“Yes. I walked from Munchen. It has not been easy.”
“My word, that does go some way to explain the state of your boots. Well, you are most welcome to rest and eat. Today is my birthday, you know, and you are welcome on that account too.” The old man smiled happily.
“Thank you, I would be most grateful. I can pay, I have some gold.” Von Höhenheim was stiff. The last thing he needed was pity. Pity might break him.
“Oh, no, we cannot take money,” the abbot sounded almost shocked at the idea. “It can be my birthday present, you see.”
“It is usual for the visitor to give the present, not the person whose birthday it is,” von Höhenheim pointed out.
“Oh, but of course; but you see, you only get food and shelter, and to keep your money, I suppose. But I get the blessing of doing a fellow human being a kindness. Worth so much more, don’t you think?”
Von Höhenheim didn’t. In his view the old man was a fool, but it would have been undiplomatic to say so. He watched as the old man shuffled off to return with bread, cheese and meat, and a jug of ale. He gave von Höhenheim two plates and a carving knife, placing them on a little table he drew up next to von Höhenheim’s chair.
“We have made a very nice liqueur here for many years,” the old man said with a beaming smile, sitting down again. “When you have finished, I shall get you some.”
“Thank you,” von Höhenheim mumbled through a mouthful of cheese-and-beef sandwich. He was ravenous. He needed the ale too, his throat was dry. He wolfed the meal down and drank the ale.
“If you are still hungry in an hour or two, perhaps some fruit, but it would be unwise to eat too much too quickly,” the abbot said. “Let me get you that liqueur. I am sure you will find it soothing.”
He did. Von Höhenheim leaned back in his chair and sipped the liqueur. It sent a warm glow right down his digestive tract. Combined with the warmth of the fire, he was able to feel the aches in his bones start to ease.
“Rather pleasant being inside, with the storm held at bay, don’t you feel?” the abbot said chattily. “You must stay for at least tonight, of course. The beds are rather hard, we would hardly pass for a hotel. You can have one of the cells the brothers used to use.”
“Are there many people here at the abbey?” von Höhenheim asked.
“Oh dear, no. We used to be a thriving little community at one time, although we suffered badly during the occupation. But it is so hard to find people with a vocation these days. We had a deluge of vocations during the war and occupation, but the death rate was high. At present our few remaining monks and brothers are away on an agricultural course. I am holding the fort. I have some novices and helpers who come to help with the Jotok pools, but they do not live at the abbey.” He sighed regretfully. “No, I am virtually alone these days, save for a woman who comes in once a week to do odd jobs. I think she enjoys looking after me, so I let her do my washing for me. Not that there’s a lot of that.” He laughed.
The fire roared and crackled, and outside the storm raged and spat at the windowpanes. There was a long silence, and von Höhenheim felt sleep stealing over him. He felt almost safe. He wasn’t, of course, he never would be again. But then, safety was an illusion-he’d always known that.
“Let me take you to your cell,” the abbot said comfortably. “I have made up the cot for you, and you should be quite warm. I hope you sleep well.”
In the morning, von Höhenheim raised himself out of the bed with some reluctance. The storm had passed in the night, but his aches and pains had not. He dressed hurriedly and left the small room, almost a cell, but with no lock on the door either inside or out.
He explored briefly. A kitchen garden was visible through a window, and he could see a blue sky with some straggly white clouds. Then he picked up the smell of frying bacon and found the abbot up and cooking breakfast.
“Oh good. You are awake. Isn’t it a beautiful day? Go to my study and wait by the fire, I shall bring both our meals in together.”
The study was the room he had been taken to last night, and there was a new fire roaring away. The walls of the room were lined with old-fashioned books; he had not noticed them last night. He went and looked at the titles; mostly theology, but with some popular and not-so-popular science books. Von Höhenheim sniffed contemptuously. The abbot was one of those intellectual people he despised. A soft man, this abbot, interested in ideas. What use were ideas? A man had to be hard, to be practical. It was a miracle the abbot had survived the Occupation.
The abbot came in carrying two large plates with bacon, eggs and mushrooms. Von Höhenheim helped him place them on small tables, and the abbot vanished to return in a moment with knives and forks, none of which matched.
“Here you are, now eat. I’ve given you three eggs. Very nutritious eggs.”
The abbot gave thanks, very quietly, then they ate in silence. The abbot had given himself about half of what he had given von Höhenheim, so he finished first. He waited politely for von Höhenheim to finish, then took out the plates and cutlery. Von Höhenheim waited for him to come back. He didn’t like the thought of what he had to do next. He could hear the running water as the abbot washed everything.
The abbot bustled back and sat down. “Now we can talk. I have a feeling you’ve a lot to tell me.”
“No. I have to leave now. And I fear I must tie you up and gag you. Nobody must know I have been here.”
The abbot looked into von Höhenheim’s eyes. “On the whole, I’d prefer it if you shot me,” he said with infinite patience. “Oh yes, I detected the gun in your pocket while I was wrapping blankets around you last night. You see, if you were to tie me up, I should certainly starve before I was found, and I have an aversion to rats. Silly, I know, but there you are.”
Von Höhenheim drew his gun.
“It has already killed one man. He deserved it and you do not, but I am desperate.” He levelled the gun at the abbot.
The abbot ignored the gun and looked into von Höhenheim’s eyes. He showed no fear whatever, but he looked a little sad.
Von Höhenheim looked back, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He closed his eyes.
“I think you ought to look,” the abbot said patiently. “You might botch the job if you have your eyes closed.”
Von Höhenheim opened his eyes, and the abbot looked into them sadly.
Von Höhenheim took a deep breath and tried again. Why was it so hard?
His finger tightened, then he slumped and put the gun back in his pocket.
“I can’t do it,” he said savagely.
“That’s good,” the abbot said in relief.
“Good for you, you mean,” von Höhenheim snarled at him.
“Oh, who can tell? I meant good for you. It would be dreadful to have to kill someone. You would find it very difficult to live with, don’t you think? Your conscience would give you terrible pain. It already has, you know. I can feel it. But I wouldn’t feel anything, I’d be dead. Or perhaps if the stories are true, I would be somewhere else.”
Von Höhenheim glared at him.
“Some people don’t seem to have a conscience,” the abbot explained, “but I think we all do really. It’s just that if you keep telling it to shut up, it sort of loses specificity. You know there is something wrong, something badly wrong, but you don’t know exactly what, so it just becomes a general wretchedness. And some poor souls live their lives that way. I think that is what hell is. And they never find out.” He shuddered, as a man glimpsing horror beyond words.