear it. My strength was failing me and I felt all my energy drained out of my body by some mysterious but powerful force. Then I heard a caw. I lifted up my head, for I had been forced to lie down and I saw a great raven hopping inside the cave towards me. It was holding something in his beak, something that dripped a sombre, thick liquid. I was too weak to hold my head for longer. I heard the raven hopping along near my head. I instinctively opened my mouth and the raven fed me with the piece of flesh. I knew it was flesh and even though I suspected it to be human flesh, I had no other choice but to eat it. The raven was looking at me in the darkness, was looking at me chewing, chewing, chewing, and swallowing the piece of flesh. His eyes were two beams of dark, silent light. He cawed and flapped his wings to show his satisfaction, but I was expecting his reaction, as if I knew he would do that. Suddenly all my strength was restored and I could get up, though uneasily at first. I was giddy and un-assured in my steps. The raven hopped along with me to the entrance of the cave, and I went out. I had never seen such a landscape before: I was on a mountain relatively high because there was some snow on higher grounds. The raven took flight and soared in the cloudless sky and I looked at him going up, circling once or twice in mid-air, then going down and land on my shoulder. He was as light as a feather, and his feathers were of a shiny black. The sun was high and comforting in the blue, unspotted sky. My sight had not been affected by the darkness and I realised that it was strange, but not as strange as when I felt the urge to take flight in my turn, to vibrate nearer this floating sun. And in an instant I was looking down at the mountain, at the cave. I saw that there were similar caves disseminated in the snowy landscape. My habit was flapping behind me like wings of cloth, beaten by the winds. I was © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

overlooking a rocky path that led to some flat ground, and I knew it was the top of the mountain. I could see human shapes, as small as ants, swarming in the distance – a crowd of human bodies pressing at the feet of the mountain. It was strange because they looked frightened but compelled to stay. The sensation of flying was thrilling, I felt free from every thing and I wanted to go higher and higher, but I was suddenly sucked to the ground. I closed my eyes with fear, but the next second I could feel the warm rocks under my bare feet. They seemed not so reassuring compared to the pleasant freedom of the sky. I don’t know how to put it differently. A group of people that I did not see at first was there, at the top of the mountain, on the relatively even top. They were gathered around a mass of flesh. I came closer to the scene, and the men broke the circle open, allowing me to see. They had sacrificed a bull, a huge bull, and even though I never saw one I knew it was a bull. The beast had a great wound on one rear leg and was bleeding abundantly. I knew where the raven had taken my meal. The bull was dead, but his breath had left him not so long ago. One of the men talked to me but I could not hear what he said. I just thought that this man did not believe in Him, I could feel it, almost touch it. I wanted to grasp it and tear it to shreds. Then the earth shook, twice. The first quaking of the earth was delicate, almost motherly, but the second one was brutal, angry. I could hear the earth complaining for this unrequited sacrifice, she was mortified. So was the sky, because thunder and lightning came and struck one of the men dead. The rest of the group did not give any consideration to his agony, to his cries, though some had fear in their eyes. Then I heard a small voice, almost inaudible through the thunder and earthquakes. The other men could hear it too, and they were filled with awe and they obeyed to the voice. They poured water from great earthen jars around the sacrificed bull, and I saw some drops bouncing off the dry rock to finally melt in the heat. And suddenly the cloudless sky broke open, like a book opening on the starless darkness, and a column of fire descended on the bull, licked the water, and everything disappeared in a flash. It was completely dark. Though I knew I was not blind I could see nothing. I was surrounded by nothingness – I knew that somehow I was in the book – and as long as I stayed there I could hear the zephyrean voice murmuring to me, telling me that the men believed in Him now. The air was dormant and I was flying again, my shadow a speck under me. So I decided to stay there because I belonged there. After a while the great raven came approvingly to me and we flew together, careless. After another while I woke up from all my dreams, but it was dark, though not the same darkness. I cried. I did not know what time of the day or of the night it was, I was confused. All I know is that I wanted to fly again, to fly forever. So I slept and I prayed, because I wanted to return where I belong, in the cave with the great raven, in the book with God. I realised only today that God had allowed me to catch a glimpse of Heaven in order to give me strength so as to deserve it, so as to help people to be worthy of it. I have been foolish to believe it was all due to me and God punished me.’ Sister Joan turns to Mother Elizabeth and opens her eyes. The Mother represses a cry and puts her hand on her mouth. A pale membrane is covering both Sister Joan’s eyes; the blueness of her eyes shadowed by this silent mutilation is still visible, but now it is unbearable. Feeling her Mother’s dismay the blind Sister gets up and embraces her deferentially. For an unknown reason, the atmosphere of silence has come back to the abbey; the Sisters spend their time outside together, in the renewed sun, playing with shades, describing the landscape to Sister Joan, all gathered happily around her. Now that the initial shock has passed, they laugh heartily, almost merrily. Terce, Sext and Nona have passed without their usual prayers, but God does not take it too much at heart, or so it seems for the sun shines restlessly on the land, casting long, large shadows. He even shows a gleaming parhelion on His eye, which causes the delight of the Sisters, who feel sorry good Sister Joan cannot see it. ‘I have many a one, and through your exclamations I can recall their peaceful effects they had upon me.’ So the Sisters do not feel sorry anymore. The sundial lives again, under the auspices of the light. John looks at it. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

