Book of Lost Threads (10 page)

The outdoor activity had made him hungry, but Michael found that he could eat only half his modest portion. He felt guilty, like a child, and waited to be admonished, but his plate was collected without comment. As he left the table he was summoned once more to Father Jerome’s office.

‘How are your hands?’ the abbot asked as they sat down. Michael showed his red, swollen palms. ‘After this, go and see Father Timothy at the infirmary. Some of those blisters are broken and we don’t want them to become infected.’

Michael didn’t care, but he nodded.

The priest went on: ‘I’ve spoken to your mother and told her you want to stay with us for a while. That
is
what you want, isn’t it?’

Michael nodded again.

‘We’re happy for you to stay, but we need to set the ground rules.’

Michael wasn’t going to argue. Rules were good. Rules meant you didn’t have to make decisions. ‘Firstly, Michael, you are free to go whenever you want, and we are also free to ask you to leave.’ Michael’s eyes widened in panic, and Jerome was quick to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry. We aren’t going to do that for a while yet. But I must ask what you expect of us.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Absolution, maybe? Aren’t priests supposed to have the power to forgive?’

‘Would our forgiveness help?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so. Not really.’

‘Stay a while. Work with Brother Kevin. Pray if you can. And keep our rule of silence. At first you’ll want to talk, to fill the silence, but if you pay attention, eventually the silence will fill you. That’s all we can offer you. But it’s a powerful thing.’

‘Thank you, Father. I’d like to stay, if that’s okay.’

Jerome became businesslike. ‘I’m pleased. But we do have another problem: we already have a Michael in the monastery. It’s not uncommon to choose a new name here. Do you have another name we can use for your stay?’

Michael thought for a moment. ‘What about Finbar? That’s my second name.’

‘Finbar it is, then. Saint Finbar was Bishop of Cork, you know. But he spent most of his life as a monk. Off you go, Finbar, and let Father Timothy deal with those hands.’

Finn spent nearly four months at the monastery. The days unfolded quietly and rhythmically as the monks went about their liturgical tasks at the appointed hours. The days were measured in units of prayer: Matins, Lauds, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline.

In awe of Jerome, Finn came to love Kevin and Boniface. Boniface said very little, even at the times appointed for social intercourse, but his faded blue eyes looked out on the world, and on the damaged Finn, with a candour, a beneficence, a simple goodness that was innate. Finn wanted to be like Boniface more than anyone he had ever met.

Jerome was Finn’s counsellor and Boniface his spiritual mentor, but Kevin was his friend. Kevin was different from the other monks. An irascible fellow, he spent much of his time trying to atone for his impatience. Jerome had given the garden to his keeping to help him find the tranquillity that so often eluded him, but it didn’t always work.

‘I don’t know why they keep me here,’ he would say ruefully, after another outburst directed at the recalcitrant tractor.

Finn would grin. ‘Neither do I, old mate. Perhaps it’s the vegies. Or maybe the wine.’

In the tradition of Saint Benedict, the monastery had a vineyard and produced its own boutique wines; Kevin also worked in the vineyard. On Sundays, the monks were allowed social conversation from lunchtime to Compline and could enjoy a glass of wine or beer with their meals. Finn was surprised to find himself listening more than talking.

‘My name wasn’t always Kevin, of course,’ said the monk. ‘I was baptised Matthew, but when I came here there was already a Matthew, so they told me to pick a saint. I wasn’t too good on the old saints, but I said,
What about Kevin?
I didn’t tell Father Jerome, but it was for Kevin Sheedy. You know, the footballer? He wasn’t the best player ever, but he was a determined bugger. A good role model for me. I haven’t found it easy, being a monk.’ He took a large gulp of beer. ‘Good old Sheeds. I remember one game against Collingwood—we were three points down. There were seconds left on the clock. Well, Sheeds had been winded only minutes before, but he just snatches the ball out of the air and wham! Straight through the goalposts just as the siren goes.’ Kevin’s eyes shone with admiration. ‘Lucky for me,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘it turned out there really was a Saint Kevin.’

‘What made you come here?’ Finn was puzzled. The man seemed to lack the spiritual dimension that was evident, to one degree or another, in all the other monks he had met.

