Mystical Paths (31 page)

I reached the section of the back garden which was reserved for guests. The section was divided into two: directly behind the guest-wing lay the lawn, and beyond the lawn was the herb-garden. The latter formed a small square with a sun-dial in the centre and a bench at one side, but I thought the smells might prove distracting so I sat down instead on the seat which stood at one end of the lawn. Yet another beech-tree rose behind me to provide shelter from the unseasonably hot sun.

I now have to describe exactly what I saw as I sat on that seat. This is difficult; not having been trained as either an artist or a policeman I seldom notice a view in detail, but this is where I must make a big effort to achieve total recall in order to set what became a very bizarre scene.

There I was, as I have just stated, sitting under the beech-tree which overshadowed one end of the visitors’ lawn. Let me first summarise the general view which met my eyes: on my left was the guest-wing, the interlinking passage and, in the distance, the main house; straight ahead of me on the other side of the lawn was the wall of the kitchen-garden; to my right was the herb-garden, bounded by the perimeter hedge which marked off the visitors’ precinct from the monks’ smallholding, and behind me this tall perimeter hedge continued towards the front of the house. In other words, I was sitting in an area bounded on two sides by a tall, thick hedge and on the other two sides by bricks and mortar.

There were three exits from this area. One: the path I had just traversed, the path which led around the side of the guest-wing. Two: the gap in the perimeter hedge at the back of the herb-garden, the gap which provided an entrance into the smallholding. And three: the archway in the wall straight ahead ofme, the wall of the kitchen-garden. Beside the archway and beside the gap in the perimeter hedge were notices telling guests that the kitchen-garden and the smallholding were out of bounds.

So much for the general topography. Now for the details. The wall ahead of me — the wall of the kitchen-garden — ran from the back of the main house on my left to the tall perimeter hedge on my right. Through the archway a small section of the vegetable beds was visible to me, and to the right of the archway my attention was quickly drawn to a magnificent peach-tree which had long ago been trained to grow against the wall in such a way that its main branches formed four lines parallel to the ground. The wall was high, about eight feet, and it surrounded the kitchen-garden on three sides; the main house itself stood on the fourth side.

At the point where the kitchen-garden wall met the perimeter hedge a shed had been constructed to house the lawn-mower and various gardening implements. Another hedge had been planted to screen this eyesore from visitors, but the hedge was not yet tall enough to hide the shed’s corrugated iron roof. I remember looking at it and wondering why the monks had been content to build something so ugly in their quiet, serene, restful visitors’ garden.

It was a perfect April day, the sky cloudless, the sun hot. It must have been around seventy degrees. I’d left my leather jacket in the car and I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with my jeans, but I felt comfortable and although my thoughts were scampering around I was physically relaxed. I sat there for some minutes while my brain flickered away inconsequentially, but at last I decided I should get down to some serious thinking.

I glanced at my watch again. The time was now twenty-eight minutes past eleven.

I looked up from my wrist, and at that moment a monk appeared at the other end of the lawn. He emerged from behind the small hedge, the one which was inadequately screening the shed, and began to walk along the path beside the kitchen- garden wall. At once I deduced he had been in the shed for some minutes sorting out or perhaps cleaning tools, but the only implement he now carried was a rake. As he walked from right to left across my field of vision I saw him in profile but his features were shadowed because he was wearing his cowl drawn forward. Then as he passed the magnificent peach-tree he turned his head and looked straight at me across the long expanse of lawn which separated us.

It was Christian.

IX He never stopped. He never even paused. He just looked at me and turned his head away again. A moment later he had disappeared through the archway into the kitchen-garden.

How long did I take to react? Five seconds? Ten? All I know is that there was a brief interval during which all movement was blocked by my blank mind. Then a burst of energy blasted me to my feet. I shouted: ‘CHRISTIAN!’ and pounded across the lawn to the archway.

Gasping for breath I erupted into the kitchen-garden. No one was there.

I stared at the vegetable beds in disbelief. Automatically I rubbed my eyes but when I looked again at the garden it was unchanged. I was definitely awake and everything I was seeing was real. There was no confusion in my mind about that. But I had apparently witnessed the impossible: a human being vanishing into thin air.

Then I realised that although the back-door of the main house was some distance away across the kitchen-garden, it was nearer to the archway than my bench under the tree. Mystery solved. Christian had reached the back-door while I’d still been pounding across the lawn.

