Everyone Says That at the End of the World

by Owen Egerton

  Roy nodded. “You’re a giant squid, Milton.”

  Milton laughed even louder.

  Filled his heart with sawdust

  THE BALD MAN was bored. Bored and sad. He was fishing off a low bridge on a country road. He had been there for hours and caught nothing. That wasn’t the problem. He usually caught nothing. His boredom was deeper.

  For most of his adult life the bored man had been a bored tax accountant. He lived alone. He had no friends. He watched three to six hours of television every day. Like many bored people, he was boring.

  Then, at the age of fifty, he received a letter telling him he had inherited an uncle’s secluded cabin. That weekend, having nothing at all to do, he visited the cabin. It was old and small but comfortable and warm. And every wall of every room was covered with shelves of books. Novels, histories, poetry, zoology, physics, biographies, self-helps. The bald man saw this as a sign, a chance to change his whole life, his whole person. He quit his job, stocked up on food and whiskey, and moved into the cabin. Each day he read. And read. And read. When his eyes grew tired, he walked down to the bridge and dangled a hook into the river below.

  For close to a decade he read. But earlier that very morning, the bald man closed the cover of the last book on the last shelf. Boredom struck him like a wet bag of oats. It wasn’t that there weren’t more books to buy and read. He knew that. What filled his heart with sawdust was that he was there. Himself—hiding behind that last book like a party guest that won’t go home. He had hoped that after reading every volume he would find himself a changed man. But he was the same man he had always been. And he wasn’t very fond of that man.

  “If a thousand books can’t change me,” he said to his fishing pole, “what can?”

  There was a tug on his line. He yanked. The line yanked back. He reeled in. An impressive rainbow trout danced on the end of the line. But it wasn’t alone. Clenched onto its lower fin was a blue-green hermit crab.

  The bald man removed the hook from the fish. He then gently pried the claw from the fin. The crab quickly retreated into its shell. The bald man studied the crab and called up his reading of Hermit of the Sea and Shore by Paula Wallins.

  Judging by the large purple claw it was a Coenobita clypeatus. Midsize. Gender was hard to tell. Beautiful shell, though someone had painted a thick red arrow on it. The man leaned his pole on the railing and threw the fish back into the river. He placed the crab on the ground and waited. After a minute the purple claw crept out, then the other reddish claw, and finally the two round eyes. The crab looked up at the bald man and made a low chirping noise. It’s stridulating, the man thought. I read about this! I know all about it!

  The crab started to crawl, the red arrow clearly designating the direction. The bald man, grinning like a toddler, left his pole, his cabin, and his books, and followed.

  Only on Christmas

  HAYDEN WAS WITH her.

  They rolled and rubbed. Her breathing mixed with chanting music from some far-off place. He tried to say her name but only moaned.

  “Shhh,” she said. “You don’t remember my name.”

  He woke up in a sweat, his arms wrapped around the prosthetic leg. He was alone. A dozen candles gave the room an unearthly glow. He climbed from the table and stretched. From somewhere outside came faint chanting.

  Hayden put a hand to his pounding head and prayed these monks drank coffee. He could have slept for hours longer, but Hayden was eager to see the world he had stumbled into. The hike from the highway had nearly killed him, which made this place even more valuable. Every detail—the earth-brown adobe walls, the one wooden cross hanging, the burning candles dripping tears of wax—every little element was something he had nearly died for.

  Taking the leg, Hayden walked out the door and down the bare hallway, no eyes peeking out at him. He passed through the book room in which he had first met Brother Brendan and out into the day.

  The sun hovered above the western cliffs, sending bright-yellow light across the handful of adobe buildings. Monks in brown robes tottered along dirt pathways and worked away at chores. A handful of monks worked, bent and digging, on a large vegetable garden. Two other monks were leaning a ladder against a far building. Three were working on what looked to be a large bench; another was pruning a tree. In the center of the estate stood a cream-colored chapel. The chanting came from there.

  Hayden was no stranger to seeing people at work. He enjoyed rolling into the studio lot and seeing crews set up cameras, rigs, craft services. All working diverse jobs toward one goal: making his show great!

