Vow of Sanctity (2 page)

He indicated the steep slopes behind them, where conifers clung to the earth below the higher peaks of rock and a path snaked between the trunks.

‘Right then.’ Sister Joan tore her gaze away from the scenery and reached out for her bags.

‘You’ll never manage both of them, Sister,’ Brother Cuthbert said firmly. ‘Look, you take the lighter one and I’ll bring up the heavier with something for your supper just as soon as I’ve seen Father Abbot. Give me half an hour.’

‘You said your community was on a spur of land,’ Sister Joan said, looking across the glinting surface of the loch.

‘Around the bend just past that outcropping of rock,’ he pointed. ‘It is possible to walk across the stepping stones when the water’s calm but there is a boat we can use when we need to leave the enclosure. Are you sure you can cope with a bag? I can bring over the both if not.’

‘I’ll manage just fine,’ Sister Joan assured him.

‘Right then – see you later, Sister. Take care now.’

He had relinquished the lighter of her bags and now strode off along the fringed shoreline, still carrying the heavier one. Under the hem of his brown habit his sandalled feet trod rapidly. It was obvious that punctuality was considered important. She turned back towards the cliff path and began to mount it, pleased to find that it was easily negotiable.

It twisted back and forth between the trees, doubling back on itself at times, the gradient becoming almost imperceptibly steeper so that with a little shock she paused to catch her breath, suddenly aware that her feet were slipping on the sharp pine needles that littered the ground and that the shores of the loch were a long way below her. She set down her carpetbag on a bit of level ground and looked down through the trees to where the cliffs seemed to converge, the loch itself narrowing to a ribbon of glinting silver. From this height it was possible to see the spur of land that jutted out from the opposite shore to form what amounted to a virtual
island where the loch widened again, as it emerged from the outcroppings of rock and pine-clad slope below the scree and jagged peaks above the tree-line. She could see trees on the spur and the straight lines of stone walls and what could have been low stone buildings, but it was all too distant to make out in any detail. And it had nothing to do with her anyway save that it was pleasant to know that in an emergency she wouldn’t be completely alone.

‘And there is not,’ said Sister Joan aloud, ‘going to be any emergency, so let’s get on.’

She bent, picked up her bag, and toiled on up the steepening path. If any elderly Daughter of Compassion wished to make a spiritual retreat, she reflected wryly, she’d do well to have a medical checkup first.

The path had ended abruptly in what looked like a solid face of rock. She stared upward in dismay for a moment. Then she saw the steps – broad, shallow steps cut in the stone and rising upwards with an iron handrail on the side furthest from the rock.

The steps twisted as they neared the top and ended at what reminded her of an illustration that had been in her childhood copy of
The
Piper
of
Hamelin.
A door fixed in the mountainside would doubtless open to reveal the enchanted land beyond. Putting down her bag on the top step, Sister Joan lifted the huge iron latch with the same stir of excitement as the child Joan had once looked at the picture in her book, and stepped into a narrow passage – no more than a cleft in the rock.

Within a couple of yards it widened into a cave, fairly spacious and with a reasonably level floor. She held her bag in front of her and manoeuvred it and her own slight frame into the larger space. Even with the door open it was dim after the sunlit landscape below but not uncomfortably dark. More light filtered through a slit in the rock. Again it was impossible to tell if it were man-made or natural, but it clearly served as a window. Stepping to it, Sister Joan looked out, first seeing only sky, and then as she shifted her head, watching the sweep of the loch as it wended its way, the open sea came into view. A look-out post for Vikings, she reminded herself, and felt a curious kinship with the long dead monks
who had taken their turn as look-out scouts, anxiously straining their gaze towards the sea, dreading the sight of a carved dragon prow breasting the waves.

The cave was simply furnished. An iron bedstead with mattress and blankets – how, she wondered, had they managed to get it up the steps? – a primus stove, a shelf with some dishes and cups and cutlery ranged along it, a few hooks hammered into the wall, and at the back of the cave a shallow stone trough which formed a natural washbasin. There were also half a dozen large plastic containers of water which looked fresh and fit for drinking. Presumably Brother Cuthbert renewed the contents regularly. She bent to unscrew the lid, dipped a cup into the wide neck and was rewarded with a welcome, thirst quenching draught of cool water.

