Читать книгу Pilgrim’s Gait - David Craig - Страница 11

1.

Within the week I was on a muzzled Greyhound, heading into the Great White North—Canady. Destination: Moose Jaw, Ontario. I waved good-bye to my All-American college life, hugs for everyone. Both Israel and Periwinkle wished me happy trails. She patted me on the back, congratulated me for having escaped the blight of intellectualism and suburbia; Israel suggesting that, when in a squeeze, running away is certainly an option. Then he grinned, shook my hand, told me to keep a record.

And there I was, on a bus, duffel bag stuffed with clothes and books, bad money, playing out my options in my head. How, I wondered, was I going to convince these people that I was in earnest about their religion without sounding like the complete phony I was. Maybe some choked reticence? A kind of constant, tacit, respectably distant fawn? The Gollum slither? I was good at that. Maybe just keep my mouth shut for a change. Now that would be a miracle. Besides, who knew, maybe I might even find Anita Bryant in the process.

But there was more to it than flight, I had to admit that to myself as well. This whole God bidness—evangelical Okie t.v., the money tree. I wanted to check it out, had for awhile. I’d read the GITA, some Rilke, had even spent time arguing with Jesus people at the university.

If there was something there, I wanted to know.

(Six degrees of suck was no way to go through life.)

I looked for the Falls when we got to Buffalo, never saw them. It was funny, I had always complained about America. But now that I was leaving my Bizarro-world home, I had mixed feelings. Would I be back? I thought back to the Ohio, brown enough to walk across. Still, it could sparkle sometimes in the afternoon sun, and when spring came, there was this nice light green that worked its way up the surrounding, polluted hills. I remembered all the rednecks at CJ’s, Linden’s as well, nobody at either place giving a damn about anything except what they had going on in front of them.

That was bully America, but if it walked loudly, carried a big stick, it was a blindness I at least felt comfortable with. This Canada thing would be a whole different slot machine.

I didn’t have too much trouble at the border, wore all new clothes, creases to facilitate my crossing: some new Levis, a lumberjack shirt, a pair of light leather work boots. I even sported a haircut. I tried to keep things light and moving by talking retreat to the guard in front of me, a month long exercise, I told him, in deep breathing. Slowing down, that’s where it was at. I jabbered away, told him I was taking a month off from my job, advised him to stash every penny of his retirement fund into the stock market. Keep talking, I said to myself as he had me begin to unload my bag.

More shirts, brand new heavy socks, thermal shorts. All of it, just out of the wrapper, two dress shirts with pins still in them. Was it all too much, I wondered? Apparently not, because he let me through. Maybe he just got tired of hearing my impersonation. Whatever, I decided. Things could have gotten difficult had we worked our way down to the dour roll of bills.

“Have a nice day, EH?” I said with a wink.

He waved me on, smiling at the cliché. “Take off.”

Toronto was cleaner than I thought possible for a big city. The guard rails on the sides of the interprovince coming in were not banged up; there was no flying debris, no dust working the support posts, no overgrown weeds along the sides of the highways either. And yet the place didn’t have the Puritan feel of America. What made these boys tick, I wondered? I had never been to Britain, so I couldn’t really see how much of an effect it had. “Keep Britain tidy,” I guessed that worked here as well.

And what exactly was a Commonwealth I wondered? A loose confederacy of nations. Share a queen. (Another “Bloody” Elizabeth, every queen since the renaissance, in some way, virgin?) The whole thing struck me as being slightly geeky. What exactly did they expect to get from old marble-bottom anyway? Wisdom? Certainly not her caish. Inspiration perhaps, a sense of who they were?

Oh, Canada, tidy Canada, what bugs are up thy shorts, I wondered? I’d have to sit back in this alien nation I finally decided, that much was clear. Let the robot do the talking.

Everyone was so pleasant. It made for suspicion. The bus drivers looked like nicer versions of Chicago policemen, with their checkered Blue Line Voyager hats. Daley would have rolled over on his graves. I wouldn’t have wished America on anyone, even then, but at first this place gave me the heebie-jeebies. It was way too neat.

The bus station in Toronto was a two-level job, more like a travel agency than a bus terminal. Sculpted concrete, nice, if few, seats. No loiterers here I guessed. Everyone had direction in Canada, or were encouraged to have some. It made me laugh, the imaginative stretch it would have taken to get the uninformed, an Eskimo say, to believe that this place was of the same genre as the Port Authority in New York—or the Greyhound Station in Cleveland for that matter—where every scab-infected unfortunate on the earth pitches a tent in front of the t.v.’s, hits you up for a buck, giving you t.b. in the process.