‘Funny you should ask. I’m an electrician by trade. Had my own little business and everything. I went to church but was never particularly religious. In some ways I came here kicking and screaming, but he got me in the end.’

‘Father Jerome?’

‘No—God.’ Kevin was suddenly shy. ‘I had a calling, you see, and in the end I knew I had to come.’

‘I don’t think I believe in God.’

‘Doesn’t matter, mate. As long as He believes in you.’

Finn’s talks with Boniface were different, but imbued with the same strong faith. He spent an hour a day, four days a week, with the old man, usually sitting in the little summerhouse in the front garden. Boniface spoke slowly, as though weighing the value of each word.

‘God has already forgiven you,’ he said once. ‘Your task now is to learn to forgive yourself.’

‘That’s easier said than done.’

The monk remained silent.

‘I mean, how can I do that? Can’t you help me?’

‘I wish I could, Finbar, but we all have to find redemption in our own way. Sit with me a while. The answer is in your heart and you will only hear the voice of your heart when all other thoughts are silent.’

Finn had never met anyone like Boniface and tried to define his unique qualities. Was he an ascetic? Not really. Asceticism suggested a remoteness, a severity, that was the antithesis of the genuine human warmth complementing the spirituality that lit Boniface from within. On that first night, he had humbly served Finn soup and made up his bed before bestowing a blessing. He could sit with Finn in a silence that was more powerful than words, but when he spoke, his message was simple and compassionate. The more time he spent with Boniface, the more Finn sensed that his humanity and spirituality were one.

He offered these thoughts to Kevin one day when they were working in the garden. ‘Father Boniface is amazing. He hardly says anything when I meet with him, but I always come away—refreshed. What’s his secret, do you think?’

Kevin leaned on his shovel. ‘Boniface is unique,’ he said. ‘A saint, in his own way. He’s managed to cut through all the palaver, all the crap, and see things with the eyes of faith. Look here.’ Kevin indicated the garden. ‘What do you see here, Finn?’

‘A vegie patch.’

‘Yes?’

‘Beans, carrots, zucchini, tomatoes . . .’

‘Yes?’

Finn was at a loss. ‘An
organic
vegie patch?’

‘All that. But do you know what Boniface sees here?’

Finn shook his head.

‘He sees this garden as a little world with its insects, worms, plants, the earth itself—all part of God’s creation. I’ll never forget the first time we met. There he was, one of the most senior and learned priests in the Order and here was I, a nobody, with dirty hands and muddy boots, smelling of manure. Do you know what he said?
How blessed you are to be young and
strong, Brother Kevin, doing the work of God in your garden. How
wonderful to be an instrument of His creation.
’ Kevin thrust his spade into the earth once more. ‘What I’m trying to say, Finn, is that Boniface is the most Christ-like person I’ve ever met. Or am ever likely to meet.’

Finn looked at the garden again and continued to dig with a new reverence.

He had found some peace in his time at the monastery, but the silent reproach of Amber-Lee’s ghost still haunted Finn. Although it happened less often, there were still nights when he awoke with a vision of a single shoe or a bloody sheet, or the taste of damp earth filling his mouth and nose.

‘It’s called post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD,’ Father Jerome had told him. ‘You’re having what are known as “flashbacks”. It’s hard to control their frequency, and the triggers are often quite unpredictable. PTSD is common among soldiers who’ve seen action. After the First World War they called it “shell-shock”. No-one understood it then, but we’re making some progress. If it continues, you may be able to learn to control it, but there’s no cure as such.’

On the Feast of Saint Benedict, Finn went to the chapel for the first time. There had been no pressure to attend, but he felt that it was a mark of respect to honour the founder of the Order. It was also Open Day at the monastery, and his parents arrived after lunch. They were pleased to see him so much calmer. He was still thin and had become a little stooped from his work in the garden, but they saw there was a new, outdoors toughness in his body, and a healthy ruddiness in his cheeks.

‘Time to come home?’ enquired his mother hopefully.

Finn was evasive. He had a plan, and needed to discuss it with Father Jerome. ‘I’ll stay a while yet,’ he replied. ‘I have to help Kevin prepare the winter garden.’

‘Whatever you think best, darling.’ His mother was in her mid-seventies and the events of the last six months had sapped her strength. ‘Just ring us when you’re ready.’

