A Demon Summer

by G. M. Malliet

  He reached the door to the abbess’s lodge and pounded on the knocker with strength sufficient to reach the further edges of the building. The lodge was a massive structure that gave every outward appearance of being full of byways and nooks and crannies, and he doubted very much if the abbess had a full staff to run the place. But he waited no more than a minute before the door was opened by a young woman in her twenties, wearing the plain white band with black veil of the postulant. Her dress fell to below her lisle-stockinged knees, and was gathered unattractively into a bunch of fabric at her waist by a rope, precisely like a sack of potatoes. Still, she had a fresh young face with a fading tan, and a pleasing expression with a sweet and welcoming smile. Circling at her feet, to Max’s surprise, was a small white dog.

  “Praise be to God,” she said. Then she added, “Stop it.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Not you, Father. The dog. He is the abbess’s pet and thinks he runs the place. He pays me no mind whatsoever, because she spoils him rotten. Please come in. The abbess has asked me to seat you. She will be with you shortly.”

  “And you are?”

  “I am Mary Benton,” she replied. She bestowed on him her wide, sunny smile. “I am a postulant here. I’ll be taking my first vows as a novice in two months. If God wills it.”

  The part about God seemed an afterthought; she hadn’t yet mastered the drill. “Have you been here long, Mary?”

  “A few months. I … I suffered a personal loss, you see. My husband. I had just finished an art history course last winter in Italy and planned to continue in that career. God had other plans.”

  “So you took a holiday, wanting to think?”

  She had been in the process of stifling a yawn. She stopped to look at him, startled. “Excuse me: I am still getting used to the interrupted sleep. How did you know that, about the holiday?”

  “I did the same thing. My life was turned upside down and I went on an aimless holiday, to Egypt. That is when I ‘got the call,’ as they say. Besides, I don’t think you got that tan from hanging about an English garden in winter.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re very observant.” She ushered him down a long drafty hallway and into a grand room, its large wooden table set for two people near one of two large fireplaces. It was a room designed for entertaining queens and potentates. Painted heraldic shields hung against dark-paneled walls, and tapestries so old they looked as if they would disintegrate at a touch crowded the walls. There were no portrait paintings, which befitted a monastic place, he supposed. It was vainglory to have one’s portrait done or one’s photograph taken, even if one had risen to the high rank of abbess of a famous nunnery such as Monkbury. Especially if one had.

  Mary Benton asked him to sit in one of the throne-like chairs, promising again that the abbess would join him in a few moments. She walked away, her sandals looking several sizes too big for her feet, and closed the door behind her. Max was left in splendid isolation to try to decipher the faded tapestries and the various shields. He imagined the shields had something to do with the various nobles who had left their riches to the abbey, with the hope that someone would remember to pray for their souls. The abbey shield itself, depicting the woman in her heavenly crown, took pride of place over the fireplace nearest him.

  The door opened and in glided Abbess Justina.

  Max rose to greet her. He was struck first by her Renoir coloring—pink cheeks, blue eyes, flawless fair skin showing not a trace of her age, although from the files provided him by the bishop’s secretary he knew Abbess Justina Berry was in her early fifties. The hair peeking from the edges of her coif was dark and only lightly streaked with white.

  She wore the same clod-hopperish sandals as the postulant, but the lack of proportion to the rest of her body was muted by the long purple skirts falling nearly to the stone floor. The little white dog who had greeted him at the door emerged from beneath her hem.

  Max in his boyhood had spent a brief and unproductive period in an Anglican school while his parents were posted overseas. The nuns who taught him had worn a starched headdress that stood out from their foreheads in elaborate origami folds, the elegant structure topped by a veil of soft white linen. Abbess Justina and the other handmaids of St. Lucy wore a more relaxed affair, although remembering Dame Olive’s evident discomfort in the library he still wished for them a less constricting coif, particularly in summer.

  “Good evening, Father,” said the abbess. “How good of you to join me.”

  “How good of you to invite me.”

