The Spirit Well

CHAPTER 23

They have all gone, you say?” wondered Abbot Cisneros. He raised his eyes from the work on his desk and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“Yes, Your Eminence-all are gone,” replied Brother Antolin, the abbot’s secretary.

“Where have they gone?” The abbot put down his pen and blew on the ink, still wet on the page before him.

“To the ecumenical conference, Eminence,” replied the brother. “The one convened by Cardinal Bernetti.”

“The Lucerne Conference, yes, I remember.” The abbot picked up his pen once more and waved it in the air. “Is there no one else?”

“It would seem not, Holiness.”

The abbot replaced his pen on the desk once more. “Am I to believe that no one else speaks English in this entire abbey? One of our many international visitors, perhaps?”

“We considered that, of course,” replied Brother Antolin. “But it was thought unwise to involve outsiders in what may turn out to be a sensitive matter.”

“Ah.” The abbot picked up his pen yet again. “You are right. Best keep this to ourselves until we know what the outcome might be.” He paused, thought for a moment, then wondered, “Have you asked at chapter?”

“I did, Eminence-before bringing it to you. But it seems those possessing a fluency with English are all in attendance at the conference.”

“How extraordinary.” The abbot resumed writing.

The secretary folded his hands before him and awaited the result of his superior’s deliberation.

Presently the Abbot of Montserrat finished the sentence he was writing and asked, “Have you seen this fellow?”

“Yes, Eminence. He appears ordinary enough-though he is dressed very oddly.”

“Some would say the same of us,” observed Abbot Cisneros.

“Indeed, Eminence.”

“You say the local police merely dropped him off at the gate with the porter, is that right?”

Brother Antolin nodded. “That is what I understand.”

“And no one can be found to speak to him?”

“It is thought that Brother Lazarus knows someone-an occasional assistant, a German nun, I believe-who speaks English.”

“Aha!” The abbot raised his pen triumphantly. “Summon the sister and proceed accordingly.” He returned to his writing. “Oh-and, brother, I think Prior Donato should deal with this from now on. See that he is informed of all pertinent details.”

“Tomas is in Lucerne at the conference, Eminence.”

“Of course he is.” The abbot waved him away. “Bring word when the matter has been successfully concluded.”

“It will be done.” Brother Antolin backed from the office, closing the doors as he went, and returned to his own desk in the outer vestibule where a young novitiate was waiting. Addressing the monk, he said, “Abbot Cisneros has decided to leave the matter in my hands for the time being. Take word to Brother Lazarus that I wish him to meet me at the porter’s lodge. He is to bring his assistant-the German nun. She will serve as our translator.”

After being dropped at the gate by the policeman, Kit had been left in the care of the porter, a squat Spaniard with pudgy hands and the face of a cherub. Kit spent the next few hours idling in the gatekeeper’s lodge as a sort of quasi-captive-he was not locked up, nor was he free to go, for every time he got up and tried to leave, the porter came running after him, scolding in Spanish, and he was pushed back into the lodge. Kit was given to know that he was being made to wait until adequate provision could be made for him. In the meantime he was given cool lemon water to drink and some small, dry biscuits. Occasionally church bells sounded, and once a priest came to look at him, exchanged a brief word with the porter, and disappeared again. Kit, none the wiser, was left to himself once more.

There was no point in getting stroppy with the fellow, Kit decided, and in any case getting stroppy in Spanish was quite beyond his abilities. His best option was simply to remain pleasant and compliant, and wait for whatever Providence would toss his way. The waiting continued, and the day drew on towards evening. Then, shortly after the bells in the abbey tower sounded for the third time, Kit heard voices in the gravel yard outside. The door opened, and the gatekeeper motioned for Kit to come out. He was met by three priests: two very large hulks in dusty, worn habits-manual workers, Kit decided-and the priest who had looked in on him earlier.

“Gracias,” he said, marshalling the little Spanish he possessed. The priest smiled, patted him on the bare shoulder, and motioned him to follow. Happy to oblige if it meant he could at last leave the confines of the gatehouse, Kit stepped out into a day fading towards evening. The jagged grey peaks, blushing pink in the light of the setting sun, soared high above the abbey precinct, casting all in shadow. The air was already starting to cool with the approach of night.

The little delegation climbed a long, winding boulevard to an enclosed courtyard. One side of the courtyard fronted the great abbey church, which seemed to be carved into the very stone of the mountain; on another side was a grand stone edifice with a baroque facade. Kit was conducted into the building, where a tiled vestibule gave way to a long panelled corridor that smelled of beeswax and wood polish. He was marched to a waiting room that contained nothing but wooden chairs lined up around the perimeter.

“Sientense, por favor,” said the priest.

Kit entered the room, and the door was closed behind him. “What a palaver,” he muttered.

Having spent most of the day sitting, he decided to pace instead, and occupied himself with the same questions he had been asking since his arrival. What were they doing? Why couldn’t they just let him go? What were the chances of getting a proper shirt and trousers? His animal-skin clothing, in this setting, made him look and feel ridiculous.

He was on his fourth or fifth circuit of the room when he heard voices in the corridor outside. He turned to the door just as it opened to admit an elderly, white-haired priest in a black cassock and a young woman in a crisp grey nun’s habit.

“Mio Dio!” cried the priest, upon confronting the wild man standing in the doorway. He gave a little jump, colliding with the woman entering behind him. She steadied the priest with a hand and moved around him into the room. Taking in the hairy apparition before her, the nun’s mouth fell open and her eyes went wide.

“Wilhelmina!” gasped Kit.

She leaned forward, studying his face. “Kit-is that really you under all that hair?”

