Unfinished Stories (Part 9)

SHORT STORY MONDAY

"And the Poor Brothers of God, in their cells... tasted within them the secret glory, the hidden manna, the infinite nourishment and strength of the Presence of God. They tasted the sweet exultancy of the fear of God, which is the first intimate touch of the reality of God, known and experienced on earth, the beginning of Heaven." --Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain

The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston (Part 9)

Dialogue Three

I woke Wednesday with the sense that Gary Spencer, or Father William as he was now called, was himself a fascinating story teller. I wondered what kinds of stories he had written, or if he was still writing. I wondered, too, what exactly in Garston's stories so pierced his conscience that he would denounce the world and all that is in it to retreat here to this place.

Did he have regrets? Had he found what he was looking for here?

I can understand Garston's suicide. He was desperate to free himself from his burden of living. But I do not understand this other path, of what provoked this man to take it. Not that I haven't at times felt an occasional longing for solitude and for release from the burdensome wheel of existence.

I stood in the outdoor corridor facing opened doors to the chapel. To my right is an iron gate that blocks entrance to the sacred garden where monks can enter but lay persons cannot. The words GOD ALONE have been engraved into the wall. The blockade created in me an uneasy feeling of Paradise Lost, but I didn't dwell on it.

At last Father William / Gary Spencer emerged to greet me. He looked tired, and I almost commented on it.

"Shall we go for a walk?" he asked and I submitted to his lead.

We crossed the road as we had before but instead of going up across the first hill we veered down along the road and then down to a less travelled forest path. He did not speak a word as he led me through a remote passage to a picturesque brook. Most of the time I only saw the back of his head so that I could only imagine his thoughts.

When he turned his appearance unsettled me. He looked distraught, even deranged, but I said nothing.

"Don't stare at me like that," he commanded. He seated himself on large fallen tree, a big log.

"I'm not staring at you. And I don't know what you're talking about," I said.

He began to sob.

I placed my hand on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him. "It's all right," I said.

"No, you don't understand," he said, pushing my arm away.

I had no idea what was going on. I felt something akin to a hound dog waiting outside a rabbit hole wondering when, or if, something would emerge. There was no telling what would happen next.

"Gary!" I said, my hand clutching the folds of his robe and shaking him. He tore himself free and fell to his knees, gripping the furled bark and squeezing till his knuckles were white.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I kept repeating it. Something deep had suddenly come to the surface and it was sweeping over him with vengeance.

I don't know what I was apologizing for. Probably because I didn't know what to say or how to help. I felt responsible, too, in some way.

After a time and a half time he began to be at peace with himself, or whatever it was. He pulled himself from the ground, his eyes averted. We began walking again, only at a much slower pace. His mouth was moving and I believe he was praying. The syllables bubbled forth, incoherent, barely audible. Suddenly he turned and said, "We live in order to forget." His eyes glanced up and then he turned away to continue his walk.

I followed, making no reply.

At one point we paused, though at first I could not see what it was. Father William sensed the presence of something ahead of us and he waited till a grey fox crossed the path and rushed into the brush on the other side.

Finally, I could not restrain myself. This was my last day and it was slipping away from me. "Well, this is a fine way to use our last evening."

He slowed but did not turn. "I'm sorry if I've been wasting your time."

"Where are we going?" I asked."

Our conversation? Or our hike?"

"Whichever."

The crickets chirped and all about us peepers and pond frogs proclaimed their presence. Birds, too, sang and twittered, whistled and screeched. "It's beautiful here, isn't it?" he said.

It was.

As we stood there drinking it in I remembered the discussion about the frog that longed to reveal itself but remained hidden. From the reedy marsh on my right a large bullfrog gave sudden voice. I took a step forward to behold this extroverted amphibian. The noise was immense. Quietly stepping nearer, I fully expected his grandstanding to cease. Instead, like a blustering windbag, the little monster kept up a torrent of sound. To my surprise, I found myself directly above him. The frog, with swollen neck and wide eyes, made no attempt to conceal himself or terminate his performance. I'd never seen anything like it.

"He's not afraid of anything," I said.

"He's not like me and you," Brother William said.

"He's a maniac," I said.

"No," said he, "he's an exhibitionist. And he's practically dying to be seen."

I stood to my full height and stared at Brother William.

"Follow me," he commanded.

We hiked for near an hour across hills and valleys. With each step he seemed to gain strength. My mind raced ahead to where he was leading us.

CONTINUED