  “Goodness had less to do with it than curiosity,” she said, smiling. “The situation that brings you here is alarming and, well, curious. In addition, your fame precedes you—oh, no false modesty, please Father Tudor. ‘The Chedrow Castle Affair,’ as the press calls it, was extraordinary. But let’s have our meal, and over some of the lovely French wine from our motherhouse we’ll talk of what your theories are of the matter. I know you have spoken today with Dames Ingrid, our cook, Olive, our librarian, and Petronilla, our infirmaress. Perhaps you have gleaned some ideas. But—”

  Judging by the distant, loud clatter of crockery against cutlery and glassware, the postulant had dropped a tray. Abbess Justina heaved an enormous, patient sigh that rippled the snowy drapery of her wimple like a slow-moving avalanche.

  “Mary is a dear young woman, but…” Her voice drifted off. “She has a lot to manage.”

  “They all do,” said Max.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “We’ve a dwindling number of applicants, so we’re spread thin. Just for one example, Monkbury Abbey had a chantress at one time to manage the church services, lead the prayers, and train the novices to sing. What a luxury that seems—one wonders what she did with all the free time. Dame Olive does all that now. And the cellaress does double duty as almoness—making sure whatever we produce in excess gets distributed to the poor. Lately there has been a great deal of excess, praise God.”

  Max wondered if all that abundance presented any sort of temptation to the cellaress or to anyone, really, with access to the abbey coffers. Including, as he supposed he must, the abbess. It would not be the first time that an abbey found itself vulnerable to fraud and graft or, at best, accusations of same. The bishop had his system of checks and balances, but as Max well knew, any system devised by man could be circumvented by man. Or woman.

  The postulant appeared with a bowl of salad and a basket of bread. These she set before them in rather an unsteady fashion and retreated backwards, bowing awkwardly. She did not seem to have a gift for waiting at table. She did not speak, and Max gathered she was not allowed to. She disappeared back through the door, which presumably led to the lodge’s private kitchen.

  “The rest of the appointed jobs we’ve had to let slide or share,” the abbess continued, offering him the bread. “The sisters all take a turn watching out for our one postulant and our one novice, training them up and testing their suitability for the life.”

  “But you seem to be prospering,” observed Max.

  “We’ve been extraordinarily lucky in making our own way and in attracting benefactors. But there are limited hours to the day, and the Rule of St. Lucy requires that devotions be balanced with work. So we do what we can with what we have. It doesn’t help that we have such an aging population.”

  Her right hand fell to her side, and Max realized she was feeding the dog a piece of the bread from her plate.

  “His name is Rotterdam,” she informed Max.

  Max took a wild guess.

  “As in Erasmus of Rotterdam?”

  “Yes, however did you know?”

  Oh how he enjoyed a good insider reformist joke. He wondered that she kept a pet, which surely fell into the category of forbidden personal possessions, but then wondered who would begrudge her the company.

  “He was my mother’s,” she said, answering his unasked question. “When she died, there was no one to look after him. He’s a spoiled nuisance with an exaggerated sense of his own
importance, but we’re inseparable now.”

  “It is not a life for everyone,” Max offered neutrally.

  “You don’t mean the dog’s life? No, of course you don’t. We are not contemplatives, but still we all have times of loneliness and doubt.”

  “I understand,” said Max. “That could happen all too easily.”

  There was a silence, and he said, “There must be occasions when help from outside is needed. How do you manage in case of sudden illness or accident?”

  She paused in buttering a piece of bread, her fingers swollen with what looked like arthritis. “I struggle to remember the last time anything like that happened. I suppose it was when Dame Edith fell off the hay loft, and that was years ago. We have had to ring the vet on occasion when one of the sheep or goats is ailing, but otherwise we are able to manage on our own. Dame Infirmaress has learned enough about dentistry to perform routine cleanings, but the sisters go into Temple Monkslip for anything major. The same goes for any serious medical condition, of course. Otherwise permission to leave is limited. It has been some time since any of us have had our eyes examined, and we are all overdue. Dr. Barnard was reminding me of that last week. He is a trained optician as well as a G.P.”

