Remote. Secluded.
Peaceful.
Glancing toward the pine tree-studded hill, you might suspect that the partly hidden structure, with its gleaming wood, was a millionaire’s retreat, a forest hideaway where the pressures of business could be relieved by who could imagine what distractions.
Or possibly the building was a ski resort, closed till the snow fell. Or…
But from just driving by, of course, you could never know. There was neither a mailbox nor a sign at the gate, and the gate itself had a thick chain holding it in place—an even thicker lock. The lane on the other side was weedgrown, squeezed by bushes and drooping pines. To be sure, you could always ask at the maple syrup factory if your curiosity lasted till then, but you’d only feel more frustrated as a result. The workers there, true New Englanders, were willing to talk to strangers about the weather but not about their own or their neighbor’s business. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyhow. They didn’t know, either, though there were rumors.
2
From the air, the structure on the hill was larger than the view from the road suggested. Indeed, an elevated vantage point revealed that the building wasn’t alone. Smaller buildings—otherwise hidden by pine trees—formed three sides of a square, the fourth of which was the lodge itself. Enclosed by the square was a lawn. Two white-stone walkways intersected at its middle, bordered by flower gardens, trees, and shrubs. The effect was one of balance and order, symmetry, proportion. Soothing. Even the smaller buildings, though joined like rows of townhouses, had small peaked roofs in imitation of the larger peaked roof on the lodge.
Despite the expanse of the estate, however, remarkably few people showed themselves down there. The tiny figure of a groundskeeper tended the lawn. Two miniature workmen harvested apples from an orchard outside one line of buildings. A wisp of smoke rose from a bonfire in a considerable vegetable garden flanking the opposite line of buildings. With so sizable a commitment to agriculture, the estate presumably had many residents, yet except for those few signs of life, the place seemed deserted. If there were guests, it hardly seemed natural for them to ignore the pleasure of this bright crisp autumn day. To remain indoors, they must surely have an important reason.
But then the seclusion of the inhabitants was part of the mystery about this place. Since 1951, when teams of construction workers had arrived from somewhere—not from the local town, though whoever was funding the project at least had the goodness to buy a decent amount of supplies from there—the citizens of Quentin had wondered what was happening on that hill. When the workers put up the gate and departed, the local busybodies noted a fascinating pattern. They recalled stories they’d recently read about the development of the atomic bomb in New Mexico at the end of the war. The government had built a small town on a mountain there, it was said. The local communities had therefore hoped for an increase in business; but they’d waited in vain, for the strange thing was that people went onto that mountain, but—as with the estate on this hill—they didn’t come down.
3
The unit, one of twenty in the complex, each the same, consisted of two levels. On the bottom, a workroom contained whatever equipment its occupant had chosen to use to pass his leisure time. In other parts of the complex, some perhaps painted or sculpted or wove, possibly worked with wood and carpentry tools. Or, since each unit had a small private garden enclosed by a wall, adjacent to the workroom, some might practice horticulture, perhaps growing roses.
In the present case, the occupant had chosen exercise and composition. He knew that he couldn’t concentrate if his body was not in condition. Indeed, in his former life he’d been intensely devoted to the principles of Zen, aware that exercise itself was spiritual. Each day for an hour he lifted weights, skipped rope, performed calisthenics, and rehearsed the katas or dance steps of the Oriental martial arts. He did all this with humility, taking no satisfaction in the perfection of his physique, for he realized that his body was but an instrument of his soul. In fact, the effect of his daily workouts had little obvious result. His torso was lean, ascetic, low on the protein his muscles required to replace the tissue his exercise wore down. He ate no meat. On Friday, he took only bread and water. Some days, he ate nothing. But his discipline gave him strength.
His compositions fulfilled another purpose. During his early months here, he’d been tempted to write about his motive for coming, to purge himself, to vent his anguish. But his need to forget was greater. To relieve the pressure of his urge for self-expression, he’d written haikus first, an understandable choice given his sympathy with Zen. He selected topics with no relevance to what disturbed him—the song of a bird, the breath of the wind. But the nature of a haiku, its complicated tension based on purity and brevity, led him to greater attempts at compression and refinement until no statement at all seemed the perfect haiku, and he stared past his pen toward the vacuum of a barren page. Compulsively, he’d switched to the sonnet form, alternating between Shakespearean and Petrarchan, each with a different rhyme scheme, both demanding a perfect organization of fourteen lines. The problem of that intricate puzzle was enough to occupy him. More interested in how he wrote than what he wrote, he expressed himself about minuscule matters and was able to forget the troubling great ones. He wrote as best he could, not out of pride, but out of respect for the puzzle. Even so, he knew that eloquence eluded him. Perhaps in another unit of this complex, an occupant had—like himself—become engaged with poetry. Perhaps that other occupant had produced such perfectly beautiful sonnets that they rivaled those of Shakespeare and Petrarch themselves.
It wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing any occupant devised—paintings, statues, tapestries, or furniture—had any value. All were insignificant. When the men who fashioned them died, they were placed on a board and buried in an unmarked grave, and the objects they left behind, their clothes, their few belongings, their sonnets, even a skipping rope, were destroyed. It would be as if they had never existed.