  But these monks moved with a different energy. Though they moved quickly, there was no rush. No anxiety. In Los Angeles everything from filming to lovemaking to sleeping was strapped with anxiety. It was the gravy every meal was doused in, the spike in every sip, the nicotine rush of every breath.

  On a large mound nearby, two monks propped up a crude carving of a man, his arms outstretched to the sky.

  “Hello,” Hayden called out. The two monks looked at Hayden, then at each other, and then returned to the wooden figure. Perhaps they couldn’t hear him. Hayden walked over to them. “So, who is that supposed to be?”

  “Please, you do it,” one monk, a red-eyed young man, whispered to the other.

  “No, you,” the other monk, with a thick white beard, said.

  The younger monk sighed, walked a few steps to Hayden and poked him in the belly.

  “Hey!” Hayden said. The younger monk turned to the elder and nodded.

  “How nice,” the elder said to Hayden. “You’re real.”

  “A saint of God,” said the younger monk in a high, soft voice.

  “No, no. Not me.” Hayden shook his head. “Just on TV.”

  “Your question,” the young monk turned to the wood sculpture. “He may be Saint Francis. But that’s a bit overdone.”

  “Yes, yes. Overexposed, the poor man,” said the elder. “Maybe another saint. Or a nameless saint. Or all the saints never sainted!”

  “That’s it, Brother Luke!” said the younger. “The saint never sainted!”

  “The face is uneven,” Hayden said. “That left ear is too high and the mouth is all . . . ” Hayden trailed off. The two monks were staring at the prosthetic leg under his arm. The younger one licked his lips.

  “So you’re the sleeper!” said the elder monk.

  “Well, I was sleeping, yeah.”

  “We all were sleeping,” he chuckled. “No shame! No shame at all!”

  The younger monk leaned into the elder and whispered.

  The elder nodded and patted the younger on the back. “Yes, yes. Go fetch him!” The young monk raced off and the elder smiled. “Someone has been expecting you.”

  “I met Brendan earlier.”

  “He wasn’t expecting you. You surprised him,” he said. “But everything surprises him. That’s his gift. Now Brother Michael, on the other hand, he’s been expecting you for weeks.”

  “Weeks?”

  “I said ‘on the other hand.’ That is funny,” the elder said, rubbing his white beard.

  “How could anyone be expecting me? It’s impossible. I didn’t know I was going to be here until . . . until I was here.”

  “Did you know that a cockroach can survive for up to a week without a head?”

  Hayden blinked. “I did not know that.”

  “And you know what finally does it in? What finally kills the decapitated cockroach? Starvation.”

  “Really?”

  So be careful with words like impossible,” the monk said, ruffling Hayden’s hair as if he were a schoolboy. “Ah look! Brother Michael.”

  The younger monk approached, his arms around a brittle-thin, ancient-looking man. He was gray and small. The younger monk practically carried him up the mound.

  “BROTHER MICHAEL!” the young monk yelled at the old man. “THIS IS THE MAN YOU WERE EXPECTING.”

  The old man beamed a toothless smile at Hayden. Hayden reached out a
nd shook his frail hand.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “LOUDER,” said the younger.

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Hayden yelled. “HOW WERE YOU EXPECTING ME?”

  “When you understand your needs, you expect to see them met,” the elder said. “SHOW HIM, BROTHER MICHAEL.”

  The old man reached down with one hand and clutched his brown robe. He lifted the hem to reveal one pale leg and one bandaged stub. Hayden laughed. The old man laughed, too.

  “The leg! Would you like this leg?” Hayden asked, patting the prosthetic. “It’s a woman’s leg? Is that all right?”

  The old man nodded eagerly and stuck out his nub toward Hayden. The other two monks flanked the old man and Hayden did his best to fasten the leg into place. It took some tries, but eventually the leg was secure. The old man stood lopsided and happy. The leg was a few inches taller than its partner and stuck out from the robe as if the monk were standing beside a highway using his new limb to hitch a ride. The younger monk stroked the leg, progressing above the knee until the elder monk slapped his hand.

  “Sorry, Brother,” the younger said.