It didn’t look like diseases were allowed in Canada. But how had they managed it? Socialized medicine? Cold northern virtue? Maybe the whole country wears a wig. It’s respectability, denial. Keep your sins at home. We just don’t do that here. And all the while, beneath that veil, giving license to every “progressive” notion of victimhood. As much as they say they detest American chest-pounding, they fall in line.

By the time the bus had gotten to Peterborough, I was about ready to jump ship. Just what was I doing up here? I didn’t even remember the basic tenants of the Catholic faith. Wasn’t one supposed to do something when going into a church? Sprinkle himself with holy water or kiss, worship at the feet of Mary goddess? Why hadn’t I paid more attention? What if I gave myself away, made some accurate comment?

My anxiety waned, though, as I did a quick hike around part of the town to stretch my legs during the rest stop. Quaint. What were these nice, clean Canadian Catholics going to do to me anyway, throw me to Canadian lions? To Bert Lahrs . . . fur brekfesst?

Peterborough was clean as a spitless whistle. All the funny money, the slightly taciturn, if smiling, folk. I wondered what the insane asylums looked like up here. No need for straight jackets. Just tell the inmates to sit here, go there. Or if they did have jackets on, you could watch them skinny along the ground, humping like cartoon worms, cocoons, obeying your every command. I wondered if they had a test to tell who the insane ones were? Or did they just march up, confess it meekly. “I’m insane, you know. It’s true. I have a paper right here.” In crayon, big tears.

After a quick look through a liquor store, more like a supermarket with rollers than the institutional look you get back in the states, I bought a bigger bag of M & Ms, headed back to the bus. I felt so good that I even talked to some old lady awhile as we rolled up the perfect highway, ever northward.

It got old, the ride. Moose Jaw was a long way. I wondered if they had running water, any summer to speak of up there. I’d find out soon enough, and as late afternoon waned, chilled, I tried to make a bed of the seat. In snatches I watched what looked like virgin forest pass by: more and more birch, pine, fir. Too neat, way too neat.

We stopped for dinner at a restaurant. Kind of a cleaned­-up Nebraska, with corn-fed proprietors, friendly, gabby in a local sort of way. The woman behind the register and the driver were old buds I guessed, everyone with that often higher pitched Canadian way of speaking. There was an awful rightness to this place as well, nicely creased napkins and spotless water glasses because it was a place to eat. A fresh bulletin board with notices about Moose Lodge meetings, boy-scout camperees. Not one whiff of dope, unkempt facial hair. I would not take up bowling I decided. They couldn’t make me.

When I finished my cheeseburger, the cheese squarely on top of meat, placed perfectly below the bun, I stepped outside, finally noticed the snow that had put the squeeze in their voices. It was piled high along the edges of the parking lot. It wasn’t terribly cold, but I had miscalculated. Spring up here was not running on the same schedule as in Ohio. I would need a winter coat. No stores between here and Moose Jaw either I bet.

2.

I was the only one to get out at my stop, hours later. The driver followed me down, flipped up the underneath compartment door and got me my duffel bag without a word. That was it. Just me and the exhaust, in the middle of a new world. The mooses. (I called a few times, no answer.)

Looking at the size of the town, rubbing up my creased jacket sleeves, I was surprised it was on the map at all. On my side of the street there was a red barn-shaped general store behind me. Clean, neat. It’s competition, a Western front, two doors down on the same side, the post office/restaurant in between. The only other building on this side was a rent-all place some 400 yards—a-hem—meters down the road. On the other side of the street, a laundromat and a very small motel, closed for the season. There was a docking ramp out back for what I was to learn was the Madawaska River. Apparently tourists liked this place in the summer.

The river behind the motel was beautiful: wide, surrounded by miles and miles of dense forest, the salt of birch, a mild confusion in the branches. That was it, though, as far as the city was concerned. No sidewalks. Just sand by the road. I stood out there for awhile in the dark, getting cold, wondering just what my next move should be. It was never made clear to me over the phone where exactly the farm was in relation to the highway, or where I was to be picked up for that matter. I hadn’t asked: so I had no choice right then but to stand there, befuddled in my mint new latest things, banks of snow shoveled, eye level on either side of the restaurant.