I plunged through the archway into forbidden territory. Racing down the path I shot across a paved yard and burst through the back-door of the house.

The monk peeling potatoes at the scullery sink nearly passed out; the peeler flew from his hand as he reeled against the wall. But he wasn’t Christian. He was short, red-haired, under thirty. Ignoring him I blazed on through the scullery into the main kitchen, and again I shouted: ‘CHRISTIAN!’ at the top of my voice.

The four monks engaged in the task of preparing the midday meal had already been transfixed by my noisy entrance. The one by the larder was about five foot nine, middle-aged, grey-haired; the one by the dresser was close to six foot, fat and bald; the two by the table were wrinkled old men.

‘All right, where is he?’ I demanded, striding into the room. Where’s that monk who just came in?’

They continued to stare at me. No one spoke.

‘I know he’s here!’ I shouted, enraged by their silence. ‘Don’t try and deny it!’ I was about to start searching the nearby cupboards when I realised that there was no reason why Christian should hide in the kitchen. All he had to do to avoid me was to retire to his cell. Swinging back to confront the monks again I said furiously: ‘What’s he calling himself? That monk who just came in – tall, dark, fortyish – what name’s he using now?’

One of the monks finally took charge. The grey-haired man who had been standing by the open door of the larder turned to the fat bald monk by the dresser and said quietly in an educated voice: ‘Thomas, fetch Father Abbot.’ Then he closed the larder door and added to me with immaculate courtesy: ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid there’s some mistake. No one came in here just now from the garden, and we’ve no monk in this house who fits that description.’

‘You’re lying.’ I wiped the sweat from my forehead. ‘This is a conspiracy,’ I said. ‘You’re all in it together, you’re all ganging up to deceive me, you’re all –’ I ran out of breath. When I wiped my forehead again I realised my hand was trembling.

Nobody said anything. They merely looked at me with appalled fascination, as if I were quite insane.

Then, of course, I realised that I was.

It was as if something had silently removed cool, rational Nicholas Darrow and filled the resulting physical shell with someone else.

I tried to say: ‘Jesus is Lord,’ but I couldn’t. Naturally I couldn’t. Possessed people never can.

Pressing back against the nearest wall, the physical remnant of Nicholas Darrow sank down, covering his face with his hands, and curled himself into a foetal position.

Then he began to shudder from head to toe.

PART TWO

THE JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE

‘Perhaps the only way to avoid attaching ourselves to some

false centre, whether a cause, a person or some aspect of our

selves, is to discover and submit to the authority of our true

centre, the place where God makes his presence and purpose

for us known. To be attached to a false centre inevitably leads to

division within the personality ..

CHRISTOPHER BRYANT

Member of the Society of St John the Evangelist 1935-1985

The River Within

‘
It may be that stories of demonic possession are explicable

rather as stories of psychological disorder.’.

MICHAEL RAMSEY

Archbishop of Canterbury 1961-1974

Canterbury Essays and Addresses

ONE

‘In other words human life is under threat from destructive

forces or evil. It was one of Jung’s complaints about Christian

theologians that they did not take evil seriously enough.’

CHRISTOPHER BRYANT

Member of the Society of St John the Evangelist 1935-1985

Jung and the Christian Way

I

A thought crawled from a crevice. The thought was: no one must know I’m possessed.

A reason crept after the thought. The sentence was extended to become: no one must know I’m possessed, because if I’m possessed I can’t be ordained.

Then a welcome deduction arrived: I really do want to be ordained.

And finally, mercifully, the revelation was received. It was: if I still want to be ordained I can’t be possessed because a person infested by the Devil would never want to serve God.

Streaming back into my body I found myself still hunched in a foetal position and shuddering from head to toe.

A hand suddenly touched my shoulder. Father Wilcox said: ‘It’s all right, Nicholas. I’m here now.’

I tried unsuccessfully to speak. It seemed I was still in shock despite the fact that I was now capable of rational thought. My glasses had steamed up. I managed to remove them from my nose but could do no more. I sat clutching them tightly.

Meanwhile the Abbot was saying: ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort everything out, I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. Now, if you’d like to get up I think you’ll find you’ll be more comfortable sitting on a chair ... Peter, fetch Mr Darrow a glass of water, please, and then go to the infirmary for brandy ...’

