Author’s note

This is a short story I wrote a few years back and redrafted recently for inclusion in a new short story collection.

To thee we cry, poor banished children of Eve

Des Dillon

 By the third day, the atmosphere had seeped into our bones. Me and Danny were teeming with serenity and let everybody know it with a certain kind of smile.

 But my serenity has a habit of turning on me. An energy builds to a pressure I can’t hold and something has to give. Usually my big mouth.

 But this time it started with a fit of the giggles. The monks were all lined up chanting,

Make me the apple of your eye…

 A face appeared with two big red apples instead of eyes and a Brugelesque smile stretching so wide I could hear the cheeks creak. And something else about this face, it was smiling because it knew nothing mattered. It knew all things come good in the end. I rose above the Earth and saw the human race for what it was. A self-obsessed, inward looking, closed down consciousness, unaware of the spectacular truth that the Universe is Spirit. And that’s when I understood the beautiful futility of life.

 And that’s why I giggled, and that’s why Danny’s elbow said shut up.

 The apples popped and two rotten holes sucked the pink grinning face into them. The Old and Holy were staring and they would have tutted if the silence in that chapel wasn’t so deep. The monks, none of them flinched. They were so absorbed in prayer even God couldn’t disturb them.

 Except one.

 This very young Novice. He let his eyes swivel a warning to me. All through mass he reminded me of my outburst and when I went out for communion I could feel him wondering if I was worthy.

 Well, that night he arrived down in the guest house for the Rosary. He said it slow and deliberate the way you’d expect a Novice to say the Joyful Mysteries. Even I’d learned that the Rosary’s better at high speed. The rhythm drops you into a meditative state and before you know it – you’re at the tea and biscuits. It was an hour before we got to the bit that always took me back to my childhood – To thee we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee we send up our sighs, mournings and weepings in this vale of tears.

 When we’d finished, our knees were sore and he was taking tea and plaudits from the Holy Old. But I knew he’d eventually get round to me.

 —And you are?

 —Tired, I said.

 He smiled and his cheeks creaked up.

 —Brother Philip Neri, he said.

 —I thought your name was Paul?

 —It’s Brother Philip Neri now.

 —Who’s he?  Patron saint of screwdrivers?

 —Pardon? 

 Some monks have no sense of humour. I sat on the couch but he followed, using some lightweight conversation about the fireplace to get into the right seat. And once everyone had taken up positions he brought up how good mass was today, how absolutely wonderful Father Abbott’s sermon had been, I mean the sanctity of confession, we must realise the importance of that, who are we to decide if we’re worthy of communion or not? Transubstantiation and the Body of Christ are not to be accepted into the temple of our bodies lightly. Yadda yadda yadda! As he went on they nodded but Danny looked at me cos we knew what was coming.

 So I went for a pre-emptive strike.

 — Paul? I said.

 His head jerked round.

 —Brother Philip Neri, please. A wee bow of the head.

 —Aye, anyway, can I ask ye a question?

 His palms answered yes I could. The room waited with bated breath. The Rosary still echoed in the fireplace.

 —What did you want to become a monk for?

 And before he could answer I launched into a high speed tirade.

 —I mean you’re a young guy and good looking, if I may say so in a non-gay fashion, would ye not be better out there getting hunners a birds an that?  Live a wee bit. Drink, party. Smoke a few blunts? For a few years anyhow. Then if ye don’t like that, if ye really decide it’s not the life for you - monk it up to the max then.

 It was all coming out now and I could see Danny covering his face with a cushion. Brother  Philip Neri let everybody breathe two breaths before he answered.

 —I didn’t choose. God chose me.

 A snort from me.

 —What like, Paul, change thy name to Brother Philip Neri, go ye forth and wear ye sackcloth. Chew ye sandals. Pontificate mate! I laughed but when I realised I was laughing alone I slipped and fell into a black hole.

 —When I was when young, said Brother Philip Neri, ¾And I meditated on the prospect of devoting my life to God I would experience this immense sensation of Joy.

 —Joy?

 —Yes, joy.

 —What’s joy?

 —You don’t know what joy is?

 —No. I know what it means but what I’m saying is, what does it feel like?

 I never expected it. But that question affected the whole room. At first they thought I was taking the pish. But they soon realised here was a man who had never experienced Joy. Here was a man of thirty-five, apparently happy and full of cheek, but without Joy.

 —Are you serious, Patrick?

 —Aye, I mean, what kind of feelings do you get?

 He searched my eyes and the two apples appeared in his head. But this time they didn’t make me laugh. They made me jump and an inexplicable beat of fear came pulsing from somewhere far outside my body. Far away. I gritted my teeth and held myself together as  Brother Philip Neri explained.

 —It like… like… well… have you ever been in love?

 I stared at him.

 —You must have been loved as a child even?

I stared again and this is what he said:

 —There is no difference between a man gathering flowers and standing in snow all night for his girl and a monk going in rags and fasting for the love of Jesus Christ!

 And with that, it all came back. The father with the fists of steel. The terror and fear.  Withdrawal and the gradual separation from my fellow man. The Paddy Bhoy I invented to navigate life. The truth that I only haunted my own childhood hit home hard. I was never really there. I’m still never really here.

 No-one knew why I walked away. And that night, when Danny was sleeping, I wept apples, rotten to the core but glittering with golden seeds.