Finally, I just sat down on my duffel bag, in front of my repeating breath. After a while I decided. I’d just have to go across the street, find the house behind that motel and knock.

I didn’t even have time to reach down and pick up my bag, though, because a van pulled around in front of me, up to the post office next door. Some guy got out and deposited a slew of mail into the all-night slot before spotting me. I figured he must be the guy, given the volume, and walked over. “Are you looking for The Madonna’s Farm,” he asked? “Nobody told me anybody was corning.”

Given the obvious organization, I figured I was in for a treat. Who ran the place, a bunch of old, burnt-out hippies?

“I have,” I said grandly (going for early humor), but it was like he didn’t even hear me.

“And jeepers, no winter coat. Come prepared, eh? You could’ve frozen out here. Hop in.” He had a fine Irish brogue, youngish. About thirty or so, with a long reddish beard. (He looked like one of the Smith Brothers.)

“Got any cough drops,” I asked him?

“You like it, eh,” he asked, laughing like a leprechaun, pulling down on his whiskers? “It’s a gift from me old grandmother. I wonder why no one told me someone was coming?”

“God will take care of me,” I ventured.

“Indeed. But a fine winter coat wouldn’t hurt any, either, now would it? Well, best be getting back,” he said with a laugh. The van was bare bones, a second seat behind ours, hinged benches along the back panels which served as flip-top containers. After a pause he added, “Welcome to The Madonna’s Farm.” He turned and bowed. “My name is Patrick, and I will be your flight attendant. How did you hear about us, anyway?” I told him about the Newman Center, said I needed to find my way, within the context of the Catholic faith, of course.

“We can lend you a coat tonight. Tomorrow’s a half-day. You can go up to St. Joe’s in the afternoon. You’ll be able to pick up something cheaply.”

“Great, cheap and free, two magic words as far as I’m concerned.” He didn’t answer, so I wondered if I had been too flippant, decided to heel the hounds. We drove that way, him only breaking the silence to point out St. Joseph’s Rural Outreach Center, which we passed on our way in.

As we pulled into the gravel parking lot, I got my first glimpse of the main house. It was an old well-kept, steep-roofed white house off to the right side of the lot. And judging by how well lit the first floor was, it looked like things were still hopping.

He told me that I was too late for dinner, late tea, but that if I were hungry he could send some bread and jam up to the dorms with the van later. I thanked him, said I was fine, and followed him into a door that led down to a basement.

The first thing I ran into once inside a second door at the bottom of the inside steps were stuffed coat racks, piles and rows of boots underneath.

“Take off you jacket and boots. I’ll introduce you to Dave. He’s the R.A. at St. Ann’s, Joachim’s.” Feeling like a false lamb, I half bounded, half slunk after him past curtained book shelves, a ping-pong table (boxes stuffed underneath), past an upright piano, an old T.V. along the farthest wall. We proceded up a narrow little flight of stairs to a large, crowded dining area. The first thing I noticed besides all of the cliques of animated folk at most of the tables were the thin metal posts that held up the ceiling in this dining/library area. The kind people use to support sagging basements. Odd, but practical, I thought. A better sign.

The wood tables were simple, almost picnic-like, covered in grey plastic; there were benches under each, end chairs. I felt anxious, expected that, but there was something likable about the place too: a floor so old and worn that I could feel the rising knots in the wood under my stockinged feet. Books were neatly shelved everywhere, library style, complete with Library of Congress call numbers, each section titled: Catholic Saints, Mariology, Christology.

There was a big picture of Tolstoy on the wall at the other end, a librarian’s desk, a small card catalog. These guys didn’t mess around. And to my immediate left from the top of the basement stairs, a wider set which led to what I was to learn was an upstairs chapel. At the base of those stairs, to the left of them was a display of Ekaterina Fyodorovna Kolyschkine’s books.

I had never heard of the woman. Some kind of Catholic Swedenbourgian, Magery Kempe mystic I guessed, judging by the titles of the books: POUSTINIA, KINOSIS. Exotic language for the finer esoteric points of mysticism, no doubt. I leaned over, picked one up, trying not to be obvious in avoiding all the people.

Some of them were quite lively, sitting in groups, but some sat by themselves, too, with little shoe boxes in front of them. They looked to be writing letters. Other people carried trays, empty cups and pitchers out of the room. It was all noisy, controlled. Having just been to college, I just wasn’t used to seeing this many alert people in one room, so I didn’t know quite what to make of it.