More rational thoughts occurred to me. They were: Christian’s alive. Therefore his spirit couldn’t have manifested itself to me in the garden and it certainly couldn’t now be infesting me in a demonic form. Therefore it’s time I stopped behaving like a shell-shock case.

I sat up.

‘That’s right, Nicholas, that’s it, that’s better ... Yes, give your glasses a good polish so that you can see this is just an ordinary old-fashioned kitchen, very humdrum, no horrors .. . Now, have a drink of water – light a cigarette if you like – do you smoke? No? – and just tell me how you came to be here. I know you would never have entered any enclosed area without the best possible reason.’

By the time he had finished this speech I was sitting at the kitchen table with my glasses back on my nose and a tumbler of water in my hand. I opened my mouth. Words came out. I was recovering.

‘I was in the back-garden,’ I said. ‘I was sitting on the seat by the beech-tree and I saw this monk walking along by the kitchen-garden wall.’ I managed to look Father Wilcox straight in the eyes before stating: ‘It was Christian Aysgarth.’

Father Wilcox said immediately: ‘Matthew, find Paul and say I want the grounds searched at once – tell him to use the novices. Thomas, I want you to go round the house and make a note of where everyone was five minutes ago – but don’t bother about the novices because they’ll have been together in the scriptorium. When you’ve done that, go to the guest-wing and find out from Daniel where all the guests were. Timothy –’ He turned to address the young sandy-haired monk who had been peeling potatoes ‘– find Andrew and ask him to count the spare habits in the linen-chest. I also want him to go to the laundry-room and count all the habits that are being washed. I want to know if one’s missing. Now –’ He turned back tome ‘– Nicholas, I suggest we go to the parlour – ah, here’s Peter with the brandy.’

As the monks rapidly dispersed we left the kitchen, I clutching the glass of water while Peter followed, like a butler, with the brandy bottle and a clean glass on a tray. Surreal. Yet paradoxically I felt the world had returned to normal, and having allowed myself to be amused by Peter I began to feel embarrassed by the memory of my collapse.

In the parlour the naked nymphs were still frolicking with the animals in the marble frieze. I swallowed some brandy. Then I was finally able to say to Father Wilcox: ‘I’m very sorry I crashed through enclosed areas.’

‘That’s all right, Nicholas. I’m sure if I’d seen a dead man I’d have chased him to London and back in order to satisfy my curiosity.’

‘I’m convinced he’s alive. I came here today because I thought he was one of your monks.’

‘So that man you described earlier –’

was Christian. What baffles me is how he managed to vanish in the kitchen-garden. I’m sure the monks never saw him – their astonishment was obviously genuine – but if he didn’t escape into the house, where did he go?’

‘Let’s take one problem at a time. Nicholas, I give you my word that he’s not a monk at this house.’

‘But I saw him! I mean, there he was, dressed as a Fordite monk –’

‘As I see it, there are two explanations,’ said Father Wilcox briskly. ‘The first one is that you saw a monk who lives here. It’s true we don’t have anyone who exactly fits the description you gave me earlier, but we do have some monks who are slim and around six foot tall.’

‘You’re saying I made a mistaken identification, but I assure you –’

‘The second explanation is that we have an intruder, probably one of the undergraduates livening up his vacation by gatecrashing our house as a "dare’”. That happened once in the past, although the young man didn’t manage to get hold of a habit.

He wore a white dressing-gown with a black shawl and looked like a pantomime dame.’

‘This habit was completely orthodox. He even had the regulation brass crucifix hanging from his belt — I saw it flash in the sun.’

‘Then it must have been one of the monks. Don’t worry, we’ll track him down.’

‘But Father —’ I decided it was no use trying to convince him I had seen Christian — how did he manage to vanish into thin air?’

‘Well, obviously he didn’t and there’s a rational explanation which we’ll uncover shortly. Ah, there’s the bell for the noon office. I must leave you for a short while, but please do continue to rest here — would you like me to send someone to keep you company?’

‘No, I’m all right now,’ I said, and indeed thanks to the brandy I was feeling very well, well enough to attempt to recall every detail of the scene in the garden. I began to wonder if Christian could have hidden among the vegetable beds, but it was the wrong time of year to try to disappear in a kitchen-garden and I could remember no cover dense enough to conceal a man dressed in non-camouflage black and white. Could he have scaled the eight-foot wall? Possibly, but not quickly, not in a monk’s habit. The sheer oddness of the disappearance began to bother me more than ever, and I was still staring uneasily at my empty glass when Father Wilcox returned to the room.