4
The psychiatrist, as expected, had been a priest. He’d worn the traditional black suit and white collar, his face somewhat wrinkled, bullet-gray, as he lit a cigarette and peered at Drew from across his desk.
“You understand the gravity of your request.”
“I’ve considered it carefully.”
“You made your decision—when?”
“Three months ago.”
“And you waited…?”
“Till now. To analyze the implications. Naturally I had to be sure.”
The priest inhaled from his cigarette, thoughtful, studying Drew. His name was Father Hafer. He was in his late forties, his short hair the same bullet-gray color as his face. Exhaling smoke, he made an offhanded gesture with the cigarette. “Naturally. The other side of the issue is, how can we be sure? Of your commitment? Of your determination and resolve?”
“You can’t.”
“Well, there it is then.”
“But I can, and that’s what matters. This is what I need. I’ve resigned myself.”
“To what?”
“Not ‘to.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“From.” Drew nodded toward the clamorous Boston street beyond the first-floor window of this rectory office.
“Everything? The world?”
Drew didn’t respond.
“Of course, that’s what the eremitical life is all about. Withdrawal,” Father Hafer said and shrugged. “Still, a negative attitude isn’t sufficient. Your motive has to be positive as well. Seeking, not merely fleeing.”
“Oh, I’m seeking all right.”
“Indeed?” The priest raised his eyebrows. “For what?”
“Salvation.”
Father Hafer considered him, exhaling smoke. “An admirable answer.” He brushed an ash from his cigarette into a metal tray. “So quick to the lips, so readily given. Have you been religious long?”
“For the past three months.”
“And before?”
; Again Drew didn’t respond.
“You are a Roman Catholic?”
“I was baptized into the faith. My parents were quite religious.” Suddenly remembering how they’d died, he felt his throat ache. “We went to church often. Mass. The Stations of the Cross. I received the sacraments up through confirmation, and you know what they say about confirmation. It made me a soldier of Christ.” Drew bitterly smiled. “Oh, I believed.”
“And after that?”
“The term is ‘lapsed.’”
“Have you made your Easter duty?’”
“Not in thirteen years.”
“You understand what that means?”
“By not going to confession and communion before Easter, I in effect resigned from the faith. I’ve been unofficially excommunicated.”
“And put your soul in immortal peril.”
“That’s why I’ve come to you. To save myself.”
“You mean your soul,” Father Hafer said.
“That’s right. That’s what I meant.”
They studied each other. The priest leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, his eyes somewhat brighter with interest. “Of course … let’s review the information you provided on this form. You say that your name is Andrew MacLane.”
“It’s sometimes shortened to Drew.”
“But if we agree to accept your application, that name will be taken from you. Like everything else you own—a car, for example, or a house—your identity will need to be abandoned. In effect, you’ll be no one. You’re aware of that?”
Drew raised his shoulders. “So what’s in a name?” He allowed the bitter smile to appear now. “A rose by any other name…”
“Or by none,” the priest said, “would smell as sweet. But to the nose of God…”
“We don’t exactly smell like roses. I don’t, anyhow. That’s why I applied. To purify myself.”
“You’re thirty-one?”
“Correct.” Drew hadn’t lied. All the information he’d provided on the form was verifiable, as he knew the priest would take pains to discover. What mattered was what he hadn’t put down on the form.
“The prime of life,” Father Hafer said. “Indeed, even a few years before it if we use thirty-three as the appropriate age for coming into one’s own. You’re dismissing the possibilities of the road ahead of you. Throwing away your potential, as it were.”
“No, I don’t think of it that way.”
“Then…?”
“I’ve already discovered my potential.”
“And?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate.”
Drew glanced at the floor.
“Eventually you’ll have to.” Father Hafer seemed troubled. “But never mind. For now, we have other matters to discuss. Our applicants are usually past their maturity, to use a delicate phrase, when they make their request.” He shrugged. “Of course, very few request, and even fewer…”
“Are chosen. Less than five hundred worldwide. And here in the United States, only twenty, I believe.”
“Good, I see that you’ve done your homework. The point is—to use a less delicate term—most of those men are old.” Father Hafer stubbed out his cigarette. “They’ve pursued their ambitions. They’ve accomplished, and sometimes haven’t, their worldly aims. Now they’re ready to spend their dwindling years in retirement. Their decision, though extreme, can be viewed as natural. But you—so young, so robust. Women no doubt find you attractive. Have you considered the implications of giving up female companionship?”
With a stab of longing, he remembered Arlene. “You gave it up.”
“I gave up sexual relations.” Father Hafer sat straighter. “Not female companionship. I encounter women many times a day. A waitress in a restaurant. A clerk at the medical library. A secretary of one of my lay colleagues. All perfectly innocent. The sight of women, rather than tempting me, makes my vow of chastity seem less severe. But if we accede to your request, you’ll never see a woman again, and very few men, and even then rarely. I emphasize. For the rest of your life, what you’re asking to be is a hermit.”
