He labours in the fields, sweat dripping from his nose, pathetic refreshment for the vegetables. Dry clods explode beneath the rhythmic flagellation of his hoe, each detonation demarcating a word of prayer. The sun bakes the back of his neck to a colour matching his coarse brown robe, but his face is white still. Jorice never looks up from his vegetables, never raises his eyes to regard the other Postulants. Head down, back bent, his posture speaks penance. The weeds, they are like his sins, though never so numerous, never so deadly. Pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, sloth. . . . Weeds both mortal and venial are cut down, sprout again, die again, in the eternal struggle for forgiveness. Jorice has chosen a stern atonement, but he fears that neither choice nor atonement are complete.
Each day he rises in the dark, dons humility and silence with his humble garment, and treads the musty stone flags through Dormitory to Chapel. Head bowed and hands clasped, from Lauds until Prime he kneels on hard rock, blessing the pain from an abscessed knee for its cleansing agony. Pain is his penance, a kindness undeserved, unmerited surcease from recollection of his sins. Pain obscures memory of a young Professor, mouthing metaphysics while leering down the blouses of his female students, so practised in wickedness that his lust never disturbs his lectures. Pain is payment for the temple of excess which tenure built, naked wealth exposed before the poor, an affront to Charity. Pain and prayer can buy back the soiled soul of Jorice the Sinner, who once mocked Faith and laughed at Hope, needful of neither in his arrogance. From Lauds until Prime, until the bells of the Monastery call him to the fields and the day's humble labor, he prays in pain for the miracle of a redemption which he can imagine but never deserve. For two years, he has refrained from speaking so much as a single word.
The morning sun beats down hard on Jorice, a great yellow photonic wind pushing his face towards the dry dirt, adding weight to his hoe, blowing beads of salty sweat onto weeds and vegetables alike. His back aches, and the calluses on his hands bore holes in the meagre flesh beneath them. His penance is not complete, his sins far from expiated, but he is almost happy, nearly serene. He hears Tierce, the prayers of mid-morning. The faint chant from the Monastery permeates thick, hot air, cool drink to ears thirsty for news of salvation.
Soon comes Sext, and old Brother Abdiel brings noontime bread, warm water, and wrinkled red apples from the Monastery to sustain the Postulants at their labor. Jorice lays his hoe aside, carries his simple portion down the dusty lane to the wide iron gate, and passes it through the bars to the nearest beggar. He sweats beneath the sun while an ancient cripple wolfs the food, waiting downwind in the man's infected stench for the wooden cup to be passed back.
Now Nones, the afternoon prayer, has long passed. Jorice's mind still echoes the chant of the Brothers, the Cloistered Ones. The sun sinks slowly in the sky, swelling and reddening as it nears the horizon. Insects begin their evening search for blood, but Jorice does not disturb their quest. They may feast on his body, so long as their stings and stabs move him further from the flesh, closer to the spirit.
A bell rings, clear and clean, calling the Postulants to Vespers. The hoe strikes down one last weed, then rests. Jorice allows himself no illusion that the day's work is complete. Deep inside his chest boils a sullen fear of what true repentance may yet require of him. Night brings time for prayer, for meditation, for listening to the sweet voices of the Cloistered Ones gathered together in harmony of praise and submission. Jorice tenses in both terror and elation at the prospect that the evening's contemplation might reveal what he has left undone. Slow and stiff, head bowed, he turns towards Chapel.
Only two steps taken, and he is startled motionless. Sandalled feet are planted on the path before him, and reflexively he looks up for a guilty instant. A tardy will averts his eyes, but not before the hard, lean features of Brother Abdiel coalesce in his mind. Jorice points the top of his head at where he imagines Brother Abdiel's ancient face to be and stands silent, breathing shallow, nervous breaths. Guilt washes over him, guilt and fear, the emotional residue of a spoiled life. Proof that his penance is only begun, Jorice thinks suddenly, else he would accept these unexpected feet with the same peace and serenity which the Cloistered Ones show to all things. Guilt and fear: marks of the unforgiven.
But the sandalled feet do not move. The hem of the brown robe above them ripples in a soft sunset breeze. The feet are waiting, Jorice understands, waiting for Obedience. He forces his neck to bend, eyes rising in a series of small jerks, until Brother Abdiel's face is barely within the compass of his vision. One wrinkled cheek twitches slightly, almost hinting of a smile. Clasped hands come apart and gently gesture the words "Come, follow me".