Before I could continue my evasion, actually read any of the material, Patrick came over and introduced me to Ed, the man who ran the work crew. He was a good-sized guy, about my height, but broader, with short hair, lots of energy. He shook my hand, looked right into my eyes, slapped me playfully on the back, said I looked like a man who could use the rigors of farm life.

“Just call me hayseed,” I said, trying to get with the program, at least on a surface level.

“Not to worry, James. We’ll put some gas in that tank, Praise God.”

That stopped me in my tracks. Where on earth did that come from? What did this guy know about my tank anyway? He saw something in me and spoke the truth. That’s how I see it now. But back then it irritated me. I liked my privacy, didn’t like feeling exposed. I might have even said something smart in reply, given more time, blown the whole gig had it not been for the fact that everybody around me, as if by some unspoken command, rose.

“They’ve realized,” I joked to myself.

It was 10 o’clock, I was to learn. Time to sing “Salve Mater.” They all knew it by heart, and once again I was thrown in and left to swim. Should I know this? Was it required Catholic ritual? Finally I just closed my eyes, wondered how the heck I was going to get out of that place.

There was a bustle of activity after the song. Dave, my R.A. man, introduced himself, had a coat, hat, gloves for me to try on as he lead me through a maze of people, through the basement. Outside, dressed, duffel bag and jacket under arm, I was pointed to the brown van, followed some other young men who were obviously headed in the same direction.

All of us shivered in the cold, some jumping up and down, waiting for Dave, who had a few quick errands to run. My coat fit me nicely, an old sailor’s, heavy blue, a good, thick flip-up collar and blue knit hat, a tuque, as they called them. I pulled it down past my, by now, freezing ears.

There seemed to be what looked like an enfeebled orchard across from us in the middle of the compound. It was surrounded by an old log-rail fence. A sign post off to the right, like the kind you’d see in a MASH episode, shook slightly in the wind. So many miles to places like Gravelbourg, to Carricou, West Indies, to Flagstaff, Arizona, to Freetown, Liberia, to Paris. (These were, I was to learn, some of their soup kitchens and prayer houses.)

On the far side of the orchard there was another white house, what looked like a bridge, and some ancient gas pumps between that house and the green sheds attached to the main house, which was off to the far right. On each side of the gravel parking lot I was standing in there were other houses, both very small—what I was later to find out were the infirmary and an older men’s staff house. Women guests walked across the road I had come in on. I wondered why we had to go to our dorms in a van. Couldn’t they find a closer place, especially in this sparsely populated area? Maybe they just want to keep us away from the holy babes.

One guy shivering next to me, sporting a great square Amish or Orthodox beard, was struggling with cold hands to roll a cigarette.

“Welcome to Ice Station Zebra. Colder than a witch’s nose. Hi, my name’s Mickey.” I shook his one hand as he precariously tried to balance his half-rolled cigarette paper in the other, introduced myself, though I was cold and slightly put off by his feminine demeanor. Still, he seemed a likable fellow once I got past that. All for one, that kind of thing. What were we in together on was my question.

There were ten other guys counting Dave who piled into the van, all of whom labored to generate heat as it warmed up. You didn’t have enough space to genuinely shiver, so a few of the guys made do. They jostled into each other, shoulder to shoulder to create friction, stamping their feet at the same time just to remind their toes and feet who they belonged to. I got introduced to the five guys in my immediate far back vicinity, but the names came too fast, and I forgot them almost immediately.

“There’ll be a quiz in the morning,” Mickey said.

I got what I was soon to recognize as the usual volley of questions. Who was I, where was I from, how had I heard about the place? Other splinters of conversation had begun as well, so soon enough my comments were more or less swallowed up as people went back to their own concerns.

I did talk a little bit with a soccer player from New England. Hubert was his name. Told him I was sorry about that. He laughed a little, but seemed strangely silent to me, a taciturn New Hampshirer perhaps? He said he’d come out here to get his life on track. (There was an unwritten rule at The Madonna’s Farm. Don’t ask people too much about their pasts. But at this time no one had told me about it, so I pried for all I was worth.)

“Why here?” I asked. “Too many drugs, firearms?”

He gave me a pained smile, rubbed his face. “Drugs, yeah. I need a lot of healing. A priest told me about this place. Said it might be a good place to slow down, allow the Lord time to work things out.”

