Code

CHAPTER 29

“TURN IN … HERE.”

I pointed to an odd marker beside the highway—a large white M, with a white cross rising from its center. The name Mepkin Abbey was carved into the stone pedestal.

“Took us long enough.” Ben had been driving for over an hour. Add that to the ninety minutes we’d waited for Ben to reappear, and we’d burned off half the afternoon.

Shelton yawned, scratched the top of his head. “Talk about living in the boonies.”

“They probably don’t have cable,” Hi quipped. “Or indoor plumbing.”

We cruised down the tree-lined drive we’d seen on the abbey’s website, massive live oaks flanking us on both sides. Sunlight and shadow danced on the windshield.

The setting was serene. Idyllic. Perfect for the contemplative life.

“Keep your eyes peeled during the tour,” I reminded them. “The next cache must be hidden on these grounds.”

I’d brought two trowels in my backpack, just in case. Only nine hours remained to crack the Gamemaster’s clue.

“Monks live out here?” Shelton was peering out a backseat window. “In the middle of South Cack nowhere?”

“Since 1949.” Hi began reading from his iPhone. “Founded by monks from the Abbey of Gethsemani, in Kentucky, the Mepkin brotherhood belongs to the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance.”

“What does that mean?” Shelton asked.

“Don’t ask me. But if you want to join, I’ll put in a good word.”

We parked in a guest lot, then followed a hedge-lined path to the welcome center. Inside was a shock—the interior was modern and well appointed. Exchanging astonished glances, we wandered into the gift shop.

And received a second surprise. The shop was airy and brightly lit. Tables and shelves overflowed with monastic artwork, carved bowls, knickknacks, knit scarves, blankets, and other handicrafts. Cookbooks and monastic texts shared space with vases and monk-made jams.

The store had an eclectic, arty feel, quite at odds with my expectation of dour monks living in stark, Spartan silence.

“Tory, look!” Hi pointed to a bookcase packed with idols and figurines.

“Nice.”

Excited, I scanned the assortment. There! On the middle shelf—a statue of Saint Benedict identical to the one in my bag.

I couldn’t help but smile. “We’re definitely in the right place.”

Hi slapped me five. Ben nodded, looking pleased.

“Can you believe they sell beer?” Shelton was eyeing a tower of six-packs. “Do monks like to booze it up?”

“Our vows do not require abstention from alcohol.”

We turned to see a small, clean-shaven man in his mid-forties. He had dirty blond hair fading to gray, sea green eyes, and soft, almost feminine features. He wore the black-and-white robes of a Mepkin brother.

“Indeed, the Order is somewhat famous for brewing,” the monk said. “Mepkin offers some of the finer ales produced by Trappists worldwide.”

“The shop is lovely.” Random, but he’d caught me off guard. “I didn’t expect so much … color. Variety.”

“You’re not the first to say so.” The monk smiled. “Our store offers a wide range of items created in the monastic tradition, as well as works by local artisans. All reflect the beauty of God’s creation.”

“Do you make anything here?” Shelton asked.

“We do.” The monk hefted a jar labeled Oyster Mushroom Powder. “Chapter forty-eight of the Rule of Saint Benedict states, ‘For then are they monks in truth, if they live by the work of their hands.’ We produce and sell goods to provide income for the monastery, and to honor the Lord through work. Our mushrooms are world famous, and our garden compost is top-notch. We also offer an array of honey products and a delightful fruit syrup.”

“I thought you guys didn’t talk.” Hi wheezed as my elbow found his gut. “Took a vow of silence, I mean.”

“A common misconception.” The monk adopted a lecturing tone. “Saint Benedict described speech as disruptive to a disciple’s duty for quietude and receptivity, and a temptation to exercise one’s own will, instead of God’s. As adherents, we respect his call for silence, but take no vow. That said, we only speak when necessary, and idle chatter is discouraged. We take our meals in contemplative peace, perhaps listening to a reading by a fellow brother.”

“This isn’t idle chatter right now?” Hi dodged my second jab.

“Of course not,” the monk replied good-naturedly. “To instruct the inquisitive is to spread the joy of God. My name is Brother Patterson. I’m Guestmaster for today’s tour. Were you planning to join us?”

