of the routine quarterly examination we found silver threads sewn into his chasuble.”
“Silver threads?”
“What else? For video transmission. I personally conducted an investigation among the communicants.”
“Thank you,” I said, “that’ll do. I get the picture. You may go now, Brother.”
“But, but I haven’t begun to—”
“Dismissed!”
The monk stood at attention, about-faced, marched off. I was left alone. So … religion here was no extracurricular activity, no harmless hobby, but another front for the usual business? The little finger twitched—I reached over and grabbed it, but it broke loose and rolled into a fold in the flag, lying there like a little pink sausage. I picked it up and examined it closely: it was an inflated membrane, the wrinkles and nail painted on in great detail. What sort of prosthetic device was this? Hearing footsteps, I quickly pocketed the object. Several people entered the chapel, carrying a wreath. I retreated behind a column and watched them arrange funeral ribbons with gold letters. A priest appeared at the altar and an acolyte adjusted his vestments. I looked over my shoulder: beneath a bas-relief of Peter Renouncing Christ was a small door. Behind the door I found a narrow passageway that turned to the left. At the end of it, before a large alcove containing a few steps that led to a door, a monk in cowl and sandals sat upon a three-legged stool and turned the pages of his breviary with gnarled fingers. When he lifted his eyes and looked at me, I could see that he was very old. The skullcap sat on his bald head like a patch of mud.
“Where does this go?” I asked, indicating the door.
“Eh?” he croaked, cupping his ear.
“Where does this door lead to?” I shouted, bending over him. A flash of understanding lit his sunken face.
“Nowhere, it don’t lead to nowhere… It’s a cell, Father Marfeon’s cell … our hermit.”
“What?”
“A cell, a cell.”
“May I see the hermit then?” I asked. The old monk nodded.
“Yes, this here is our hermitage.”
I hesitated, then walked up and opened the door to a dim antechamber cluttered with all sorts of junk—dirty sacks, onion skins, empty jars, sausage rings, ashes and old papers strewn about the floor. Only the center of the room had been swept, or rather, there were a few clean places to put one’s foot. I reached the other door, stepping gingerly through the debris, and turned a heavy iron handle. Inside, there was shuffling, whispering. By the light of a single candle somewhere on the floor I saw shadowy figures scurry about, crouch in the comers, scuttle under crooked tables or cots. Someone blew out the candle and there were angry whispers and grunts in the darkness. The air was heavy with the stale smell of unwashed bodies. I beat a hasty retreat. When I passed the old monk, he lifted his eyes from the prayer book.
“Father Marfeon see you?” he rasped.
“He’s sleeping,” I said, and hurried on. The voice followed me down the hall:
“You come the first time, he’s sleeping, but the second time, then you’ll see…”
I went back through the chapel. The funeral rites were apparently over; the casket, flags and wreaths were gone. Mass too was over. A priest stood in the dim pulpit and admonished the congregation:
“…for it is written: And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season! ” The preacher’s shrill voice reverberated beneath the high-domed ceiling: “ For a season it is written—and where does the devil hide for a season? In that Red Sea that courses through our veins? Or perhaps in Nature? But, O my brothers, are we not ourselves Nature, Nature without end? Does not the rustle of her trees echo in our bones? Is our human blood less salty than the waters of the sea that carve great caverns of lime and chalk, great skeletons beneath the waves? Does not the everlasting fire of the desert bum in our hearts? And are we not, in
“Silver threads?”
“What else? For video transmission. I personally conducted an investigation among the communicants.”
“Thank you,” I said, “that’ll do. I get the picture. You may go now, Brother.”
“But, but I haven’t begun to—”
“Dismissed!”
The monk stood at attention, about-faced, marched off. I was left alone. So … religion here was no extracurricular activity, no harmless hobby, but another front for the usual business? The little finger twitched—I reached over and grabbed it, but it broke loose and rolled into a fold in the flag, lying there like a little pink sausage. I picked it up and examined it closely: it was an inflated membrane, the wrinkles and nail painted on in great detail. What sort of prosthetic device was this? Hearing footsteps, I quickly pocketed the object. Several people entered the chapel, carrying a wreath. I retreated behind a column and watched them arrange funeral ribbons with gold letters. A priest appeared at the altar and an acolyte adjusted his vestments. I looked over my shoulder: beneath a bas-relief of Peter Renouncing Christ was a small door. Behind the door I found a narrow passageway that turned to the left. At the end of it, before a large alcove containing a few steps that led to a door, a monk in cowl and sandals sat upon a three-legged stool and turned the pages of his breviary with gnarled fingers. When he lifted his eyes and looked at me, I could see that he was very old. The skullcap sat on his bald head like a patch of mud.
“Where does this go?” I asked, indicating the door.
“Eh?” he croaked, cupping his ear.
“Where does this door lead to?” I shouted, bending over him. A flash of understanding lit his sunken face.
“Nowhere, it don’t lead to nowhere… It’s a cell, Father Marfeon’s cell … our hermit.”
“What?”
“A cell, a cell.”
“May I see the hermit then?” I asked. The old monk nodded.
“Yes, this here is our hermitage.”
I hesitated, then walked up and opened the door to a dim antechamber cluttered with all sorts of junk—dirty sacks, onion skins, empty jars, sausage rings, ashes and old papers strewn about the floor. Only the center of the room had been swept, or rather, there were a few clean places to put one’s foot. I reached the other door, stepping gingerly through the debris, and turned a heavy iron handle. Inside, there was shuffling, whispering. By the light of a single candle somewhere on the floor I saw shadowy figures scurry about, crouch in the comers, scuttle under crooked tables or cots. Someone blew out the candle and there were angry whispers and grunts in the darkness. The air was heavy with the stale smell of unwashed bodies. I beat a hasty retreat. When I passed the old monk, he lifted his eyes from the prayer book.
“Father Marfeon see you?” he rasped.
“He’s sleeping,” I said, and hurried on. The voice followed me down the hall:
“You come the first time, he’s sleeping, but the second time, then you’ll see…”
I went back through the chapel. The funeral rites were apparently over; the casket, flags and wreaths were gone. Mass too was over. A priest stood in the dim pulpit and admonished the congregation:
“…for it is written: And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season! ” The preacher’s shrill voice reverberated beneath the high-domed ceiling: “ For a season it is written—and where does the devil hide for a season? In that Red Sea that courses through our veins? Or perhaps in Nature? But, O my brothers, are we not ourselves Nature, Nature without end? Does not the rustle of her trees echo in our bones? Is our human blood less salty than the waters of the sea that carve great caverns of lime and chalk, great skeletons beneath the waves? Does not the everlasting fire of the desert bum in our hearts? And are we not, in
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