“I’m running from the Feds personally. Boot-legging, prostitution, selling illegal crucifixes.” I watched for his response. Part of him wanted to laugh, but another part of him felt like he was supposed to be put off. “Na,” I said. “Actually I’m converting from the Urdu religion. Goat sacrifice. For the snausages. We worshipped George Washington’s eye on the dollar bill.”

“Hasn’t everybody?” he said. “I just felt too much pressure out there myself, too many demands. People hounding me about which direction I should take with my life. Here I can put my feet out,” and he did so.

“A joke. Nice.” We both laughed.

We took a quick right after a couple of miles, and by the time we had finished a full circle turn from the main road, we were there. A smallish white house, a porch. The guy who was in the front passenger seat jumped out immediately, took the key off of the ledge just above the door. A silly kind of precaution, really, I thought, considering how far we were away from anyone. Like a person couldn’t just break the glass or wouldn’t look in that spot first if he were bent on a more mannered version of B & E.

Oh well, I figured, roll with the Catholics.

It was only a matter of minutes before we were all in the kitchen. Guys began brushing their teeth in the sink, washing up out of wide white metal bowls, each taking his personals: a towel, shampoo, toothbrush from his slot behind a curtained partition, each with a combatant’s name taped below it. Some guys in another van came in soon after, all of them living down the hill in a more primitive cabin, St. Joachim’s, where there were only kerosene lamps and a wood burning stove.

It was very crowded in the kitchen, noisy. In the next room, the first floor bedroom, three guys were sitting at a table, discussing whether it was possible to attain perfection in this life. I was too tired from the travel to try and make anything out of the whole scene, wanted just to take a quick shower, get into my hair-shirt and go to bed.

Dave informed me, however, that showers weren’t allowed during the week. Well water conservation. He even went so far as to request that I not flush after urination, at least until the bowl was good and yellow. What if we all had low sugar content, I asked, and what about number two?

“The outhouse down the hill.”

My first venture into the unknown dark night of faith, I figured, as I put my out-to-sea coat back on. The green, upright wooden structure seemed sturdy enough, a little hook on the inside. But it was quite cold by then, and I was worried about sitting on the cold plastic seat. Would I stick, have to call for help, many popsicle sticks to pry me loose? But eventualities had been foreseen. There was a winter aid on the wall: a styrofoam doughnut cut-out.

When I finished I took my time returning, looked up at the stars. Never had I seen them so clearly. The milk in the way, the gauze in a clear sky, the whole thing sharp and precise enough for me to wonder if there was anything to this God business. Was there a place so far away that it had no stars, nothing? How could there be an end to the universe; how could there not be? If there was a God, none of these guys seemed to be getting rich off of Him, at least on the surface of things, that seemed clear enough.

Davie directed me upstairs, where I found my bunk among many. They had recently ripped out a partition; I could see the newly sanded and painted strips along the walls and ceiling. Familiar metal posts held the place up. On the far side, Mickey bunked next to me, to my right, away from the stairs. A guy named Ted next to him, by the window. On the other side of the aisle from Ted was a huge bearded guy, Tom, who occupied that first bed. Nick, from Akron, came next, then Daoud, a Palestinian Christian Arab, and Greg, a painter from Minneapolis. Richard from Regina was at the other window end on my side, just across from the stairwell, and Jean­-Michele on my immediate left, from Mon-re-al, as he said in disdained English, his bikini red underwear.

Daoud commented that we could be an American basketball team because of our height: Ted, Adam, Nick and myself. Tom, though, seemed slightly offended by that, as he seemed to be by the nickname he had been given. (He did look like the first man.) I thought of Hubert downstairs. Hospital ward.

Nick, however, was a different story. Very expansive, he welcomed the world, me included, heartily. He said we could all be monks on Mt. Athos, at least judging by so many bearded appearances; he didn’t want to discriminate against the clean-shaven. Everyone laughed.

Daoud called out in a high voice, “May it be so. Christ is risen!

“Truly,” Tom added, perhaps, it seemed to me, because he had learned to do as much. He certainly didn’t seem moved by any noticeable enthusiasm when he said it. Struck me as odd. Cultish behavior? “We do want to be ready to greet Him when He comes,” he added.

“Speak it, brother,” said Jean-Michele.

“You and Rich can throw open your windows,” said Ted. “Just in case He comes tonight; stick your feet out to stay alert. Let us know.”

Rich smiled—a quiet one.

“I think I’ll just keep my candle lit,” said Nick with a grin, crawling cozily under his several covers.