His penance is not done, but he moves to obey, tremulous and uncertain. Jorice struggles to imitate the equanimity of Brother Abdiel as he falls in behind. He does not know where to put his hoe, or how to carry it. Stiff ankles complain at the pace his guide sets, and he totters unsteadily between the furrows. He is led away from Dormitory and Chapel, towards the great stone secret of the Monastery. A black sea of panic threatens to engulf him as his filthy feet approach holy ground, but the dark waters quickly subside before the power of simple prayer. Jorice has mastered his unworthy emotions now. He is passive, his fate in hands other than his own.
The great wooden doors stand open, and he follows Brother Abdiel inside with only a twinge of terror. The air is dark and cool, smelling of moist stone and hot wax. It would be sacrilege for him to enter this place, or even to desire to do so, save in the safety of Obedience. His penance cannot be complete, but his fear is unreal, unwarranted. For two years, he has fought with the flesh, irrigating the spirit with pain and hunger and longing for a promised redemption. He has done no wrong here, and need have no fear. For the first time, he dares to feels righteous, and the sweet agony of righteousness draws from him a single sob in the silence of dank stone.
Brother Abdiel leads him up stone steps, and down a long stone hall. Windows on one side open onto deepening evening, admitting a cool breeze fragrant with the scent of his familiar vegetables. The silence is profound, not broken but decorated by the faint clap-clop of Brother Abdiel's sandals, and the soft slap of his own bare feet on the cool slabs. Returning fear nibbles the edges of his faith, and he holds the hoe across his body like a warding staff, knuckles white beneath the day's dirt, its familiar heft a comfort, a badge of long service in the battle against temptation.
Brother Abdiel stops, and turns to face him. A small wooden door looms on his left. The Brother extends a robed arm. Jorice stares stupidly for a moment, then realises that he is asked to give up his hoe. Reluctantly, he lays the smooth wood across a gnarled palm. He feels naked, out of place, but then the sensation of righteousness returns. He has surrendered comfort, career, family, wealth, power, health; loss of the instrument of his penance is one with these. Brother Abdiel opens the small door and steps back, cheek twitching again in the same hint of brotherly compassion.
He walks in. Through a small window the rising moon shines across a plain and bare room, corners hidden in deepest shadow. The door closes behind him, and Jorice is almost terrified. Squinting, he barely discerns the silhouette of a man before him, back turned, seated behind a little wooden table on which a single stuttering candle illumines paper and pen. The slender figure wears a coarse brown robe like his own, almost black in the dim light, belted with a knotted white rope. Slowly, as if in pain, the man rises and turns to face him. With shock and embarrassment and righteous ecstasy, he recognises Father Abbot himself!
"Jorice," whispers the Abbot, his soft voice sounding with almost pagan violence in the silent place. Jorice says nothing, but stands with bowed head and clasped hands before the holy man.
"Jorice," he repeats, and pauses again. "Long have you tended the fields at our Monastery."
Silence. After a moment, Jorice croaks: "Yes". The sound of his own voice, unused for so long, is startling and portentous.
"Many faces have come and gone," says Father Abbot after a hushed interval. "Many faces have come here, some angry and desperate, some defeated and resigned. Many have left as they arrived. Some have left with a greater peace upon them. But Jorice. . . Jorice is still here."
Another pause, more silence. Jorice thinks perhaps the Abbot is waiting for him to respond, so he speaks for the second time in as many years. "Yes, Father," he says. His voice is husky and coarse; the sound feels like a sin.
Father Abbot watches his charge before continuing.
"So you think, Jorice, that you still have a Vocation?"
"Yes, Father Abbot." The words do not leave him easily. Muscles tense and quiver unbidden. "But my penance is not complete," he adds with great effort. The tone befits a man in tears, but his eyes are dry and wide.
Father Abbot stiffens almost imperceptibly. "It is not for you to choose your penance, Jorice. Nor shall you judge when your penance is complete." Jorice makes no sound, cannot acknowledge the reproval. The effort to break his long rule of silence is exhausting, disconcerting. Speech makes him feel unclean, like a sinner. Silence is pure, silence is holy. Silent prayer drives away the arrogance of worldly thought.
Father Abbot regards Jorice for a time, unmoving. "Jorice," he says, then pauses again. "Will you take the Vow of Silence with us?"
Jorice is terrified. He feels unworthy, unclean, guilty. But it is not for him to judge when his penance is complete.
"Yes, Father Abbot," he answers.
"And will you take the Vow of Poverty with us?"
"Yes, Father Abbot," he replies again, limbs shaking in time with his voice.
"And will you take the Vow of Obedience with us?"
Jorice stares with fierce will at the stone floor. "Yes, Fa...Fa...Father Abbot," he groans, chest heaving. Tears come now, melting the salty residue of sweat and mud on his cheeks. He is guilty, unclean, his penance barely begun, and yet he is forgiven. Forgiven! Heedless of the hard stone floor, he falls heavily to his knees. The abscess screams, and his wicked body recoils. Desperate for one last cleansing pain, he grinds the infected wound onto the grey slate, writhing in an agony of torture and the ecstasy of impending redemption. He barely hears Father Abbot's blessing, and his promise.