  “You seem to be almost entirely self-sustaining. May I?” he asked, his hand returning to the bread basket. The bread, difficult to resist, was homemade, fresh and warm from the oven.

  “Please,” she said. “I’ve had all I want.” Another piece of bread disappeared over the side of the table, presumably into the waiting dog. “For the most part, we grow or make what we need. Certain sisters will go into the village for dry goods and such. Sometimes—very rarely—a sister will need to travel outside for, say, educational purposes. We weren’t all born knowing how to raise sheep or cut back certain plants and trees for the winter, for example, and there are times we need to expand our knowledge.”

  “Your own background is not agricultural?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “Good heavens, no. I am city born and bred, and I didn’t know a turnip from a turnstile when I first came here.”

  “How would you get help, if you needed it?” He’d seen no landline phones on the premises.

  “We have a satellite phone to ring the emergency services from Temple Monkslip,” she told him. “Or Dr. Barnard. Guests are not permitted to use the phone, but we can relay messages to them if need be.” She turned, pausing as the postulant brought in two plates heaped with pasta and tomato sauce. The abbess probably felt, as did Max, that the postulant should be allowed to focus all her energies on not letting the pasta with its red sauce slide right off the plate into their laps.

  “Xanda Gorey,” the abbess continued when Mary had successfully offloaded the plates onto the table, “seems to have a gentleman friend on the outside who is most anxious to reach her—we soon put a stop to that. The phone is not for amorous chitchat.”

  “Of course not,” Max murmured loyally.

  “Of course, her parents have been most generous. Mr. and Mrs. Gorey would like to be laid to rest here, you know. One hopes he would not insist on wearing his baseball cap for the effigy. Have you met him yet?”

  Max shook his head.

  “He is a brilliant man,” she said, but did not offer evidence for this. “Yes, of course in an emergency, such as may yet happen with poor Dame Meredith, we can ring the outside world. There is even a mobile telephone that in rare instances we allow to be used by a sister traveling on business for the abbey. As I say, I can barely recall when we had a situation we couldn’t cope with ourselves.”

  She smiled beatifically, in the manner of one who was sure heaven would provide, no matter the occasion.

  A world without e-mail, video, television—all the things that cry out for our attention every day, thought Max. How restful, on the one hand. And how frustrating, on the other—particularly for families who might wish to connect more often with their relatives here at the abbey.

  The abbess picked up a fork and spoon, spooling her pasta. He marveled at her willingness to tackle tomato sauce, with the snowy white linen of her wimple at her neck and enveloping her chest and shoulders. It was asking for trouble, like washing the car when rain is in the forecast.

  “We augment our electricity with candlelight, as you have seen,” she continued. “For a long time we only had enough electricity to power a few kitchen appliances and low-voltage lamps so we could see our way around. Running a cable out here was out of the question and probably will be until technology catches up to our remote needs. Our priority right now is to expand the photovoltaic system—this is part of the guesthouse renovation project.”

  “So that is still in the works?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied smoothly. “Just slightly delayed. We need larger batteries to store energy when we have cloudy days. The guesthouse once was lighted by kerosene lamps and heated with wood stoves. But now fire insurance is difficult to obtain unless we modernize. So woodstoves in the guest rooms have been replaced by gas heaters. Electricity is available in all the cloister buildings, although we still rely on candles in the church. For other areas we have rechargeable battery-powered lamps, like the one provided in your room. We can’t have guests falling off the mountainside. Although we strongly urge guests to stay in the areas assigned to them—restricted areas are clearly marked.”

  “Of course,” said Max. “It is after all a cloister.”

  “But we don’t want people to misunderstand—it is part of our life’s purpose to welcome guests—to provide a place of peace where they can collect themselves.”

  “The guesthouse,” Max began. “The bishop has said there may be a question…” How to put this? wondered Max. “A question of the funds being siphoned off” sounded a bit harsh, if accurate.