  Brother Michael’s face shone. He nodded and chuckled. Hayden nodded back. The two had a brief conversation consisting of nods and quick bursts of laughter. Then the old man surprised Hayden by reaching with his right arm under his left sleeve and removing his left arm with a jerk. He held the prosthetic arm out toward Hayden.

  “For me?” Hayden asked. “I don’t need it. You do.”

  “IT’S MORE BLESSED TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE,” boomed the younger monk. “ISN’T THAT RIGHT, BROTHER MICHAEL?”

  “Best take it,” the elder whispered to Hayden.

  Hayden reached out and took the arm. “THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”

  “And look,” the elder said, pointing to the chapel. “Sext is ending. Excuse us. Must go and prepare for prayer.” With that the two monks started toward one of the adobe buildings with Brother Michael hobbling between them. As they reached the bottom of the hill, the old man turned. Hayden gave a little wave with the fake arm.

  “Oh!” Hayden yelled. “I get it! ‘On the other hand!’ Funny!”

  The elder shot him a thumbs-up.

  Hayden held the arm with both hands. It was lighter than the leg but similar. The same mannequin-pink plastic, the same waxy smooth texture. Though the arm showed years more wear than the leg. Hayden had never been given a more wonderful gift, something the giver needed more than he. It hurt him in a new way.

  Below him a long line of monks were emerging from the chapel, hands clasped and heads bowed. One monk caught sight of Hayden and hopped up and down like a child seeing a puppy. He broke from the others and skipped up the hill to Hayden. Only when he was a few feet away did Hayden recognize him as Brother Brendan.

  “Good morning,” the monk said. “Or afternoon actually. Yes. How was it?”

  “How was what?”

  “Sleep. How was sleep?”

  “Fine, thanks. How long was I out?”

  “Oh, hours and hours. No shame though. No shame. Not our duty to judge. Eye splinters and all that. Your leg shrunk,” he said, pointing to the limb in Hayden’s hand.

  “It’s an arm now,” Hayden said. “Why is everyone so busy?”

  “Oh, lots of work. We’re in preparation.”

  “What for?”

  The monk paused. “We don’t know. Something in the air. Something big. You can feel it. Or, at least, we can. Maybe it’s 1260 after all.”

  “A bad thing?”

  “Yes.” Brendan nodded. “Very bad.” He sniffed. “Or not. Perhaps wonderful. Hard to say. Best not judge. Judge not lest ye be judged and all.” He sniffed again. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “Good, good,” the monk said quickly. He did everything quickly with twitches and hops. “We eat in an hour . . . or some of us do. Some are eating now. The oldest eat first. Yes. Then they praise while we eat. Always someone praising. Novices eat last, if at all. I hope you like squash.”

  “Do you have any coffee?”

  “Only on Christmas,” the monk said. “But you’re a guest, and a guest is Christ, and if Christ wants coffee, well then, Merry Christmas!”

  The monk skipped down a path to a wide, low-roofed building. Hayden followed.

  “So,” Hayden said, jogging to keep up. “You personally call yourself a Catholic, right?”

  “Yes, yes. Big C and little c.”

  “I’m trying to be a Catholic, too.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Hayden said. “I’m trying to figure this all out. I want to believe in God, the Trinity, Mass, the incarnation . . . ”

  “Oh, I stopped believing years ago.” The monk stopped in front of a door. He raised a hand to his mouth. “Silence in the dining hall.” He opened the door.

  The stone-floored room had seven long tables that stretched nearly wall to wall. Against one wall stood an unlit fireplace. Three old monks, as bent and brittle as Brother Michael, sat scattered through the room, each focused on a small plate of squash. One of the monks had a younger monk beside him spooning food into his quivering lips.

  Brendan shuffled among the tables, bowing slightly to each monk. Hayden followed and also bowed. At the far end of the room was another door. They passed through into a wide, clean, well-equipped kitchen. Brendan turned to Hayden.

  “We can talk now.”

  “You don’t believe?” Hayden asked.

