Page 46 of Saint
When we get to our doors, Elijah hesitates, his hand hovering over the knob, poised to turn it. I can see the tendons and bones in the back of his hand like this, tensed and ready, and I can see the curl of his long fingers.
Fingers that have curled inside my body.
“Brother Patrick,” he says. “Aiden...”
“Yes?” I ask.
“About the answers. It’s because every time I leave, I have more questions.”
And then he adds, “And because every time I leave you, the only thing I can think about is coming back.”
28
It’shard to sleep that night. While the walls are much thicker here than they are at Mount Sergius, they might as well be made of candle smoke after Elijah said the thing he said. I am so very aware of him on the other side of the wall, and at least twice I sit up in bed, determined to go knock on his door. To apologize for the hermitage, and also to promise that it will never happen again, and also to ask if he minds saying more things about how he misses me when we’re apart?
But I don’t do any of that. Instead, I lie back down and manage to coax myself into a fitful sleep, which ends when I hear the bell tolling from the church for vigils. I wash up, replace the plastic chastity device I’d worn yesterday to fly with my metal one, and then walk to the church. Elijah arrives a few minutes after me, and we stand shoulder to shoulder in the pews.
The prayers are in French—which I honestly hadn’t thought much about when I was thinking of picking a new monastery—and I’m surprised to look over at Elijah and see him murmuring along with the prayers in the French visitor’s breviary we were given at the entrance to the sanctuary.
He catches my look and quirks an eyebrow.
I tilt my head at his breviary and then up at his mouth.You speak French? being the unspoken question.
The edge of his mouth turns up.Oui, he mouths silently and then returns to the prayers.
A typical day at Semois means there’s almost no time for Elijah and me to talk. I quickly learn that Trappist life isno joke, and the first full day we’re here, it feels like Elijah and I are brand-new freshmen in high school, scrambling to get to classes on time and ending up lost in the science hallway instead.
After vigils, there is breakfast and time for lectio or other spiritual reading, and then lauds and more lectio, and then Mass. A fun thing that Trappists do is keep the small hours—the short prayer times of terce, sext, and none in the middle of the day—which means by the time you get truly settled in doing anything—work or lunch or even lectio—it’s time to get up for prayers again.
During the work hours, Brother Xavier shows us the massive brewery, which makes and exports six types of beer, and introduces us to the master brewer, Father Stefan. And then there is dinner, vespers, and compline, and suddenly the day is over, having passed in the least rush-y rush I’ve ever experienced.
The intense schedule is counter-weighted by the agony of being so close to Elijah—brushing against his shoulder in the yeast lab or watching his forearm flex as he takes notes—and not being able to speak to him. At Semois, speaking is only for essential information, and in special areas designated for speaking, such as the cafe when it’s open, and the main garden in the middle of the abbey grounds. It feels different from the silence back home, different from the natural quietude that fills the air there. It feels a little like being in school again. Like if you speak, someone will pop up and shush you.
And so aside from essential questions about hops and yeast and secondary fermentation, there is only silence between Elijah and me. It means the words from the night before echo all the more loudly in my mind.
The next day is much the same, and so is the day after that. Our German cyclist in the guesthouse is replaced with a group of older women retreatants who crowd the common room and whisper-talk in Walloon.
Elijah and I are never alone.
On the fifth day, I do laundry, and my tangled black habits are very, very different from the baskets of neatly folded white Trappist robes—like I’m the Hot Topic monk in a campus full of pristine angel people. And none of their white robes are spattered with beer or cheese soup oranything.
How???
I also wash my sheets, since the dam (a very literal metaphor in this case) burst last night, and I woke up to half-dried ejaculate everywhere.
When I emerge from the laundry room that afternoon, I find Brother Xavier waiting for me by the guesthouse entrance.
“I must apologize,” he says to me with a little bow. “Your friend asked me if he could take a walk through the woods, and then I realized I’ve been monopolizing your time here! I know you came here to learn beer and see Semois for yourself, but that means seeing the grounds outside Semois too. For if you come here to stay, they’ll be the places you visit during your free time, no?”
I nod, although I’ve noticed that the free time here is, well.
Limited.
Brother Xavier smiles. “Then tomorrow, your last day here. You should explore the woods just beyond the river and the medieval ruins too. If you stop by the kitchen, we can give you some food and beer to take with you.”
I give a polite response and stifle the resistance I feel at this idea. I came here to decide if the Trappist way of life was right for me and taking a freebie day feels like cheating somehow. But after I tell Elijah on our way back from compline, and he gives me the same slow smile he used to give Sean before he did a double backflip into the pool, it suddenly hits me that I’ll be alone with Elijah for the entire day tomorrow. No prayers, no tours, no flights of blonds and bruins (however delicious they may be).
Just us.