  “Dame Cellaress can answer all your questions,” Abbess Justina said blithely, resuming her hospitality narrative as she twirled her pasta. Her brook-no-interference tone was unmistakable, and Max did not persist, knowing it would push her into a corner from which she might never emerge. She began to speak of daily life in the abbey; he had the idea her descriptions, like the guest-mistress’s, might be part of a well-rehearsed lecture for visitors. “On Sundays,” she was saying, “there is no work period except for the cook and her helpers. It’s a time for recreational pursuits—the aim is to do something relaxing and not related to work or study. Many of the sisters who enjoy reading or fishing take this time as their opportunity. I often go walking or hiking, especially in summer. I like to collect wildflowers. And of course Rotterdam loves it, don’t you, my sweet?” She turned her head, apparently addressing the floor, before returning her attention to Max. “On feast days, we decorate every corner of the refectory with wildflowers.”

  “And this is when relatives might visit?” he asked. “You don’t miss just being able to telephone when you feel like it?”

  “That is where things get difficult,” she replied. Her expression changed fleetingly to one of regret. “Not so much for us—it is a choice we made, after all, even if I would argue that it was God who called us and we simply answered. No, the families have a hard time letting go. They will send gifts that are meant for their daughter alone, or try to ‘game’ the system—is that the phrase? Game the system so that there is some family emergency every other week that requires the sister’s attention. Once we catch on to this, it is firmly put a stop to. We must be cruel to be kind. They do break my heart sometimes, the parents.”

  Mary Benton reentered just then with bread to replenish the basket. This time, several slices fell to the floor. “Leave it for now,” said the abbess sharply. The young woman seemed to be surrounded by chaos the way the cartoon character Pig-Pen was surrounded by dust. Max felt a tug of nostalgia for his own catastrophic housekeeper, that herald of the coming Apocalypse, Mrs. Hooser.

  Once she had left them, the abbess confided. “She was recently widowed. We are watching very closely to ensure her vocation is a true one. Many times
, people reacting to a tragedy don’t know what they want. They cut off old friends, even family, wanting a fresh start, having been reminded of the brevity of life. Mary had thought her vocation was art history, but she came here instead. I’m sure you’ve seen that for yourself, Father, in the course of your pastoral duties.”

  “Many times,” said Max. “It may just be that Mary is not cut out to wait tables.”

  The abbess let out a hoot of laughter, startling the dog into an answering bark.

  “You are right about that,” she said, lifting him into her lap. “All the postulants have to take turns serving at my table, so I can size them up at first hand. Mary is the definition of a butterfingers, but I’m certain God has plans for her that don’t involve breakable items. Her biggest struggle with the Rule, as it is for many, is that she forgets to keep the Great Silence after Compline and is constantly having to be corrected for it. The silence is to be maintained throughout the night. She forgets, and will go bustling about, gossiping and blithering about trivialities and asking if anyone has toothpaste she can borrow. I think she’s lonely, poor soul.” She sighed. “And there, I’ve committed the fault of gossiping myself.”

  “‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’” said Max.

  “Precisely,” said the abbess.

  The postulant came in just then with a newly opened bottle of wine. Max recognized the label of St. Martin’s from the wines being sold in the gift shop. On the label was a smiling nun framed in silhouette against a vast, sunny vineyard. It was an excellent wine. With an eye on the postulant as she left, the abbess told him, “Not one of us is ever sure of our vocation. As many years as I’ve been here, I’ve seen the doubts, and I’ve felt them myself. But I believe, Father, that we do much good, even hidden away from the world as we are up here. That is why I persist. With or without miracles to reassure me.”

  “Miracles?”

  “We attracted pilgrims to our church and our holy well from the start, and when we were a Catholic house the pope would grant get-out-of-hell-free cards, as my father called them, to people who made the journey here to pray. Many came in search of a cure. Many were cured. It was the source of our wealth but not a complete fraud. You do see.”