‘Much healthier than a cup of tea,’ Sister Joan admonished herself, and grinned as she realized she had spoken aloud. Five minutes in the retreat and she was talking to herself!

She had carried up the lighter bag containing her nightclothes and change of underwear and toilet accessories. Brother Cuthbert had gone off with the bag containing her painting materials and the thick notebook in which she wrote up her meditations. Entries, she thought guiltily, had been sparse in recent months, but the schoolday took up so much of her time, demanded so much emotional energy – and there she went making excuses again. Mother Dorothy had known what she was talking about when she recommended a period of spiritual renewal.

She stepped into the narrow passage again and went through the doorway to the broad, flat top step. Wider than the other steps it had a guard rail about it, a sensible modern precaution of which she heartily approved. She herself had an excellent head for heights but in wet weather the stone would be slippery and the cliffs were steep.

From the top step she had a splendid view of the length of the loch as it curved into wider water and of the spur of land that jutted into it with its trees and long lines of grey stone wall. Colours were muted at this distance and only the sky flashed fire. There was a boat on the loch. She narrowed her eyes to bring it into focus and guessed rather than saw that
Brother Cuthbert was on his way with her other bag and, hopefully, something for supper. Sister Joan whose trim figure belied a hearty appetite trusted that the young Brother hadn’t picked up the notion that a retreat also meant extremes of fasting.

‘In the Order of the Daughters of Compassion extremes of devotion are not encouraged,’ her first prioress had said. ‘Excessive self-mortification is dangerous and silly. Please remember that.’

Sister Joan had never had any idea of doing anything to excess, but now as she watched the boatman draw towards the shore she felt another uneasy pang of guilt. So far she had admired the scenery, thought cravingly of a cup of tea, and hoped she’d get a decent supper, and not one prayer of thankfulness for a safe journey had come into her head.

Brother Cuthbert had moored the boat and was striding along the water’s edge with her larger bag in one hand and what looked like a picnic hamper in the other. He began to mount the lower path between the trees with the
sure-footedness
of a goat. Clearly he would ascend the steps with equal ease, not needing to hold on to the handrail. Sister Joan stepped back as his fringe of ginger hair appeared directly beneath her and retreated into the cave, leaving the door open.

‘Glad you’re settled in, Sister.’ He had inserted himself and his burdens through the narrow passage. ‘Quite a climb, isn’t it? Oh, Father Abbot just had the letter from your own convent to let us know someone was coming on retreat. The post never comes on time here.’

‘I’m surprised it ever arrives at all,’ Sister Joan said frankly. ‘It is pretty remote.’

‘The local postmistress comes on her bicycle,’ Brother
Cuthbert
explained, setting down his load, ‘and puts any letters for our community into a postbox on the near shore. Father Abbot has the largest post bag, quite a regular series of
communications
with lay workers in the field.’

‘The field?’ Sister Joan glanced at him enquiringly.

‘The mission field,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘We are the contemplative part of our Order but we have brothers and secular workers in the Third World. It is prayer that helps them to continue.’

‘And a few financial contributions,’ Sister Joan reminded him. Brother Cuthbert looked unhappy.

‘One wishes money wasn’t so important,’ he said.

‘Money is very useful provided it’s earned and spent in the same way,’ Sister Joan said with spirit. ‘Wasn’t it Saint Teresa of Avila who said that with God she could do a lot but with God and some ducats she could do more?’

‘Yes, of course. How right you are to remind me that practical things matter too,’ he said with the swift contrition of someone to whom the religious life was clearly still very new and shining.

She would have liked to ask him why he had felt drawn to the contemplative side of his order rather than to more physically demanding missionary work, but Brother
Cuthbert’s
reasons for doing anything at all were none of her business, so she contented herself with an inarticulate murmur and bent to the wicker basket he had placed on the floor.

‘Shall I empty this, Brother Cuthbert? You’ll need to take it back?’

He shook his head. ‘You can bring it over yourself, Sister when you come to mass,’ he told her.

‘I was going to ask you about that. The local church …?’

‘Is called a kirk and is Protestant. There is a chapel in our own community where the few Catholics around come to mass on holy days. Father Abbot offers the mass at ten in the morning on Sundays and feast days. For the community he offers it every day, of course.’

‘Do I use the boat?’ she enquired.

‘The parishioners have their own small fishing boats they use as transport, but I bring the craft to this side of the loch for anyone who needs it.’

‘Fine. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow then.’

‘If there should be any emergency,’ he said, ‘there’s a bell you can ring.’

‘Where?’ She looked round.

‘Just outside the look-out post. If you put your hand through the gap you can feel the end of the rope. If you need help you ring the bell and it sounds right across the loch.’

Sister Joan smiled somewhat doubtfully. It occurred to her
than an accident was more likely to happen when one was on the steps outside than inside the retreat in which case it might prove impossible to tug at the rope. Perhaps the bell was there to provide psychological security.

‘Enjoy your supper, Sister.’ Brother Cuthbert gave her a smiling nod and prepared to depart, his sandalled feet plodding rapidly through the door and down the stone staircase to the path below.

The wicker hamper contained rolls that had clearly been freshly baked that day, a slab of yellow cheese, a jar of herrings in vinegar, a small box of tea bags, several boxes of matches, a small jar of cooking oil, a packet of digestive biscuits and a few onions and apples. At the bottom of the hamper a crock of honey and a couple of saucepans completed what were evidently regarded as desirable for a nun on a spiritual retreat to consume.

‘And God bless you for the tea bags‚’ Sister Joan breathed after the tiny figure now loping along the shore.

She half filled one of the saucepans with water from the plastic containers and knelt down to light the primus stove, feeling as if she had been catapulted back into a camping trip she’d gone on with a school party when she was fourteen.

A lamp with wick ready trimmed hung on a hook from an area where the cave roof slanted lower. With the last of the sunset vanishing the cave itself was becoming very dim. Nevertheless it seemed warm and dry enough and she certainly seemed to be supplied with necessities. Except for a lavatory.

While the water was heating she squeezed her way past an overhanging curtain of rock to the far end of the cave where a discreetly sited chemical toilet was hidden from the main living area. Brother Cuthbert had obviously been too bashful to direct her to it personally. Its existence was cheering. While the notion of a month-long spiritual retreat might have had a medieval flavour it was reassuring to find modern aids to hygiene and cleanliness.

The tea was strong, hot and sugarless. Sister Joan sat on an outcropping of rock that did duty for a stool and drank it gratefully. A roll and cheese with some sliced onion would do very nicely for her supper, but first she would finish her
unpacking and then light a couple of the candles she had brought. Kindling the heaven-pointing flames and setting them in their tin holders on a low ledge she felt the tiredness after a long journey begin to slip away.

She laid her Prayer Book between the candles, knelt down and began her prayers. In the convent, supper would now be served and one of the sisters would be reading aloud from a devotional book – the life of Margaret Clitheroe, Sister Joan reminded herself, with its graphic account of the saint’s martyrdom guaranteed to put anyone off their food. She bit her lip as the irreverent thought popped into her mind.

‘Humour is a splendid attribute to possess‚’ Mother Dorothy had recently remarked, ‘provided that it is not indulged in at inappropriate times.’

She hadn’t looked at anybody in particular as she made the remark but Sister Joan had felt the tip of the arrow just the same.

She detached her rosary beads from her belt and began the murmured recitation of the mysteries. Her stomach growled a little, reminding her that she hadn’t yet eaten, and she resisted the temptation to gabble to a close. The candles she had lit burned with a steady fire in the darkening cave. Above the whispered cadences of her own voice the wind rose, its shriek having in it something primeval as it whistled over the high peaks and fell into the valley in a cascade of dying echoes.

‘Amen,’ said Sister Joan, and rose.

She would brew herself another cup of tea and eat the supper she had decided upon. Then she would clean her teeth, extinguish the candles and grope her way to the iron-railed bunk with its thin mattress and coarse blankets.