  “No. I mean, I didn’t say that. I stopped believing. That’s not the same as not believing.” Brendan moved to a narrow door near a corner of the kitchen. “I have faith. But believing . . . well, a person believes in scientific theories or newspaper articles. We have faith in God. We experience God, even if it is experiencing his absence. And we practice! We act! We contemplate! The son who told the mother he would not help is the one who worked the fields. See? Now, where is that thing?” Brendan was digging into the folds of his robe. He pulled out a large key and unlocked the door. “Yes, yes. The coffee closet.”

  From high on a shelf Brendan lifted a wooden chest and carried it back into the kitchen. He placed the chest on a counter and slowly opened the lid. Inside were a copper kettle, a metal strainer, and a carefully wrapped, hand-size bag of beans. Brendan scattered half the beans on the counter and ground them with a rolling pin. The familiar acidic smell made Hayden smile. Brendan set the water to boil. He grinned as the steam puffed from the spout. “Choo! Choo!” he said.

  Hayden was amazed at how deliberate and slow this manic little monk was moving. Every tool, every step of the process was handled with a smiling reverence. He seemed to take a moment of appreciation as he dropped each spoonful of grounds into the kettle. Hayden wasn’t sure, but he thought he could hear the monk whisper “thank you” to the water and the grounds and the stove. Beside these whispers, Brendan said nothing.

  Brendan prepared a tray with two mugs and the kettle. He led Hayden to a table in the back of the kitchen and the two sat. Using the strainer, Brendan poured the dark coffee into the mugs. He handed one mug to Hayden, took the other for himself, bowed his head, and whispered a prayer. When he raised his head, a smile filled his face. He lifted the cup with both hands and took a long sip.

  “Ahh,” he said. “What a treat.”

  “Thanks for making it,” Hayden said, blowing into his own mug. “Can I ask another question?”

  “We usually eat in silence . . . ”

  “I want to be a saint,” Hayden said. “But I don’t believe in God.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the first.”

  “A saint who doesn’t believe in God?”

  “Belief is weaker than action. Do you see? I share a table with a man. I choose to call him brother. Or I choose to call him stranger. Or I choose to ignore his very presence. I dwell in four walls and a roof. I choose to call it a building or a prison or a home.” Brendan sipped his coffee. “That is so ver
y tasty!” He sipped again and smiled. “I choose to recognize this world as holy. I choose to recognize life as holy, you as my brother, and all that is and was and will be as God. And so I live! In this way life is holy and you are my brother.”

  Hayden smirked. “So, having faith suddenly makes God exist?”

  Brendan jumped to his feet. “Who can speak of God’s existence?” he yelled. “I’m talking of our existence!”

  Another monk pushed his head in from the dining area. “Brother, please!”

  “Sorry, Brother,” Brendan said, lowering himself back to his bench. The other monk nodded and retreated back.

  “Are you a saint?” Hayden asked after a moment.

  “No, no. Not me,” Brendan smiled. “Besides, any true saint would never think of himself as a saint.” He stopped and scratched his chin. “But I don’t think I’m a saint . . . maybe I am a saint?” He paused again. “No. I just thought I might be a saint. So that proves I’m not a saint. Thank God for that. Do you like your coffee?”

  “Yes,” Hayden took a sip. “It’s strong.”

  “Yes, yes. All things are. Does that thing hurt?”

  “What thing?”

  “On your face. Right in the middle. Ow.” Brendan cringed.

  Hayden touched his face. “My nose?”

  Brendan paused for a second. Then blinked quickly. “Nose! Yes, that’s what it is. I have one, too!”

  “Brendan,” Hayden said. “Do you really not sleep?”

  “Of course I sleep,” Brendan said with a chuckle. “Seventeen minutes every other day.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “I sit comfortably and close my eyes.”

  “No,” Hayden said. “How do you stay awake?”

  “Prayer,” Brendan said with a serious nod. “And thankfulness. See these?” Brendan lifted the rosary hanging from the rope around his robe. “One thank-you for each bead. Wonderful, wonderful. Here, take them. Try it sometime.”

  “I can’t take that.”

  “Oh, no, yes. Take it.” Brendan rubbed the beads in his hands and passed them to Hayden. Hayden touched the glass-smooth beads, worn to a shine.