The Mission
When Joe awoke, the odors of manure, leaf mold and rosemary greeted him in the diffuse, gray light of the greenhouse. A light rain pattered on the glass panes above his head. Moka stirred and eased her forelegs over his thighs. She sighed and gave him that “are you awake yet?” look.
He’d been comfortable enough with the cot and blanket brought to him last night by Brother Will, who also delivered a meal of meatloaf, green beans and rye bread, along with table scraps and a bowl of water for Moka. The monk, who kept stealing glances at Moka, was silent except to say, “Ask for Brother Thomas when you wake in the morning.”
Joe checked his watch. Ten a.m.? He hadn’t meant to sleep so late. He’d have to hurry. He pulled on his pants and reached for his wallet, lying on the floor by his cot. He’d shown the older monk his I.D. Well, he’d had no choice if he expected to stay here. He could only hope the Benedictines wouldn’t do some kind of background check on him. He wondered what he could do to quiet any suspicion and to make himself useful so they’d let him stay on.
Pausing for a stop at the latrine pointed out to him the night before, he hiked up a gentle slope toward what he thought was the abbey, a large redwood A-frame. The path was surrounded by terraced gardens. A few monks dressed in loose pants and shirts of somber colors resembled large foraging crows as they hoed weeds along the furrows. Joe recognized beans, grapevines, and pumpkin. Moka, on a leash, nosed along serpentine scent paths by his side. Watching the monks, it occurred to Joe how he might prove himself useful.
Brother Thomas met him at the door of the A-frame, his hood thrown back to reveal a high forehead and beaky nose.
“Good morning, Mr. Mallory. Is the greenhouse satisfactory?”
Joe straightened, had to stop an automatic salute. Though a short man, Brother Thomas carried an air of natural authority. “Yes, very. Thank you for taking me in. And uh, if this is not too presumptuous, I was wondering if you’d need a helping hand in the fields or elsewhere? I’m a good worker.”
Brother Thomas’ wide smile lit his eyes. “The Benedictines value work highly. Your offer is accepted. I will talk with Brother Will and he will show you what to do.”
Joe worked hard for six hours: chopping weeds, hauling trash, cleaning toilets, and washing pots. He worked alongside various monks who would nod, grunt out a name, then keep a silence. Brother Will spoke only to give task instructions, except for once when he produced a ratty tennis ball and asked Joe’s permission to play with Moka. Joe smiled inwardly at the young man’s eager face and assented.
At dinnertime, Joe was again directed to the greenhouse. Brother Will delivered food, then whispered, “We leave you to your prayers.”
The extended sleep Joe had caught the night before had cleared his mind of fatigue. The labors of the day, though they tired his body, added to his mental alertness and left him strangely agitated. He paced the greenhouse, punching a fist into his palm. So far, he’d played his hand to perfection. He’d pulled off the theft, dodged the threat of the cops, and got himself to a safe place. He felt a thrumming pride in his chest. He sensed he had some kind of special intuition—the connection with Lady was just part of it.
Now, he needed to keep his mind clear, be open to his hunches, stay alert for signs. He hoped to hell the monks would let him stay long enough for him to work out his next steps.
He caught sight of Moka standing by the door, chewed-up tennis ball in her mouth. He took her outside to play fetch until the light failed, then once he was in bed, surprised himself by readily falling under a fog of sleep as it rolled over him.
Next morning at seven a.m., Brother Thomas rapped on the open door of the greenhouse while Joe was attempting to shave using a window as a mirror. Thomas tucked a hand in the leather belt of his tunic and grinned, showing yellow teeth through a streaked beard. “I have reports that you are not afraid of hard work.”
Joe returned the grin. “No, sir, I am not.”
“I have spoken with our Abbot. You may stay for twenty-one days. But after that, unless you have a serious interest in our way of life, you’ll have to leave. We are, after all, a monastic order.”
Joe nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“The Abbot requests that you work six hours every morning, but then have the afternoon and evening for meditation and your own concerns. You may leave our grounds, but must return before dark. Is this agreed?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Joe was pleased. Three weeks should give him plenty of time.
The monk pursed his lips and clasped his hands at his belt. He seemed to study Joe. “You mentioned spiritual guidance. I would be willing to talk with you, should you so wish.”
Joe was surprised at the monk’s concern. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. Brother Will has your day’s work schedule. God be with you.”
The daily physical labor, much more strenuous than Joe was used to, stiffened his joints the first few nights. But soon enough, he got into the habit of a well-used body, happy to grunt and sweat, enjoying the burgeoning strength of his muscles, focusing his thoughts on the job to be done. He began to sleep heavily through the night, dreaming inconsequential dreams.
He was excluded from the monastery life, a situation which satisfied him. He wasn’t searching for fellowship, although under other circumstances he would have been intrigued by this group of men who raised vegetables, made wine, built furniture, kept bees—all activities which maintained their self-sufficiency and brought in income. They were friendly enough, but not given to chatting. Fine with Joe.
In the afternoons, after his six hours of labor, he drove with Moka to the dunes, west of the Monastery. They scrambled up the tall sand hills for the view of the ocean, the white-edged rollers distant but audible. Closer to the sea, the dunes shrank and gave way to shallow, brackish pools and mudflats, then brown sandy beaches studded with rocks.
During the first three days, the monotony of sandy expanse, clouds of gnats and graygreen clumps that passed for plants emptied his mind—except for an insistent sh-sh-sh of pulsing blood in his ears and the echoes of his own rush of thoughts. But sometime during the fifth day, the hard work and sound sleep took hold. The subdued voices in his head just stopped. Instead, as he stood on a dune looking across a flat stretch of sand to the ocean, he heard only the surf, the hum of flies, and Moka’s panting.
During their ocean excursions, Joe began a training regimen with Moka. He taught her “Come” by calling her in on longer and longer clothesline and rewarding with treats. He worked on “Sit,” by standing right in front of her, keeping eye contact, then requiring the Sit as he backed up, step by step. For each success, he praised, patted, and tossed her a treat. She’d easily mastered the art of snapping up her rewards mid-air.
As he carefully shaped her behavior, building the mutual respect needed for a well-trained dog, he began to wonder about the shape of his own doings. So far, he’d drawn a blank when he looked past the remaining two weeks of his time among the monks.