“Tory Brennan,” I replied. “And yes, that’s why we’re here.”

“Wonderful.” Patterson beamed. “We have so few younger visitors. Please follow me. Others have come today as well.”

We exited into a tidy flower garden.

A wealthy-looking couple was gabbing loudly about the proper care of azaleas, while a trio of nuns glared in disapproval. Beside them, an elderly couple whispered quietly in what sounded like German.

“Welcome to Mepkin Abbey.” Patterson addressed the group. “We are a Roman Catholic order of contemplative monks, more commonly known as Trappists. We live in silence and solitude, according to an ancient discipleship that focuses on seeking God through communal living. We praise our Lord through prayer, meditation, work, and hospitality. Again, welcome.”

The female azalea freak dabbed on shiny lip gloss. “What’s a Trappist?”

“The movement originated in Normandy in 1664, in reaction to relaxed practices in many Cistercian monasteries. In 1892, blessed by the Pope, the Trappists formed an independent order dedicated to closer adherence to the Rule of Saint Benedict.”

Lip Gloss blinked. “Saint who?”

“Saint Benedict,” Patterson answered patiently, “who wrote his Rule in the sixth century, describing the ideals and values of monastic life. The Trappist goal is to adhere to his three vows: stability, obedience, and fidelity to monastic life.”

“Fidelity?” Lip Gloss’s bald husband snorted. “What, you don’t like broads?”

Again, the polite smile. “As Benedictine monks, we are sworn to God, but that doesn’t mean we dislike women. In fact, each Cistercian order has a women’s branch. Ours is known as the Trappistines.”

“Are there a lot of Trappists?” Hi asked.

“Depends on your perspective.” Patterson linked his hands and began moving into the garden, inviting the group to follow. “There are 170 Trappist monasteries around the world, home to approximately 2,100 monks and 1,800 nuns.”

Hi nodded. “Not too many folks.”

Patterson responded with a small smile. “Monastic life is not for everyone.”

“Sounds good to me.” Shelton walked alongside me as we passed rows of blue hydrangeas, white lilacs, and yellow jessamine. “Peace and quiet. Where do I sign?”

“First, we must see if you’re a good fit.” Patterson grinned, playing along. “Do you possess the physical, psychological, and spiritual vigor to live by our principles? Are you fully committed to a life of all-encompassing, continual prayer?”

One of Shelton’s eyebrows rose. “Continual?”

“We wake at three for Vigils, followed by private meditation, then Lauds at five thirty before breakfast. The remainder of the day is divided between prayer, work, and private spiritual devotions. We retire at eight for the grand silence, lasting twelve hours.”

Shelton cocked his head, as if considering. “Eh, probably not.”

Patterson nodded. “You also need a diploma, work experience, and a Catholic background. Plus no debts or obligations to a wife, children, or parents.”

“Then I’m out on all counts,” Shelton said. “Maybe when I’m older.”

“Who but the Lord knows?”

Brother Patterson led us to a courtyard fronting the monastery proper. In its center stood a fifty-foot tower housing four bells, stacked one atop the other.

“The Tower of the Seven Spirits,” Patterson said. “Its bells announce each of our daily prayers.” He pointed to a group of stucco buildings on our left. “Those are the cloisters, where our brothers reside.”

Straight ahead was the church itself—a simple white stucco building topped by an iron cross. Warm yellow light spilled from within.

We crossed to the church and entered through carved wooden doors. The interior was bright and harmonious, with a tile floor and a yellow pine roof. A small nave offered seating for a few dozen. The altar was set at the transept crossing, with a massive organ just behind it. A round lantern window high above threw patterned sunlight across the stark white plaster walls.

“No adornments.” I noted the absence of statues, paintings, or stained glass.

“Continual prayer requires strict discipline,” Patterson explained. “External decorations, no matter how uplifting, would only be a distraction.”

After allowing the group a few minutes to observe, Patterson led us back outside and down into a small ravine.

Hi drew close and whispered in my ear. “This place is huge. Way bigger than I thought.”

