At the end of January, the abbot called me to his quarters. I sensed a lingering distance between us, having held back in confession. This was happening more and more often, for my mind had retreated to a place I preferred not to acknowledge, and it was especially difficult for me to conceal the impurities that arose there of their own accord. That very Sunday, he had asked three separate times if I had truly unburdened my heart. I would have preferred to avoid him, but that evening he informed me we were to visit the hut of a miner, who was dying of lung disease. We slogged through the streets enduring a mixture of rain and snow. By the time we reached the miner’s hut, the packed ice on the paths had slicked over, and our well-oiled boots were soaked through. The miner’s hut was in the poorest district of the village, one among a hundred at the bottom of the high street, a single room with neither windows, nor insulation. The lamenting eyes of the Virgin regarded us from a tiny makeshift altar arranged on a table in the far corner. A dozen candles guttered in a perennial draft. The miner was laid out on a straw mat on the dirt floor. His breathing was heavily labored, the sweat-soaked sheet speckled crimson from his coughing. His wife had sent the children away. No one expected him to last the night, yet he was still refusing to accept our Savior. His wife crossed herself repeatedly, her cheeks stained with tears. “Please mon pere, you must convince him. Otherwise, he will go to hell, and I will never see him again.” At this she burst into fresh tears and fell to her knees. She bowed low, as if to kiss the abbot’s feet before he bade her to rise. “I beg of you, mon pere, only you can save his immortal soul.” The abbot knelt and spoke in the miner’s ear. The miner’s lips moved, though his wife’s sobs drowned out whatever he might have said. Finally, he looked up with resignation. At this, the miner’s wife began to strike her husband about the shoulders with her bony little fists. I stepped forward to intercede, but then she composed herself, clasping her hands in prayer. “Perhaps it would be better,” the abbot said, “If your husband and I spoke alone.” She offered him a blank stare, but made no sign of withdrawing. “Please. If you would step outside, just for a little while…” She glanced at me, but I couldn’t bear to return her gaze, and instead pretended to study the little statue of the Virgin. Just then, the dying man coughed, and a pink froth bloomed at the corner of his mouth. “It won’t take long,” the abbot repeated. Finally, the miner’s wife donned an oilcloth slicker and stepped out into the night. Rain hammered on the tin roof, a growing clamor that seemed to herald the stubborn man’s impending death. The abbot once again knelt by his side, stroking his forehead with an open palm. By now, the miner’s eyes were narrow slits he seemed to be holding open only by great force of will. “Do you accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your savior?” The miner grimaced and reached between his legs, offering an obscene gesture. When he grinned at us, a sour stench escaped his lips. The abbot stood finally and straightened his blouse. “At least he was steadfast in his principals. Sorry to have distressed you, old dear,” he said to the man at his feet, whose breathing had now stopped on the heels of a papery wheeze. I followed the abbot outside. The miner’s wife was crouched under a flap of canvas. I was certain her eyes had never left the hut. The abbot went to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him as if beseeching God Himself. I had to turn away, unable to bear witness to her sorrow. “The Lord’s will is done,” the abbot whispered, almost to himself. The miner’s wife stood and clamped her hand on the abbot’s wrist. “Then he accepted the rites?” The abbot glanced at his feet, but then nodded obliquely. “In the end salvation was bestowed.” “Thank God in heaven! God bless you, mon pere! Bless you a thousand times.” The widow’s tears redoubled, but her eyes shone. As we made to leave, she ran after us, attempting to press a coin into the abbot’s palm. “Feed your children,” he told her. “And remember to come to mass.” Two men I didn’t recognize brought an ox cart to fetch the body. The abbot and I climbed the path that wound among the rows of huts and shanties. As much as I needed to, I couldn’t look at his face. The rain had stopped, or rather it had changed to an insubstantial feathering of snow that seemed in no great hurry to settle on the ground. The abbot was walking at a quickened pace, and I had difficulty keeping up. What would you have done? his silence seemed to demand, but we didn’t discuss it then or ever. At the top of the high street, where the ring road converged, we parted company without speaking. *****
Posted on: Tue, 11 Jun 2013 19:17:10 +0000