‘It is time to leave, Elizabeth.’ ‘Will she remain blind forever?’ ‘To be honest I do not know. The Lord’s ways are impenetrable. The human body is also such a complex machinery it is hard to be certain. Some will resist a malady others will die of in a few days.’ ‘Some dream the same dream but are not affected in the same way.’ ‘Though I doubt it seldom happens.’ ‘I am sure she will recover, she has the faith and the strength.’ Then looking back at the abbey that suddenly looks more impressive than it was, she says: ‘Shall we will leave the abbey like that?’ ‘You do not burn the house of God, even though it was not the Lord’s house at first. I have heard that a Cistercian community might come to Caiseal, the abbey could be a good place for them. Have you gathered all the furniture and belongings?’ ‘Your men have taken the altar in a carriage, and that was the last thing to leave the abbey.’ ‘You shall come with us to Leighlinbridge. All of you.’ Mother Elizabeth looks at him with round eyes that express surprise, but a tranquil surprise. ‘Good’ says she, looking back at the giggling Sisters. ‘They will miss our abbey – I will miss her as well. Why are we going?’ asks Elizabeth, feeling suddenly nostalgic. John gives the answer some thought, as if calculating to avoid any faux pas, but Elizabeth keeps her smile. ‘Caiseal…is not the right place for us. Carmel was founded in light and love – here you have poor light and…the people do not show a great interest in…our way of…expressing our faith. Thus we will throw the veil of mystery and oblivion upon this abbey, and upon our back, and wait for a better time.’ Friar John is looking in the distance, towards the castle, but is holding his breath. Mother Elizabeth seems satisfied by his answer. Friar John sighs. Mother Elizabeth thinks he has been honest and realistic. But one thing is still worrying her, and Friar John knows. He has to ask even if he does not want to, even if he will have to come closer to the truth. Taking courage in the unexpected he asks: ‘What is wrong Elizabeth? Tell me.’ ‘Do you know what happened to us?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I dreamt the same dream as Sister Joan’s, and I would not be surprised if the other Sisters dreamt it as well.’ ‘Really?’ wonders John, trying to hide his discomfort. ‘While Sister Joan was telling it I could feel that Sisters Mary and Edel knew as well as I did.’ ‘It is very surprising of you to confess this to me.’ ‘Honestly, what is your opinion on this? Why did it affect Sister Joan so much when we just marvelled at dreaming such an allegorical and bewildering dream for a whole month?’ ‘Probably because she does not know her origin. It can be very disturbing not to know where you are coming from, who your parents were, why they left you, not to know if they are still alive or if you have any relatives. From what I could glean, my cognitive mind can say nothing concrete about what happened. The quiddity of a dream is ungraspable, as is the quiddity of life or © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

