Brother Frank sat next to him, both men leaning back on the upright wooden school chairs, their sandaled feet stretched out before them.
"What do you make of all this?" Brother Frank turned toward the lean monk.
"The tears of blood?" Brother Andrew held his palms upward. "I didn't see them. And now that we're held here, I expect I won't until tomorrow, Sunday. Surely we can walk the grounds on Sunday?"
"I saw them." Brother Frank crossed his arms, his hands inside the sleeves up to his elbows. "I kept it to myself; four of us saw them and promised to keep it among us for twenty-four hours. Someone didn't."
"But I'd heard the tears were first seen by Harry Haristeen and Susan Tucker. They could have revealed this."
"I called Harry. I asked her to button her lip." He shrugged. "She probably couldn't do it. Too good a story."
Brother Andrew drew his feet in toward him. "Misogynist."
"My observations lead me to conclude that most women are superficial, emotional, and gossips."
"You're foolish, Brother Frank. Just because one woman wronged you doesn't mean they're all the devil's temptresses. Has it ever occurred to you that you asked for the wrong woman?"
Brother Frank's face darkened. "I gave her everything."
"That's not the point. The point is we often attract our own doom in the form of another person. If it's a woman, if it involves sex, so much the worse. The light by which we seek is the fire by which we shall be consumed."
"If you love women so much, why are you here?"
"One woman." Brother Andrew smiled a slow, sad smile. "Much as I understand a life of contemplation and prayer, I think we would all do ourselves much good by sharing our pasts. We learn from others. I'm a physician, and I couldn't save my wife from cancer. In the end I couldn't even stop the pain." What Brother Andrew did not divulge was that he finally injected a lethal dose of morphine into his wife to end her hideous suffering. He wondered, was he truly a murderer, or did he send to God a soul he loved more than any other, a soul at last free from pain? The monastery was his refuge from his perceived inadequacy.
"I'm sorry," Brother Frank said genuinely.
"I tell myself it was God's will." Brother Andrew put his hands on his knees. "Back to Harry. I see her more than you do when I go out to clinics. I'll stop by Crozet sometimes for fruit or an ice cream, my guilty pleasure. I'll talk to Harry at the post office. She would keep her promise. Someone else has disturbed our peace here. Would the other men have been indiscreet, not kept the promise?"
"I don't know. I can't imagine Brother Prescott doing this. I can, however, imagine Brother Mark, who is convinced this is a miracle, the Miracle of the Blue Ridge, Our Lady of the Blue Ridge." He grumbled, "People will pour through that gate once Brother Handle unlocks it, as he must sooner or later. How can we handle the numbers and the hysteria? Keeping silent, pretending the Blessed Virgin Mother isn't weeping, isn't going to cut it."
"I agree, but perhaps our leader thinks this diffuses the situation among ourselves."
"And perhaps it gives him time to think." A long pause followed. "We could make a great deal of money from this, you know."
"Ah." Brother Andrew nodded appreciatively.
"Will it fatten our coffers without violating our order?" He held up his hand as if in supplication. "As one who wishes to withdraw from the world, I don't like the idea of people beating their breasts, crying, making a spectacle of themselves in front of the Blessed Virgin Mother or, I confess, in front of me."
"She's seen worse," Brother Andrew wryly said.
"Ha." Brother Frank allowed himself a rare laugh, then stood up, his feet feeling slightly numb, tiny little pinpricks of pain slowly awakening them. "At least Brother Handle lets us wear socks with our sandals in winter, but my feet never feel warm. I hate it."
Brother Andrew stretched his feet out again. "I do, too. I think I can pray in here as easily as in my room, and it's a tad warmer." Brother Andrew wiggled his toes to make his point.
Brother Frank replied, a hint of playfulness in his voice, "Best foot forward."
"Quite right."
Brother Frank crossed his arms again, then slipped his hands back up the long folds of his sleeves. "So you haven't treated anyone in the last two days?"
"No. Why?"
"Well, I counted one head missing tonight."
"No, no one's sick that I know of." Brother Andrew now stood up. "Let's check the rooms. If someone was too sick to come to our evening meal I should know about it. It's quite possible in this aura of silence"—he tried not to be sarcastic but was anyway— "that someone is ill and told no one. We're all concentrating so hard on remaining silent, we aren't paying attention to one another. I didn't notice anyone missing."
"Someone is."
"Then I suggest, Brother Frank, that we get to it."
Together the two men walked down the east corridor. All was well there. Then they inspected the west corridor, nodding and smiling as they looked in on each brother. When they reached Brother Thomas's cubicle, it was empty.
"If we ask the other brothers whether they've seen him, we break the vow of silence imposed by Brother Handle," Brother Andrew whispered.
"Let's go to Brother Handle."
The two knew they'd find him in his office, books and papers piled high, his computer screen blinking. If they were lucky maybe the TV would be on. It was turned only to the news. He glanced up, not at all happy to be disturbed from his work— scheduling, which he loathed doing.
"Forgive us, Brother."
Brother Handle glared at Brother Frank. "What is it?"
"We can't locate Brother Thomas."
"Look in the carpenter's shop."
"He wouldn't be there, Brother Handle. He'd be in the chapel or at private prayer in accordance with your orders."
Remembering his recent order, Brother Handle's expression changed. "Where did you look?"
"In the infirmary. I counted heads at table. Brother Andrew, whom I forced to speak"—for this Brother Frank gained Brother Andrew's favor—"informed me that no one has been there for two days and the only case he or Brother John have seen within the week was a nasty cut on Brother David's forearm."
A long silence followed. "It's not like Brother Thomas to be disobedient or frivolous. He must be here somewhere."
"We can't find him." Brother Andrew spoke at last.
Brother Handle knew that Brother Thomas, despite his strong constitution, would most likely meet his maker before the other monks. Worried, he rose. "Brother Andrew, if he suffered a heart attack but not a fatal one, might he be disoriented?"
"Yes. We must find him."
Brother Handle said to Brother Frank, "Ring the bell, gather the brothers."
Within ten minutes all the brothers sat on benches in the great hall. Meetings were conducted there, not in the chapel. After lifting the ban on silence, Brother Handle asked if anyone had seen Brother Thomas.
The last time anyone could recall seeing the elderly fellow was the night before at chapel.
"Each of you go to your place of labor. See if, by chance, our brother is there, if he needs assistance. Brother Prescott, divide the remaining brothers into teams, give each a quadrant, and search the grounds. Oh, give them a whistle, too. You know where they are."
Twenty minutes later, those outside in the cold and the dark heard a shrill whistle rise above the stiff wind. All the monks outside hurried to the call.
When they reached the statue of the Virgin Mary, they found Brother Thomas. Brother Prescott had found him first. He had a hunch that the older man might have come to this place, a favorite place of his, so he took this quadrant along with Brother Mark and Brother John. Brother John was ministering to Brother Mark, who had passed out at the sight.
Brother Prescott quietly recited First Corinthians, Chapter 15, Verse 22: "For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive."