I said to my children: ‘I’m doing it all for you!’ but as I spoke I realized they had vanished and I was making a cross in the workshop at Ruydale. I worked and worked at my crucifix, that image of Christ crucified, Christ atoning, until at last Alfred the carpenter who had trained me said: ‘You can put that aside now, lad. Martin no longer needs it. Just make a cross instead for the chapel in the woods.’
So I put aside my crucifix, image of Christ crucified, Christ atoning, and I began to make a different cross, a plain pure cross, an image of faith and hope – THE CROSS OF THE RESURRECTION – and then as I became one with the risen Christ, Christ redeemed, Christ liberated, I knew my long Good Friday was over at last and the sun was finally dawning on my long-awaited Easter Day.
I awoke in a daze of happiness which dissolved with lightning speed into confusion. I tried to remember Alfred’s exact words. Had he really mentioned Martin? To my horror I realized the question could only be answered in the affirmative, and although I told myself the dream was a mere illogical aberration of the mind I knew the mention of Martin’s name was significant. I tried to make further deductions but failed; I was too frightened of coming face to face with the fact that my call was a delusion. I did wonder how I was going to survive my next meeting with Francis, but soon I could no more think of Francis than I could think of Martin because I had suddenly realized I was feeling ill. I forced myself to attend prime and mass but as soon as the services were over I avoided breakfast and retired to my cell where I tried – futilely – to will myself to feel better. Five minutes later a note arrived which read: ‘I have not given you permission to fast. Come to the refectory immediately.’ With a great effort I reached the refectory, drank a cup of tea and swallowed a mouthful of bread but afterwards I knew I had no choice but to drag myself to the infirmary.
‘This is just a physical manifestation of severe mental strain,’ I said to Ambrose. ‘Give me a couple of aspirin and I’ll be well again by dinner-time.’
‘I always enjoy your bold diagnoses, Father. Sit down, please, and I’ll take your temperature.’
‘It won’t be more than ninety-nine.’
The thermometer registered a hundred and two.
‘Obviously it’s broken,’ I said.
Ambrose smiled at me as if I were a wayward child who needed humouring and examined me for further symptoms but there were none. ‘I doubt if you’ve got anything infectious,’ he said at last, ‘but take the corner bed away from the other patients.’
As I hauled myself from his office into the ward, a long light
room with six beds flanking each side of a central aisle, I was aware of feeling very, very old indeed. This unnerved me, and as I removed my habit I started to worry about the damaged defences which had allowed my body to slide from the ease of good health into the dis-ease of physical impairment. I slid into bed. Ambrose gave me three aspirins, and after swallowing them I tried to stroke my psyche by recalling peaceful memories of the scenery at Ruydale. However I was too ill to concentrate on this exercise for long, and within minutes I had drifted into sleep.
When I awoke I knew it would be wiser to keep my eyes closed and the next moment I heard Francis muttering: ‘It’s entirely self-induced! He’s trumped up this illness to avoid a distressing interview with me – in fact this is a typical example of a psychic controlling his body with his mind! What a shady, shoddy little parlour-trick!’
‘With all due respect, Father, I’m convinced it’s not a conscious willing of the mind. He was genuinely surprised to find he had a high fever.’
‘You mustn’t be too credulous, Ambrose. Don’t let him manipulate you. These sort of people can be appallingly plausible. How are you going to treat him?’
‘If the illness is psychosomatic, perhaps the laying-on of hands would help.’
‘Absolutely not!’ said Francis, keeping his voice low but allowing it to shudder with rage. ‘I’m not pandering to his psychic tantrums by authorizing any charismatic healing which would enable him to claim a miraculous cure! You mark my words, Ambrose, that man can heal himself perfectly well if he wants to – give him orthodox medical treatment and stand absolutely no nonsense whatsoever!’
Francis stumped off. I could hear the slap of his boots on the linoleum, and the atmosphere, which had been swirling with turbulence, immediately became smooth. I opened my eyes, and when he saw I was awake Ambrose sat down at my side. Ambrose exuded a calm benevolent aura, just as a physician should; I felt my mind being enfolded by his sympathy.
‘All set to stand no nonsense from me?’ I murmured, and he smiled before saying: ‘Father Abbot-General’s very concerned about you.’
‘Father Abbot-General!’ I wanted to smile too but it seemed less effort to sigh instead. ‘When I first met him up at Cambridge he was called Lord Francis Ingram. He had a greyhound which used to drink champagne. Nasty animal. I don’t like dogs. Too much like dependent humans. But cats … ah, cats are quite different! One day, Ambrose, one day I’d so much like to tell someone about Whitby.’
‘Ah, that was the cat up at Ruydale, wasn’t it, the cat Wilfred mentioned in his letters … Father –’
‘Call me Jon, Ambrose. I’m too ill to be Jonathan the Abbot at the moment.’
‘– Jon – did you really raise that cat from the dead?’
‘Careful, Ambrose. Superstition. Blasphemy. Shhh.’
‘I suppose he was actually still alive –’
‘That’s what some people said about Our Lord in order to explain the Resurrection, but he did die. I’ve died too and now I’ve come here to wait for my own resurrection, but oh, how ill I feel! It’s hard work being dead, and Whitby probably knew that. He didn’t want to die – he had a great fighting spirit. Ah Whitby, Whitby, Whitby – what a cat you were, what a cat!’
Ambrose clasped my hand and released it. Try and sleep again, Jon. Try and rest your body and mind as much as possible.’
‘I feel better already. A healing presence, a little conversation, someone calling me Jon … You must have good results with the laying-on of hands, Ambrose.
‘I can’t channel power through my hands as Wilfred can –
‘That doesn’t matter. The charism of healing doesn’t always come in the form of power channelled through the hands. In your case the laying-on of hands would be a sacramental gesture symbolizing the healing action of your psyche as it enfolds another psyche in love and prayer.’ I suddenly felt exhausted. As my eyes closed I murmured: ‘Dear old Whitby, he was so pleased to be better,’ and the next moment I saw Whitby, proud
arrogant Whitby, stalking through the backyard at Ruydale with his tail pointed defiantly at the sky.
‘May God bless you, Jon,’ I heard Ambrose say from a long way away, ‘and may he restore the strength you so badly need.’
I murmured an automatic ‘Amen’ and stooped to take Whitby in my arms.
When I awoke again I heard someone calling: ‘Ambrose! Emergency – a scalding in the kitchens,’ and turning my head I saw Ambrose hurry away clutching the Gladstone bag in which he kept his first-aid equipment. I sat up, drank some water and glanced around the room. There were three other occupants, including a restless youth whom I had seen break his ankle while descending too rapidly to the crypt at the start of an air-raid. He looked bored enough to flout the rule of silence, and his restlessness created a succession of eddies in the atmosphere until I felt as irritated as if I had been trapped with a fly who persistently evaded the swatter.
I closed my eyes to ward off any illicit attempt he might make at conversation, but my psyche, raw and vulnerable, continued to be lacerated by the unpleasant emanations. I was only saved from losing my patience by the return of Ambrose, hurrying back into the ward with his Gladstone bag and making a rapid inspection of his patients as if he feared we might all have taken a turn for the worse in his absence.
‘Awake again, Jon?’
‘I think I’ve recovered.’
Ambrose set down his bag on the empty bed next to mine and produced a thermometer. ‘It’s most unlikely that you’re wholly recovered,’ he said, taking the instrument to the window and examining the mercury to make sure it was low in the glass, ‘but let’s see if you’re right in thinking there’s been an improvement.’ And he turned aside from the window to place the thermometer in my mouth.
It was then that my perceptions tripped. I had just glanced at the Gladstone bag which was no more than six feet away from me, but the next moment I was seeing not the bag but the suitcase of my vision. All sound immediately ceased. My entire being was directed towards perceiving the pale beige leather suitcase with the dark brown corners. I could see the triangular label clearly now, far more clearly than I had seen it in my vision, the label which showed a black and white ship floating above three wavy blue lines and six scarlet letters, the letters which spelt CUNARD. Then I saw another label, a label attached to the handle, a brown label fastened by string, but when I reached out to discover the name of the owner the entire suitcase vanished and the Gladstone bag was solid beneath my shaking hands.
