Crooked Vows by John Watt Page A

half-decent scone. Sometimes I think they deliberately leave them out in the weather for a day or two to toughen them up. Mortification of the flesh. I wish they’d stick to mortifying their own flesh, and treat mine a bit more gently. I tell you, m’boy, there’s a devil of a lot more a parish priest needs to know, over and above what they teach you at the seminary.’

4
    The Feast of Saint Sabas
    Thomas sits stiffly upright, perching on the edge of the bulky, leather-covered chair. His legs are thrust straight out in front of him, knees tight together. His copy of Lives of the Saints rests symmetrically across them. He glances up. Macpherson is looking him over with the faintest of smiles.
    â€˜Well, now. Your first task is to relax. To begin with, sit back in your chair. That’s better. Now let your arms and legs lose their tension. That’s a great deal better. But look at your hands.’
    Thomas looks down. His hands are clenched into tight fists; he had no awareness of it. He loosens his fingers.
    â€˜That’s better still. Now close your eyes. Sit like that for a couple of minutes. Think of nothing. Or better, imagine yourself sitting in a bare room. No furniture, no doors, no windows, no pictures, no people. Just plain white walls and ceiling and floor.’
    He sneaks his eyes open to a slit. Macpherson is jotting in his notebook. What could he be writing? He closes his eyes again, to see whiteness. It seems to be a long time.
    â€˜That’s fine—you seem much more relaxed. Open your eyes now, and pick up your book.’
    Thomas hoists himself forward onto the edge of his chair.
    â€˜No, no. Sit back again. Take another minute or so to be properly relaxed again. Now the book. I think you said that it’s organised according to the calendar. What was the first day that seems to be missing from your memories?’
    â€˜The beginning of December. The first. I forget what day of the week.’
    â€˜Perhaps the day of the week is not important. Open the book at the first of December and we shall see what comes to light. If anything.’
    Thomas leafs through the pages. ‘Here it is, 1st December. The feast of Saint Sabas, abbot, 532 AD. That would be the year of his death.’
    â€˜Saint Sabas. Well, now, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him. 532 A.D.; that’s a longish time ago. No doubt I shall find this very informative. This is what I want you to do. Read the story of the life of Saint Sabas. Read it aloud. Sit back and relax while you are reading. But try to be alert for any images or thoughts that come to mind from the last time you read this story. Anything. Any memories that emerge: where you were, what you saw, or heard, or felt or smelled. Don’t worry if it seems trivial. It might be only an itch on your ankle or a mosquito buzzing in your ear. Anything at all. When you finish the story you can tell me about whatever has floated to the surface.’
    Macpherson sits back in his chair. Thomas begins.
    Saint Sabas, one of the most renowned patriarchs of the monks of Palestine, was born at Mutalasca, in Cappadocia, not far from Caesarea, the capital, in 439 [A.D.] . The name of his father was John, that of his mother, Sophia, both were pious, and of illustrious families. The father was an officer in the army, and being obliged to go to Alexandria, in Egypt, took his wife with him, and recommended his son Sabas, with the care of his estate, to Hermias, the brother of his wife. This uncle’s wife used the child so harshly that, three years after, he went to an uncle, Gregory, brother to his father, hoping there to live in peace.
    Gregory having the care of the child, demanded also the administration of his estate, whence great lawsuits and animosities arose between the two uncles. Sabas, who was of a mild disposition, took great offence at these discords about so contemptible a thing as earthly riches, and, the grace