“And modern, too. These monks are more than they seem.”

He nodded. “It’s gonna be tough to search.”

We approached a five-story building set on massive concrete pilings. Colonial-brick arches fronted the lower levels, while limestone and pale stucco covered those above.

Patterson waited for the group to reassemble. “The library houses our theological collections, as well as religious art and many rare books. There are also meeting facilities, a conference center with state-of-the-art computer capability, and a high-definition theater.”

Shelton whistled softly. “High tech.”

“The tour has now ended.” Patterson spread his arms wide. “Please feel free to wander the library or visit our many gardens. Stay as long as you like. We ask only that you avoid the cloisters, out of respect for the brothers’ privacy, and the graveyards, to preserve the holiness of the interments.”

With that, Patterson left, his robes swishing softly with every step. The German couple strolled down a garden path, while Lip Gloss and Baldy headed back toward the gift shop. The nuns entered the library.

“What now?” Hi asked.

I shrugged. “Any ideas?”

“I say we go left.” Shelton was studying a free map he’d snagged in the gift shop. “There’s a massive garden that overlooks the Cooper River.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I readjusted my backpack. “Remember, eyes peeled. For whatever.”

We chose a trail skirting two natural ponds at the bottom of the ravine. It led by several small dwellings standing alone in the woods.

“Who lives in those?” Ben asked.

“Those are guest houses,” I answered, recalling facts from my online investigation of Mepkin Abbey while we’d waited for Ben. “You can take a retreat here, and live like a monk for a weekend, a week, even longer if they let you. I guess that’s one way to get right with God.”

“Sounds relaxing,” Shelton said. “I’d sleep the whole time.”

“Not likely. You have to attend all the prayers, and work your butt off.”

We navigated a maze garden, then crossed a meadow of native plants. The trail continued through a cluster of magnolias beside an ancient cemetery, then dropped down toward the riverbank.

Along the way we passed two wooden statues—one depicting the Crucifixion, the other the Holy Family’s flight from Egypt. Interesting, but irrelevant to our clue.

“The main garden is down there.” Shelton pointed to a lush, green area ahead.

“Stop.” I looked from face to face. “We can’t risk missing something.”

All three took my meaning. I saw their bodies tense, their eyes close.

SNAP.

Like that, everyone’s flare was burning. I could sense their thoughts, though not as strongly with Coop absent.

I didn’t attempt contact. Didn’t want a mutiny on my hands.

“Follow me.”

We entered the heart of the Mepkin Abbey gardens. Ancient trees shaded a series of terraced fields dotted with gates and vine-covered statues. Azaleas, camellias, and other flowering shrubs sloped down to the river below.

The place was gorgeous, yet secretive, filled with hidden nooks and crannies tucked into the verdant foliage. Hushed. Mysterious.

We cast out our super-senses, examining every sculpture, niche, and gravestone.

Nothing clicked. We discovered no hint of the Gamemaster’s cache.

“We’re in the wrong place.” My voice radiated frustration. “But I don’t know where else to look.”

“There’s one more possibility.” Hi had commandeered the map and was pointing to the woods at our backs. “The abbey’s oldest cemetery is beyond that ridge. It’s the most remote point on the grounds.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” I was already moving.

“Off-limits,” Shelton muttered. I chose not to hear.

We entered the woods and continued to the base of a narrow plank bridge. Towering pines and thick understory blocked our view of the garden and river.

“We have to cross?” Shelton asked.

“Come on, you wuss.” Ben fired across.

The rest of us followed.

After climbing a staircase on the opposite embankment, we spotted our objective. Fifty yards square, and bounded by a shoulder-high brick wall, the ancient graveyard was crammed with headstones and monuments. A rusty iron gate blocked entry.

No birds chirped. No crickets hummed. The air was heavy with moisture and deathly still.

“We can’t enter a burial ground,” Shelton insisted. “Patterson was clear on that.”

“Guys, look!” My hypervision had already zeroed in.

A small mausoleum sat dead center in the cemetery.

Adorning its roof was a marble sphere.

Carved into its surface was a familiar pattern.

An inverted semicircle with radiating spikes.

A rising sun.