I sank to my knees, squeezed my eyes shut and began to shudder from head to toe.
‘Jon, it’s all right – you’re in the infirmary, you’re quite safe, absolutely safe –’ His words made me realize I had conveyed an impression of fear but in fact all my fears had vanished. The shuddering ceased. As Ambrose helped me back into bed I tried to speak but he said at once: ‘No, don’t try to talk. You’ve had a shock. Take this extra blanket to keep you warm and I’ll make you some tea.’
Across the room the young monk was boggling, but as I lay limply on the pillows I found his restless aura failed to irritate me. My psyche was infused with light. I closed my eyes but the light still shone in the darkness. I was at peace.
In the distance Ambrose said to someone: ‘Tell Father Abbot-General I need to see him urgently,’ but the words stirred no anxiety in me and later I never even flinched as the swirling tornado of a disturbed presence swept down the corridor into the infirmary. The tornado was deftly deflected by Ambrose into his office, and as my fellow-patients watched enrapt I slid out of bed, padded into the passage and noiselessly opened Ambrose’s door an inch.
‘… so whatever he saw he couldn’t have seen for more than five seconds.’
‘And your diagnosis?’
‘Some sort of psychic experience. It couldn’t be a hallucination unless his fever’s got worse and he’d just said he felt better.’
I pushed open the door to reveal my presence.
Both men jumped. Then Francis exclaimed in fury: ‘What the deuce do you think you’re playing at, making an entrance like the demon-king in a pantomime?’ and Ambrose said severely: ‘Go back to bed at once and stop straining your heart by unnecessary exertion!’
I said to Francis: ‘I saw the suitcase,’ and walked out. Then I returned to bed and waited. After some minutes Ambrose appeared, bringing me the promised cup of tea, and took my temperature before I attempted to drink. The thermometer registered ninety-nine degrees.
‘No hallucination,’ I said satisfied. I began to drink the tea but it had been liberally sweetened to fortify me against the effects of shock and I was still grimacing in disgust when Ambrose said: ‘Father Abbot-General wishes to talk to you in private and as your temperature’s almost normal I’ll allow you to get dressed and sit in my office. But you must finish that tea and you must wrap yourself in the extra blanket to ensure you keep warm.’
Downing the tea I pulled on my habit, swathed myself in the blanket and strode to the office where Francis, sitting in Ambrose’s chair, was staring blankly at the blotter. It occurred to me that the sweet tea had been administered to the wrong man.
‘If you think for one moment,’ he said, rousing himself sufficiently to motion me to sit down, ‘that you can convince me this call is genuine merely by producing a new parlour-trick –’
‘The gifts of the Spirit can be recognized by their fruits. Gauge the effect this experience has had on me before you start accusing me of parlour-tricks.’
‘You’re being intolerably impertinent – how dare you lecture me about this new aberration!’ said Francis, now overwhelmed by the most painful insecurity, and I saw my first task was to calm him down.
I tried to enfold his mind with my own, but such an enfolding is impossible without love and, as everyone knows, it is difficult to generate even the most modest fraternal concern for someone whom one has never liked. However I exerted the power of my will, and remembering what little I knew of his early days, I tried to approach him through a different psychological avenue.
I imagined him being brought up by some hired woman in his parents’ vast mansion; I speculated that it had been his craving for affection as well as attention which had drawn him to a life of decadence; I thought of him enjoying every material comfort while his soul starved, and suddenly I was seeing him stumble across the Order, across different values and different people who would care for him in an entirely different way. Then I found I could easily picture him thriving at last in response to Father Darcy’s powerful interest, and in a moment of enlightenment I realized that his bereavement when his mentor died must have run precisely parallel to my own.
At once I was conscious not only of sympathy but of empathy; I was seeing us for the first time not as rivals, but as the twin aspects of Father Darcy’s complex personality, the mystical and the worldly, not in opposition but complementing each other, and then I understood at last why Father Darcy had taken such care to yoke us together, despite all our antipathy, in the years preceding his death.