". . .Then rise up, Jorice, and go wash yourself. Tonight, before Complin, you shall swear your Vows, and join the Brotherhood of Man. Together, we shall pray for the mercy of. . ."
Three sharp raps echo from the wooden door. Jorice's eyes widen at the sacrilege; his head turns quick as a bird's towards the horrid sound. No sooner do his eyes fall upon the wall behind him than the knocks are repeated, harder this time. He makes shift to rise, but before his legs can unbend, he hears a voice. . .
"C'mon, c'mon! Move your wide ass, fat man, your time is up."
The door flies open, and a shattering white light stuns his eyes. In horror, Jorice turns to Father Abbot for help, but the priest is gone, as is the desk, the moonlit window, the dark stone walls of the monkish room. All is grey and shifting, like cold wet smoke. Terrified, he turns back to the light, squinting, mouth open, ready to drool.
The white light remains, but the door is gone. A man hovers over him, a large man, with a round head topped with curly red hair. Jorice lies on his back, a bare fluorescent bulb and dingy white paint background to the monstrous image. The man grabs him by the shirt and pulls.
"Damn you, George, you're three minutes over your time already. I've got a customer waiting! Now get your fat ass outta there or I'll pick it up and throw it down the hall."
Jorice turns again to look for Father Abbot, but this time his head can barely move. He is wearing a helmet, and the visor is thrown up. He looks dumbly at his gloved hands, bundles of multicoloured wire trailing from his wrists to the soft bench beneath him.
"Noooo!" he cries. Beyond shock, he recognises the bulky man towering over him. "Please, Leroy, please!" he begs. "I was almost there! I almost made it! Please, just five minutes more, I only need. . ."
Leroy grabs his shirt with one hand, pushes the helmet off with the other. "Get up, scumbag," he orders. "I'm gettin' powerful sick of your whining. Jesus Christ!" Leroy pulls George into a sitting position, then bends down to sniff the cushions of the bench. Angry now, he shoves George back down and pulls off the boots and leggings with practised care of their tender cabling. "Goddam addict," he curses. "Can't even take a bath anymore, can you? You come in here smelling like shit again and I'll throw you out the door so hard you bounce twice. Stupid bastard. . ." Leroy continues to curse as he removes and stows the gloves, peels off the wired vest.
George is crying now, limp and dizzy, truly desperate. "Please, Leroy, I'll pay you double, I promise, just let me. . ."
Leroy looks up, angrier, and punches George in the chest with the heel of his hand, hard.
"Don't mess with me, asshole," he threatens. "I know to the penny how much a goddamn Sanitary Engineer at the University makes, and I know just how much of it you spend here. You're dead broke, and have been for months. Bring me the cash, then get in line. Don't you ever pretend you got any credit here, 'cause you never did and never will. Now get up, damn you, I got a customer waiting for this bench."
George can't stop pleading. "My wife's got a good job," he whines. "I can get the money from her tonight! I swear to you, please, I've just got to finish my Dream, I'll be back with the money, you know I will, I swear, please, just let me finish. . ."
The look on Leroy's face changes, and the change startles George to silence. A noxious mixture of pity and disgust suffuses the huge frame. Slowly, the big man's features coalesce into a picture of concentration, a businessman figuring profit and loss. The room is still for a tense handful of seconds. When Leroy speaks, his voice is low and even.
"Goddamned burned out VR junkie. . . Your wife left you last year, ya hear me?" Leroy pauses for effect. "You've lost it, George Rice. Wait for me at the front desk. When you leave, you take your disks with you. God alone knows why I've put up with you this long. You're finished here, you and your goddamn Dream, understand? Now get out, or I throw you out. Your choice. What'll it be, fool?"
Every inch of Leroy's huge frame promises that the threat is real. George's adrenal gland empties itself, and the unwashed, unhandsome body does what the stunned and despairing mind could not instruct it to do: it slides unsteadily off the cushioned bench onto fat and wobbly legs, and lurches towards the open door. Lost and unforgiven, George Rice stumbles down an ill-lit hall, and into the night. Leroy bends over the empty bench, hurriedly polishing the cushions with disinfectant.
R. G. Riel has worked as a sailor, metallurgist, manager, failure analyst, and general purpose wage slave. He has learned that writing is less expensive than having a social life, generally just as exciting, and much, much safer. When not wordsmithing, he preaches poetry and rock music to Queensland, Australia as a volunteer DJ on community radio. His short fiction and verse have been published in Australia, the US, the UK and Canada.