I made my decision on Friday, December 19th, at ten-thirty in the morning. It wasn’t 10:30 by Roger Dwarfmann’s red-and-black watch; it was ten-thirty by the grandfather clock in the scriptorium, which is always a little off one way or the other, so it probably wasn’t exactly ten-thirty at all. But it was a decision, and I stood by it.
The atmosphere in the monastery had altered again. From that stagnant depression of mutual mistrust we had leaped to a sudden joy of reunity, which had lasted only until we’d all had time to think out our current position. Trust and brotherhood might have returned to our lives, but the monastery was still under a death sentence, and our present state was more perilous than it had ever seemed before. An answer had come to us from Ada Louise Huxtable of the Times, responding to my letter by assuring us of her support, urging us to both hire a good attorney and get in touch with the Landmarks Commission, and pointing out quite rightly that there was nothing she personally either could or should do. But we knew now that the Landmarks Commission couldn’t help us, the law couldn’t help us, the lease couldn’t help us, and neither the Flatterys nor Dimp were prepared to help us. Brother Clemence was doggedly at work on tertiary documents, Brother Flavian was writing inflamed letters to his congressman and the United Nations and most of the other politicians of the world, Brother Mallory was shadow-boxing all over the calefactory in hopes of a return bout with Frank Flattery, Brother Oliver was studying the Bible in the event of a return bout with Roger Dwarfmann, Brother Dexter was phoning relatives and friends of relatives to see if anybody had any influence on the two banks involved, and Brother Hilarius was reading Abbot Wesley’s fourteen-volume novel based on the life of St. Jude the Obscure just in case it might include something useful to us; but none of these activities was being done out of a positive spirit. A sense of defeat was pervasive among us now, and those who struggled against it were doing just that, and no more; not really trying to save the monastery but merely fighting against their own sense of defeat.
Others had given up the struggle. Brother Leo was preparing breakfasts and dinners of such opulence and variety that each of them was obviously intended as a last meal. Brother Silas had retired to the library, surrounding himself with his book. Brother Eli was whittling figures from the Tarot deck; hanged men, doomed towers. And Brother Quillon had taken to his bed with a head cold, possibly terminal.
We had twelve days. But help was not going to come to us from Brother Dexter’s relatives or Abbot Wesley’s novel or Brother Clemence’s old fuel bills. Help could only come from one place.
Me.
“Brother Oliver,” I said, “I would like two hundred dollars and permission to Travel.”
I had found him seated at the refectory table in his office. He looked up at me, appropriately startled, having been deep in Deuteronomy. (“Then shall his brother’s wife come unto him in the presence of the elders, and loose his shoe from off his foot, and spit in his face, and shall answer and say, So shall it be done unto that man that will not build up his brother’s house. And his name shall be called in Israel, The house of him that hath his shoe loosed.”) Brother Oliver gaped at me across the centuries, apparently hearing my question from back to front. He said, “Yes? Travel? What? Two hundred dollars!”
“Transportation and miscellaneous,” I explained.
He closed the book on his hand. Then he opened it, withdrew his hand, and closed it again. “You’re leaving us, Brother Benedict?” He sounded saddened, but not surprised.
Was I? That wasn’t the question I had asked myself, nor was I prepared with an answer. “I don’t know,” I said. “But I think I can help save the monastery.”
“Eileen Flattery again,” he said.
“Yes, Brother.”
“Next you’ll be telling me you want to Travel to Puerto Rico.”
“Yes, Brother.”
He reared back, studying me as though I might have something contagious. “Yes, Brother? What do you mean, yes, Brother?”
“I want to Travel to Puerto Rico, Brother Oliver, and talk to Eileen Flattery face to face, and try to persuade her to help us.”
He thought about it. He gazed past me, in the general direction of the windows and the courtyard, and when he looked back at me again his expression was deeply troubled. He said, “Are you sure you want to do this, Brother Benedict?”
“Yes, Brother.”
“And you feel... emotionally secure enough? You’re sure you can deal with it all?”
“No, Brother.”
He cocked his head to one side, studying my face. “No?”
“Brother Oliver,” I said, “I don’t really want to do this. I don’t want to go anywhere, I don’t want to involve myself further with Eileen Flattery, I don’t want to confuse myself to distraction, I don’t want to break up a comfortable way of living, but I just don’t have any choice. If we can possibly save the monastery that’s what we have to do, and no one can help us, no one at all can help us, except Eileen Flattery.”
“Who may not choose to, Brother Benedict.”
“I know that. But she’s still our last hope.” I sat in the chair opposite him, and put my elbows on the refectory table. “I thought of writing her a letter,” I said, “but I know it wouldn’t do any good. Because I know why she went away. She went away because the thing that happened the other night shocked her just as much as it shocked me. She doesn’t want this any more than I do, and if I send her a letter she’ll probably throw it away unopened. She certainly won’t answer, won’t decide to involve herself again.”
He was nodding. “Yes, I agree. If she’s run away, it means she doesn’t want reminders.”
“But if I go there,” I said, “if I meet her face to face, then we can work on through that emotional involvement, we can get past it and then she might be willing to help.”
“What if she isn’t even willing to see you?” he asked me. “What if she refuses to talk to you or have anything to do with you?”
“Then it will have been a waste,” I said.
We looked at one another, and I suppose my expression was as troubled as his. I had nothing else to say, and he hadn’t decided yet what he would say, so we sat there for two or three minutes in silence, each of us mulling his own thoughts. Brother Oliver’s thoughts were on my request, of course, while mine were on what I would do if he came to the conclusion that for one reason or another I shouldn’t go. I knew the answer to that; I’d known it before I walked in here. I would leave.
I’d have to. The monastery and my own peace of mind were both too important to me. I had no idea how I’d get to Puerto Rico without money — aside from its being too far to walk, Puerto Rico is an island surrounded by water — but somehow I would do it.
“All right,” Brother Oliver said.
“What?”
He didn’t look cheerful. “I’m very reluctant,” he said, “but I’m going to agree.”
A weight on my shoulders and back that I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying was suddenly lifted off. Unable to repress my smile, I said, “Thank you, Brother Oliver.”
“I’ll tell you my reason,” he said.
“Yes?”
“If I had said no,” he told me, “you would have gone anyway.”
I probably looked sheepish. “Yes, Brother,” I said.
“Rather than have you break your vow of obedience, Brother Benedict, I will give you my permission.”
We smiled together. “Thank you, Brother Oliver,” I said.
Most of the others weren’t entirely sure why I was making this Journey, but everybody wanted to help. The concept of Travel is obviously a profound one; even among a group such as ours which had forsworn Travel except in the most extreme circumstances, the prospect of a Journey created ripples of excitement, a glitter in every eye, and the unexpressed but obvious specter of general jealousy. Father Banzolini would be hearing about all this several times tomorrow night.