‘I’m afraid the mystery’s still unsolved,’ he said. ‘No intruder’s been found, and no one was seen escaping. Assuming the man somehow eluded you in the kitchen-garden and doubled back through the archway —’

‘He couldn’t have done.’

‘I agree it does seem improbable, but since he didn’t enter the house, how else could he have escaped? However even if he did succeed in eluding you there, I don’t see how he escaped unobserved from the back lawn. Hugh was weeding at the side of the guest-wing and swears no one came along the path. Twomonks mending the chicken-run fence swear no one came into the enclosed area of the grounds from the herb-garden. And Daniel is quite convinced that either he or a visitor who was in the common-room would have seen and heard anyone who tried to scramble through one of the windows of the guest-wing.’

Was one of the habits missing?’

‘No, they’ve all been accounted for. So have the monks. So have the visitors. I’m now convinced that the man you saw was an intruder, but the big question is how on earth did he escape?’

I took a deep breath, gripped the arms of my chair and said: ‘I saw this monk. I know I saw him. He was real, as real as you are now.’

‘Yes, I accept that,’ said Father Wilcox without hesitation. ‘Obviously you wouldn’t have charged into enclosed areas unless you were convinced of the reality of what you’d seen, but nevertheless the situation as it stands is disturbing and what troubles me is that it might be given a bizarre interpretation once the story begins to circulate within the Community.’

What do you mean?’

‘Well, first of all you claim to have seen a man who’s officially dead — but luckily at the moment I’m the only one who knows that. Much more serious is this apparent disappearance into thin air. You’ll notice I use the word "apparent’”; I still believe that a rational explanation for the disappearance will present itself, but a disappearance into thin air isn’t normal, Nicholas. It’s paranormal, and once the monks start to regard the incident in that light we’re in trouble. Even the most disciplined house can quickly become infested by gossip which leads to hysteria; it’s the Devil wriggling in through the breakdown of order, of course, and causing havoc. In fact very often the paranormal event which triggers the crisis is demonic, although I can’t think why it should be in this case.’

I suddenly realised I was no longer feeling well. The effect of the brandy had worn off, my Dutch courage had ebbed and the fear was streaming back across my psyche.

‘There was nothing particularly wrong with Christian Ays- garth, was there?’ said Father Wilcox. ‘I assume that in addition to his brilliant career he had a happy marriage, a good relationship with his family and so on? He wasn’t dangerous or destructive in any way to those who knew him?’

I opened my mouth but found I was dumb again. My hands ached as I continued- to grip the chair.

‘I’m not going to ask you why you’re so sure he’s still alive,’ said Father Wilcox, too busy pursuing his train of thought to notice my reaction. ‘No doubt you have good reasons, but if you’re wrong and he’s dead, the likelihood of this being a paranormal experience certainly increases. Yet what kind of a paranormal experience can this possibly be? If you’ve seen his ghost, why should you see it here and why should it be dressed as a Fordite monk? It makes no sense ... Nicholas, I’ll tell you what I’d like to do: I’d like to call in a man who’s an expert at solving this kind of problem. He’s perfectly respectable — a priest, of course — and by coincidence he’s from your diocese. In fact maybe you even know him: Father Lewis Hall.’

I looked blank. But I wasn’t merely registering the unfamiliarity of the name. I was now so frightened that all expression had been wiped from my face.

‘Of course the monks might say the incident was consonant with possession,’ mused Father Wilcox, still absorbed in his reflections. ‘They might think you were seeing your possessor in the form of a hallucination, and although it’s obvious to me you’re not possessed, the monks in the kitchen will remember how you curled yourself into that rather sinister foetal position when you were so unnerved, and once they start to speculate about what was going on ... ‘

I tried to tell myself I knew Christian was alive, but to my horror I found I was no longer sure. I then tried to tell myself again that a man who wanted to be ordained couldn’t be possessed, but instead I realised that the Devil might want me to be ordained so that he could use me more effectively.

‘... so you do see, don’t you,’ Father Wilcox was concluding, ‘why I want to summon an expert straight away to — mydear Nicholas, you’re white as a sheet! Lie down on the sofa and I’ll fetch the infirmarian!’

‘I don’t want the infirmarian,’ I said. ‘I want the expert,’ and at once Father Wilcox left the room to make the call.