The Mission
One evening out on the dunes, after the sun had fallen into the ocean with only a green splash of protest, Joe and Moka trudged back to the car. Joe felt troubled. For the last ten days, the routine of training Moka, the rough, focusing work, and sound sleep every night had been the extent of his life at the monastery. He’d had no significant dreams, no signs suggesting his next move. Aside from the Moka dream about sanctuary before he’d come to the monastery, there was nothing.
They reached the parking lot, a deserted square of asphalt edged with wooden posts. Joe squatted down in front of Moka. “Do you know what’s going on, girl?” He scratched her head. “What are we supposed to do next? We’ve been here over a week, now. Maybe there’s supposed to be a sign, but damned if I’ve noticed anything.” He stroked a knuckle along her cheek and looked into her eyes.
“I know I had such a strong feeling of connection . . .” Joe remembered seeing Lady, happy-looking and alert in the back of the lab room. He remembered the hopeful wonder he felt thinking Lady might somehow be signaling the correct bin, but he could have been fooling himself. He’d been pissed off about those experiments and that might have affected his perception. And he’d never known for sure which bin was correct, had he?
He thought back, with some embarrassment, to earlier that morning when he’d misplaced the toilet plunger and had to rummage through the entire cleaning supplies closet, biting back curses, growing more and more irritated until he turned to Moka, sitting nearby, and snapped, “Aren’t you going to tell me where it is?”
With that question, the first time he’d spoken out loud about the dogs’ telepathy, he heard the words as another person might, and sensed the oddness of his ideas. He’d looked around. Had anyone been listening? Later, he’d found the plunger in the communal bathroom where he’d left it.
Joe stood, opened the back car door and Moka jumped in. He walked around to let himself into the car, slid into the driver’s seat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked at Moka in the rear view mirror and saw an ordinary dog. Playful, easy-going, smart, affectionate—but still, just a regular dog.
He gazed out the front window at the windswept dunes. He thought about his belief in a mission and the feeling of being special. Was he really off-base? He’d always prized his rationality and insistence on evidence, the attributes of a good investigator. And now, when he took a hard look at what he’d experienced the last few months, he had to admit there was actually no objective evidence for his mission, or for telepathic dogs. It was all gut feelings and dreams.
He slouched low behind the wheel, and rested his head on the back of the car seat. “I wish I knew what was going on.”
He thought about Brother Thomas. The older man had offered to talk with him.
Joe glanced back at Moka. “I said I was here for spiritual guidance. Maybe it’s time I got some.” Moka licked his ear.
The next day, Brother Thomas opened the door of his room at Mallory’s soft knock. As he entered, Thomas studied Mallory’s face for a clue as to why he’d requested the meeting, but his features were impassive. The monk indicated a straight back chair, and Mallory sat with his feet planted flat on the floor and hands clasped.
After a full minute of Mallory staring at his hands and several times opening his mouth to speak but subsiding into silence, Thomas asked, “Is your stay here meeting your expectations?”
Mallory looked surprised. “My expectations? I’m not sure. It’s more that being here has raised some concerns for me.”
“How can I be of help?”
Mallory frowned, then glanced around Thomas’ cell, gaze snagging on the tidy desk with a row of books across the back, the sink with exposed plumbing, the crucifix above the bed. “Would you object to a conversation about the idea of a mission? I’m talking about a mission as an important purpose in one’s life.”
Thomas’ hope flared at Mallory’s possible spiritual interest. He chuckled. “I wouldn’t object. We talk about purpose and mission quite a bit among ourselves.”
“My question is this: How do you know if a mission is genuine?”
“You mean, is it important? Meaningful?”
“No, I mean . . . could a person be confused sometimes about whether his mission even exists? So, for instance, are you convinced that God has, in fact, chosen you for a mission?”
“No,” Brother Thomas said. “The Benedictines do not see themselves as a chosen group, but rather as supplicants on a spiritual journey.” He eyed Mallory and considered the meaning of his question. “Do you believe God has chosen you?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve been chosen.” Mallory leaned forward in his chair. “But I think, maybe, I have an important mission. But how do I know for sure?”
Brother Thomas struggled to understand the question, but the man spoke in generalities like someone who didn’t want to lie, but didn’t want to tell the truth, either. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Mallory stared at his shoes, frowning.
“Perhaps other people who know about this mission could help you?”
“Other people?”
“Well, yes. Here at the Monastery, we help each other with these questions about our shared purpose as Benedictine Monks.”
“I don’t know of any other people involved.”
A coldness seized Thomas. Could he have misread this man? In his work, he had sometimes dealt with men, strange loners, who blurred the lines of reality, who saw themselves as special missionaries, who, bluntly put, were delusional. He risked his next comment.
“If there are no other people who share your mission, then perhaps you may have created it yourself.”
“You mean I could have imagined it?”
Brother Thomas was silent, regarding Mallory. He had witnessed different reactions when a man’s delusional beliefs were bluntly challenged. Some became enraged, some terrified, and some buttressed their delusions even further.
But Mallory seemed calm and asked, “Why would a person do something like that?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “I think a man would have his own unique reasons. But believing in a mission might serve a psychological purpose, might make a man feel better about himself.”
Mallory shifted suddenly in his chair, and Thomas braced for an outburst.
But again, Mallory showed only interest. “How would that work?”
“Sometimes a man who despairs, maybe dislikes himself, who feels hopeless and perhaps trapped, will invent reasons to be important, to be superior, might even see himself as mattering in a grand or magical way.”
The two men sat in a minute’s silence. Thomas watched Mallory’s face, his body language, for an eruption of emotion. But he seemed to be considering Thomas’ words as if given a logical proof to mull over.
He stood. “Thank you Brother Thomas. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Surprised by Mallory’s abrupt end to the conversation, Thomas said, “I am happy to meet with you again, if you like.”
Mallory nodded in a distracted way as he left, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.
Brother Thomas was puzzled. On the one hand, the man talked openly of having a mission not shared by others, a feature of grandiose delusions. On the other hand, he didn’t have that feel of “craziness.” He had good hygiene and completed his work with energy and focus. His interactions with the monks were, by the Abbott’s orders, minimal, but Thomas had observed an easiness, consideration for others, and even some joking when Mallory worked with a crew.
Most telling, when Thomas had probed his possible delusional thinking just now, Mallory had reacted with an “observing ego,” the ability to consider oneself in an objective light—an ability not typically seen in people with psychosis.
Thomas wondered if Mallory’s delusions were bizarre–completely implausible—like those of one of his previous patients, who’d believed that someone was transmitting thoughts into his head. Bizarre delusions would certainly indicate a severe illness, maybe paranoid schizophrenia.
Thomas sighed, stepped up to his sink and scrubbed his face with cold water, banishing useless speculation about a diagnosis. He doubted he’d ever learn what Mallory’s “mission” was all about. But one thing was clear. With both relief and mild disappointment, Thomas realized that this visitor was indifferent to joining the spiritual life of the Benedictine monks.