of faith. The answer is within us but we are unable to find it. Strangely Sister Joan found it, but it blinded her. It seems that you have to plunge in the complete darkness of the soul to find it. And I believe it has to do with skiamachy and with winning that fight.’ ‘What does that mean?’ asks Elizabeth, a little taunting at such a useless display of wit. ‘It means ‘fighting with shadows’’ ‘I think fighting with shadows is the most dreadful and demanding thing, if we have the courage to fight to the end as Sister Joan did.’ ‘There is nothing truer than what you have just said, Elizabeth, but I think we are all fighting our personal daemons, our shadows from the past, the present or the future, and we do this every day, without even thinking not to fight.’ ‘You may be right.’ “But,” she thinks, “It may be otherwise.” Because deep in herself she believes that Sister Joan is exceptional, unlike other people, and that to overcome the shadows is not given to everyone, or at least even to recognise that we have to fight is not given to everyone. Elizabeth is stopped in her thinking by an empty carriage appearing from one side of the Castle, in the background. The group of elated Sisters only sees the carriage when it stops at the edge of the field. The Sisters stop playing at once, and help their now inseparable Sister walk through the muddy grass. John offers his arm to Elizabeth who does not refuse it. They walk. She looks happier than she ever was. ‘Why did you come not and visit us for all this time?’ ‘…I was afraid…and ashamed.’ ‘Because you loved me?’ ‘Because I could have done otherwise; but we shall try and retrieve the time that was lost.’ ‘Will we talk like in the good old days?’ John stays silent, embarrassed; his nether lip drops. ‘We could, yes.’ ‘Would you marry me?’ Elizabeth’s former boldness and straightforwardness resurface. Follows another embarrassing silence, which lasts longer. They are nearly at the carriage. ‘Would you abandon your position, your order?’ John is febrile, torn. ‘I suppose not. The time is passed.’ Elizabeth tightens her hands round the Friar’s arm. She was not hoping; she simply wanted to know. She sighs noisily. ‘Shall we go, Sisters?’ ‘Yes!’ the chorus is unanimous. Even Sister Joan is cheerful. The blueness glitters behind the veil. The carriage rides away from the lonely abbey, on the cracked, tortuous road that skirts around the field. The Sisters and the Friar are tossed against each other. ‘We will arrive in Leighlinbridge by vespers’ says a cheerful Friar John to the group of Carmelites. Even him is not impenetrable by mirth. ‘This early?’ shrills Sister Edel. ‘Sister, the beasts you see pulling this carriage are horses’ cuts Sister Magdalene. ‘Really?’ wonders Sister Edel. ‘Oh my –’ ‘Sister!’ shout Sisters Mary and Felicity. Surprised, Sister Magdalene reddens with shame. Suddenly all the Sisters laugh at each other. Friar John and Mother Elizabeth are not long to join in. They are happy. They talk now, but soon they will have a renewed ardour, a stronger faith and an inalterable devotion in silence. John talks to the man who rides the carriage. © Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009

The carriage reaches the top of the rock on which seats the Castle. Elizabeth looks down at the abbey, for after that hill they will not be able to see her again. She will bumpily sink in the curvy path. From there the limestone building looks ominous, but the stones sparkle in the afternoon light. Its bulky shadow is breaking on the declivities of the ground, on stones, on mud. A dark brown spot appears besides the grey abbey, easily distinguishable from the puddles on the washed ground. This is the grave of the anonymous infant. The mud has dried but it is still soft. Later, when the moon for her nightly duty will replace the sun, a long-eared owl will pierce the deafening silence with its call, and will land on the grave. Thus the anonymous infant shall be solitary no more, and shall be able to claim a name. The owl will approvingly look at the grave with its bright, yellow eyes; then it will leave the lifeless child for a moment to find food, but will never leave the infant alone for too long. Thus shall be the shadowy nights near the abbey. As for now, Mother Elizabeth is pensive. The dark spot of ploughed earth may be her answer, or may not be, but still she gazes at it and murmurs: ‘fighting with shadows.’

© Copyright Rodolphe Blet 2009