“That’s okay by me,” said Jean-Michele as he pulled out his double eye-patch sleeping mask, put it on. (Everybody seemed to take delight in his wearing this.)

“What are you doing here? That’s what I want to know,” joked Tom. More laughter.

“Taking a vacation. Now if you don’t mind, l would like to get some sleep. Call for me at about 10ish, won’t you?”

“Yes, your highness,” said Mickey. “Crumpets then, the morning paper?”

“That will do.” Someone threw a book in his general direction. Jean-Michele lifted one wing of his eye-patch. “Rabble,” he sniffed, amid the last wave of laughter, groans.

Things got quiet quickly—a hard day of work it looked like. And then, some time later, I saw Daoud get up in semi­darkness before a little icon of Christ that he had apparently placed on his dresser. He prayed there quietly out of some book for a good fifteen minutes, turning the pages, rocking back and forth slightly as he read. Nick saw me watching him from across the room, winked in my direction.

“You just never know about this place,” he whispered, smiling. Then he turned over, fell asleep.

I had said nothing during the whole course of conversation. Wondered how well I would get to know these guys, what they would mean to me. As it turned out, most of them just passed through my life like so many others had before. They each left an impression, favorable mostly, and then were gone. The story of my life, anybody’s really, but the story of this place too, in a special sort of way. People came through all the time. Some would stay for a week, some for a month some for a year or two. Those who really liked it found “vocation,” stayed for what promised to be the rest of their lives. But for most of us, it was a matter of learning to enjoy the place, the people, and then having to leave it all behind.

3.

Morning came earlier than I would have been comfortable with. Six o’clock. And then the rush again. Dave assigned me a towel rack, a space, and I washed off as best I could. A quick pit job, like the others, a floss in Jean-Michele’s case. Some shampooed, everyone combed, brushed. Girls at breakfast, had to be. I liked Jean-Michele right off, a French Canadian who mistrusted everyone that wasn’t. “Free Que­bec,” I’d say when I passed him. He liked that.

I piled, freezing, into the van with him and Nick, waited for the others. I asked what was next as Nick read: cold, ungloved fingers on his Bible.

“You shall see, my crass American friend. Regimentation. It’s all designed to keep us from the girls,” smoke puffing in front of the fried Frenchman, both of us stamping our feet.

“You mean we don’t get to work with the women-folk? I’m againest it, I teail you,” I said, feigning spit. “We neaiver do that in Tennessee. Heck, my Aunt Jule, Uncle Bob, they met that way. Been married fer years. . . . Thaiy’re the same person, you know,” I said, tucking at him severally under the ribs.

He looked at me as if my head were on backwards, said “Watch out for this one,” to Tom, who was just entering the van.

“If Jean Michele doesn’t trust you, let me shake your hand,” he said with a huge grin.

“Tainted,” I said, extended my hand, and soon we were all shuffling over, making room for the late arriving, stamping our cold feet.

Once we were on the road I asked Nick what we would do first. “Not to worry. Just follow the crowd. Someone will always be around to direct you. A service of the place, I think,” he said flashing his big Ukrainian smile.

“A nice change from the outside world,” added Tom. “We’ll load up the van for the farm first, then lauds in the chapel. After that, my favorite, breakfast,” (he smiled), “then work. They’ll probably send you to the farm. New people usually go there first.” I nodded, got the picture, breathed a white sigh. Work. I was agaienst it.

I was going to say something to Nick, but he was back in his Bible again. Everyone was lulled to silence by the sound the bitter cold ground made as it tested the morning tires, as we backed out and onto the main road, the beautiful white countryside opening all up around us, freezing exhaust trailing like a small fugitive flag.

At least four inches had fallen overnight; the trees were caked with luffs of snow, and the clear, cold pale blue early morning sky seemed, itself, frozen, breakable.

When we got to the main compound, the van backed up to the kitchen door. The guys formed a line, and into the vehicle went cold, empty milk containers, a myriad of plastic buckets, wooden shelf beds for bread, two egg baskets, jugs and bottles.

An attractive young aproned woman helped with things on her end. And judging by how cleanly both male and female embraced the new day, the humor that passed between them, I didn’t see any strain between the sexes. What had Jean-Michele been talking about?

That finished, Greg, an artist, came over from his place in line, introduced himself.

“Day one, eh? So how do you like the place so far?” he laughed. “Has anyone suggested the priesthood to you yet?” When I said no, he responded, “Just wait. I’m taking bets. We’ll keep track. If someone mentions it within three weeks, I win a buck.”

“On you like a Woolworth’s suit, huh?”

“My mother should be so persistent. Three different people this last week alone.” He lead, walking away from the house, into a brisk wind, tears forming, running horizontally on our wind-swept faces. Ice began forming on his beard.

“What’s up now?” I asked, clapping my huge deerskin mitts.

“Lauds.”

“Does this mean we have to pray. Will people be watching?”

“Yeah, can you believe that? Praying. Next thing you know, they’ll be telling us where to work, what we can eat. How did I get here? I don’t remember.”

Walking between St. Paracletus and the orchard, we found ourselves joining others as we eventually turned right, past some outhouses, garages, a compost heap, shuffling our feet through the newly-fallen snow in the process. And at Greg’s pace, we passed a good deal of them, most of whom had smiles, a good word for him.

“Geez, these people actually seem to like you. Have they talked to you yet?”

“They see the collar,” he said, smiling grimly.

Soon we came to the chapel. It was beautiful, out in the middle of the woods, evergreens, limited undergrowth on all sides. Made out of huge square logs, coated a rough brown, it was built out of almost as much mortar as wood. Constructed by someone who was a real craftsman, it had a bright golden dome, a Byzantine cross on top: simple, with all the beauty that can come with that.

We opened a wooden door with horizontal fleur-de-lis metal supports, and stepped inside. I was surprised. There were no pews, just a highly polished floor where the younger people knelt in their socks. Older staff members sat on benches that were built into the walls along the back sides, left and right. Up front was a simple Western altar, with cross-slatted gates and a partitioning iconostasis behind it leading to the Byzantine sanctum, a silver dove hanging from a chain above the deeper altar.

Icons of Mary holding a baby Jesus, and Jesus, full grown, his sandal strap unfastened, each hung on one of the partitioning walls. Smaller pictures of the Apostles dutifully hung along side of those. The pictures, icons, like the chapel itself, were executed by someone who knew what she (as it turned out) was doing.

On the left side of the chapel, above a side door was a carved wooden relief of the Infant, in swaddling clothes, with the words underneath: “Lord, give me the heart of a child and the awesome courage to live it out.” I was dumbfounded by what I could only call the devotion of all these normal-looking people. Some of the young ones in the middle prostrated themselves in their socks, on forearms, forehead, Jean­-Michele included.

Some of the others knelt straight up, some sat cross­legged, hands, palms up, at their sides. What was I doing here, I wondered? Insulting Martians, what they believed in, basically. They didn’t deserve this, that much was clear, but I didn’t want to go back to where I had been either. I’d just have to be respectful, play things off as best I could until I could figure out a next move. Maybe I’d get turned on to something up here, get wind of a good job down south, an opportunity.

Everyone, I noticed, had taken a book of Psalms and folder of songs from the shelves near the back door. So I retreated and did the same. And sliding down next to Greg, who was among those kneeling straight up, I couldn’t help but notice that he was quiet and rapt, his hands folded in front of him. I sighed, closed my eyes, sat there cross-legged, tried to become invisible.

Brought to attention by a tuning pipe, I rose with everyone else, fumbled as they did, with my Psalm book and listened as the singing commenced. Each side of the chapel alternated, sang the basic tones of what must have been the Gregorian chant, call and response. It was extraordinary in its simplicity, took me somewhere else. To feeling, but not to me feeling. I wondered why I had never heard anything like that before in my life. It made me feel like I was waking up on some new morning road, surrounded by a fading mist.

It went on for three Psalms, then we sang a few hymns from the folder. These too, simpler, and yet at times more complicated, riff-wise, than any hymns I’d ever heard before. More haunting notes that moved me to the spiritual reality that held things together, that sang through them.

At least it seemed so to me, for the duration of that song anyway. The schola, as they were called, led the singing. I edged over closer to them. Who were these guys?

Some readings followed, and then, after some silent sitting I wondered, was it time to leave? I couldn’t tell right away, grew a little anxious. Some people scurried out of there as if they had somewhere to get to. The kitchen staff perhaps. But most stayed on, informally visiting the icons. People lined up to stand in front of these pictures, touch them with their hands or lean into them bodily, foreheads against the paint. It was odd all right, but quiet and reverent; no one seemed to be putting on a show. No P.R., high hair and fancy t.v. sets for Jesus the winner.