His father clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you so much better, son.’

Finn made an appointment to see Father Jerome the next day. He dressed carefully, and felt a churning in his gut as he entered the abbot’s room.

Father Jerome put down his pen and looked up as Finn, red-faced and a little flustered, took his customary seat facing the painting of Saint Benedict that hung behind the abbot’s desk.

‘Good morning, Finbar.’

Finn had rehearsed the moment and finally decided that it was best to just say what he wanted without preamble. After briefly returning the greeting, he plunged in: ‘Father Jerome, I’d like to become a Benedictine.’ He beamed. ‘Like you,’ he added, unnecessarily.

Jerome sighed. He’d been afraid of this: Finbar’s mother had warned him that her son was inclined to exaggerated gestures, so he proceeded warily. He didn’t want the work of the last months undone. ‘Now, why do you say that, my son?’

‘Because I want to be like you. And Father Boniface. Or even Brother Kevin.’

‘Why do you think
we’re
here, Finbar?’

‘Because . . . because, you know . . . like Kevin says, you’ve been called.’

‘Have you been called, Finbar?’

‘I think so—how can I tell?’

‘You know, all right.’ Jerome returned to the original question. ‘You haven’t really answered me, Finbar. Why do you think we’re here? What is our
purpose
?’

‘You help people like me?’

‘Not as many as you might imagine.’

‘You live a good life.’

‘That’s possible anywhere.’

‘You work. Kevin has his garden. Timothy has his infirmary. Ambrose has his wine-making. Boniface has . . .’ What did Boniface have? Finn felt he was on shifting ground. ‘Well. Boniface is Boniface.’

‘Boniface is a rarity—a truly holy man. The rest of us, Finbar, are trying. Our main work here is our relationship with God. You’ve seen the Latin inscription at the entrance to the chapel?
Orare est laborare, laborare est orare.
It means:
To pray is to work and to work is to pray.
Prayer is the centre of our lives. That’s what it’s all about. Prayer. Do you pray, Finbar? You rarely come to the chapel.’

Finn hung his head miserably. ‘I’m not a believer, Father. You know that.’

Jerome smiled. ‘Then there’d be many times during the day when you’d have real trouble being a Benedictine.’ His voice sobered. ‘Look, when you came here, your condition was acute; now you’re in the chronic phase, and you have to learn to cope with life again. You won’t recover yourself here, Finbar. This isn’t a place to hide from life. We’ve done as much as we can. You’re strong enough now. It’s time you thought of leaving.’

Stricken, Finn returned to his cottage and looked around at the sparse furniture, his blue coffee mug, his few books, and the plain white bedspread visible through the open door of the bedroom. Out of the window, he could see a honeyeater perched on the bottlebrush and, in the near paddock, Kevin berating the hapless tractor. Walking away from the main cloister, Finn had felt angry and abandoned.
So that’s it. They pick you up and
throw you out like so much garbage.
Now, in this little place where he had lain each night with his brokenness, the anger turned to sadness. Not grief, he thought, surprised. Just a deep sadness and sense of loss.

Weariness suddenly turned his limbs to liquid, and he went into his bedroom to lie down. It seemed like hours before his head finally rested on the pillow and the viscous substance that was his body found the hollows and contours of his bed. Jerome didn’t find him worthy. He turned onto his side and looked at the simple crucifix on the wall. He willed himself to believe. He prayed:
If you are there, make me believe
. But the plaster face, glazed with pain, was turned away. It was then that Finn accepted what he’d known in his heart all along. This was a monastery of Catholic monks whose lives were dedicated to serving a god he couldn’t acknowledge. Father Jerome was right. It was time to go.

He left a few days later, again on a bus. Despite his professed love for the sea, he perversely turned inland, partly as a self-imposed penance and partly because he was attracted by a name attached to a tiny speck on the map. He had studied the towns along the bus route, looking for something small. Passing on the provincial city of Cradletown and the prominent town of Mystic, he found what he was seeking halfway between the two larger centres. Opportunity. That would be his destination.

Before he left, Kevin shook his hand.

‘I’ll miss you, old mate. Just like you to go off when there’s work to be done.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘You look after yourself now, and don’t forget all I taught you about vegies.’