5
The unit’s second level, reached by crude pine stairs, consisted of three sections. First the oratory, otherwise known as the “Ave Maria” room, where a simple wooden pew, its kneeler an unpadded board, faced an austere altar with a crucifix on the wall. Beyond it was the study—sacred texts, a table and chair—and then the sleeping quarters—a wood stove, but no bed, just an inch-thick woven-hemp pallet.
The pallet was six feet long and three feet wide. It could easily have been rolled up and placed downstairs in a corner of the workroom, spread out when he needed to rest. But the point was to segregate his various activities. To go from his workroom up to his sleeping quarters, or from his sleeping quarters down to his workroom, he had to pass through the oratory, and the rule required him to stop there each time and pray.
6
“If it’s simply a life of devotion that appeals to you,” Father Hafer said, “consider a less strict order. The missionary fathers, perhaps?”
Drew shook his head.
“Or possibly the Congregation of the Resurrectionists. They do good work—teaching, for example.”
Drew told him, “No.”
“Then what about this suggestion? Earlier you mentioned how the sacrament of confirmation had made you a soldier of Christ. I’m sure you’re aware that the Jesuits have intensified that concept. They’re much more rigorous than the Resurrectionists. Their training takes fifteen years, ample reason for their nickname—the commandos of the Church.”
“It’s not what I had in mind.”
“Because they confront the world?” Father Hafer hurried on. “But during a considerable part of the training period, you’d be cloistered. It’s only toward the end that you’d be nudged from the nest, and perhaps by then you’d appreciate the push. And even earlier, at various stages, you’d have a chance to reconsider your priorities, to change your direction if you cared to.”
“I don’t think so.”
Father Hafer sounded more distressed. “There’s even another option. The Cistercians. The second most demanding order in the Church. You live in a monastery cut off from the world. Your days are filled with exhausting work, farming, for instance, something that contributes to the order. You never speak. But at least you labor—and pray—in a group. And if you find the life too difficult, you can leave and reapply at a later time, though not beyond the age of thirty-six. The advantage is that there’s a system of checks and balances that allows you to change your mind.”
Drew waited.
“Good heavens, man, why must you be so determined?” Father Hafer lit another cigarette, flicking his butane lighter. “I’m trying to make you understand. In the fullness of your youth, you’re asking to be admitted into the most severe form of worship in the Church. The Carthusians. There’s nothing more extreme. It’s the total denial of a human being as a social animal. The eremitic way. For the rest of your life, you’d live alone in a cell. Except for an hour of leisure, you’d do nothing but pray. It’s complete deprivation. Solitude.”
7
He wore a coarse hair shirt, designed to irritate his skin. At times, its aggravating sensation became a pleasure since at least it was an experience, something intense. When that temptation aroused him, he fought to distract himself, praying harder, sometimes flagellating himself with his skipping rope, stifling his groans.
You’re not here to enjoy yourself. You came to do penance. To be left alone.
Over the hair shirt, he wore a white robe, and above that a white biblike scapular, and then a white hood. On the limited occasions when he was forced to endure communal rituals such as choir, perverse requirements designed to test his fortitude, he wore a drooping white cowl that hid his face and allowed him to feel invisible.
8
“There’s no need for us to be this intense,” Father Hafer
said, forcing a smile. “Why don’t we relax for a moment? Debate may be good for the mind, after all, but not for the constitution. May I offer refreshment?” Stabbing his cigarette into the ashtray, he approached a cabinet, opened it, and removed a carafe of glinting emerald liquid. “A glass of chartreuse, perhaps?”
“No, thanks.”
“Its taste does not appeal to you?”
“I’ve never…”
“Now you have the opportunity.”
“No, I don’t drink.”
Father Hafer narrowed his eyes. “Indeed? A weakness that you guard against?”
“I’ve never indulged. In my line of work, I couldn’t afford poor judgment.”
“And what was that? Your line of work?”
Drew didn’t answer.
Father Hafer considered him, swirling the emerald liquid. “Yet another topic for later discussion. I wonder if you realize how appropriate this substance is.”
“Chartreuse.” Drew spread his hands. “The liqueur is reputed to be the finest. Its distinctive flavor—something I wouldn’t know about—is due to angelica root. And, of course, one hundred and fifteen different herbs. It’s the principal source of income for the Carthusians. Manufactured at the fatherhouse at La Grande Chartreuse in the Alps of France. The name of the liqueur comes from the place where it’s made. Chartreuse. The green type you’re holding has an alcohol content of fifty-five percent while the yellow type has forty-three percent. Its recipe was concocted in the early sixteen hundreds, I believe, by a layman who donated its formula to the Carthusians. A century later, a chemical genius in the order perfected it. A bogus version appeared on the market, but those who discriminate know which label to look for.”
Father Hafer blinked. “Remarkable.”
“In more ways than one. An order of hermits maintains its independence because of the income generated from a liquid designed to produce conviviality. Of course, the liqueur is manufactured by a lay fraternity. Even so, I ignore the contradiction.”
The Fraternity of the Stone Page 2