“It’s me, Mina.” He started forward, his arms outstretched to embrace her. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

Her hands flashed up; she reeled back. Kit hesitated. “What are you wearing?” she said. Her face wrinkled. “What is that smell?”

“It’s a long story,” replied Kit. “What are you doing here? Where are we, anyway?”

“Don’t you know?”

He shook his head. “Nobody tells me anything.”

The white-haired priest, having overcome his shock, stepped forward. “Wilhelmina,” he said in German, “do you know this… this man?”

Mina turned, grinning with joyful disbelief. “Let me introduce you to my dear friend, Kit Livingstone.”

The priest let out a little gasp of amazement. He gaped at Kit, letting his astonished gaze sweep from head to toe and back again. “Unglaublich!” he breathed, shaking his head in wonder.

“I know,” Wilhelmina agreed, watching Kit as if he might suddenly vapourise before her eyes. “It is unbelievable-but here he is! All this time we were trying to find him, and-voila! He finds us. Incredible.”

Then, turning suddenly, she grabbed Kit in a fierce hug. “Where have you been, my dear, filthy, wild-haired man?”

Kit kissed her cheek and then buried his face in the hollow of her neck. “Oh, Mina,” he sighed, surrendering to an overwhelming relief. “It is so good to see you. You don’t know-”

“Come on,” she said, pushing him away and taking his hand. “Let’s get out of here.” She cast a glance over her shoulder and spoke German to the priest, who answered, offering his hand, which Kit shook. “This is Brother Lazarus,” she said, making a quick introduction. “He is the astronomer here. We’ll go up to his quarters-we can talk and we won’t be disturbed up there.”

She said something else in German, and the priest replied with a nod. To Kit she said, “Brother Lazarus will take care of the details. He will fix things with his superiors and make the necessary arrangements. You are to be his guest.”

“Okay,” agreed Kit, “but could we eat something first? I haven’t eaten since… I don’t know when.”

“Sure-I’ll fix you a nice meal,” she told him. “But first we’re going to get you a bath-and a haircut if possible. I’ll have to find some clothes.” She regarded Kit’s furry trousers and laughed. “How do you feel about a monk’s robe?”

They moved into the corridor, where a few curious brothers had gathered outside to catch a glimpse of their unusual visitor. Brother Lazarus called to the onlookers and conducted a brief conference while Wilhelmina steered Kit away.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “He’ll take care of everything. He has a fair bit of seniority around here. They all love him and trust him completely. You’ll like him too.”

Kit nodded. They reached the vestibule and stepped out into a balmy evening where the stars were just beginning to kindle for the night. The ethereal sound of singing reached them on the soft night air-the monks were chanting evensong. Once out of sight of the others, Wilhelmina looped her arm through Kit’s and pulled him close.

“Are you really a nun?”

Wilhelmina laughed, her voice full of delight. The sound was delicious in the evening twilight. “Don’t be silly. It’s a role I play when I come here. The habit just makes everything so much easier.” She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “A lot less explaining to do.”

“It suits you.”

Indeed, she was more attractive than ever-and it showed in her figure as well as her face. She had filled out a little and now had curves where before there had been only angles. Her dark eyes fairly gleamed with health and well-being. “You look wonderful.”

“You think so?” She smiled, enjoying the compliment. “There’s a lot to be said for the convent life. What about you-what’s the explanation for what you’re wearing?”

“What do you mean? This is the height of fashion where I’ve come from.”

She laughed again. “Look at you! I hardly recognise you under all that hair. You look like a big old bushy bear. What-they didn’t have clippers or razors where you were?”

“Actually, no,” Kit said, running his fingers through the tangles of his beard.

“And those muscles!” she hooted, giving his biceps a squeeze. “No more puppy fat. You’re positively brawny-a lean, mean fighting machine,” she said approvingly. “Whatever they were feeding you, it didn’t do you any harm.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He looked down at his torso. Beneath the layer of smudgy dirt he could see the ripples of a six-pack, and his arms were corded muscle. Now that she mentioned it, he supposed he had trimmed down and bulked out a bit.

“Oh, Kit, it is so good to see you and have you back safe and sound. I’ve been worried about you. Where have you been, anyway?”

“You won’t believe the half of it,” Kit replied. “I’m not entirely sure I believe all of it myself.” He fell silent, thinking about where to start, or even how to begin to frame an explanation.

“Well?” she said after a moment. “Are you going to keep a girl in suspense?”

“No-no, I don’t mean to, it’s just… I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well,” she said, “the last time I saw you, Burleigh was hot on your tail. He chased you and Giles out of the city, and you made for the river.” She went on to describe the chain of events as she knew them. “Giles is okay, by the way. The bullet did no irreparable harm, and as soon as he could move, I took him home. He should be good as new very soon, if not already.”

“Good. I’m glad he’s okay,” mused Kit, and explained how he had come under gunfire but found the ley and made the jump, landing in the place Mina had told him about. “But the time was all off, and I ended up in what I guess you could call the Stone Age.”

“That would explain the fur trousers.”

“I was found and, well, more or less adopted by a tribe of peopleRiver City Clan, I call them. They live in this enormous gorge-”

“The one I’ve visited,” surmised Mina.

“The same one, but in a different time-far different. Anyway, they are the most amazing people. They don’t speak much-they have a very limited vocabulary. They communicate mainly by a sort of telepathy-kind of like a mental radio.”

Wilhelmina gave him a sideways glance.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “I could hardly believe it the first time it happened. But one of them, this incredibly old chieftain called En-Ul-he’s a master at it, and he taught me how to-”

He stopped walking-so abruptly that Wilhelmina took two more steps without him. She turned, and he blurted, “Mina, I’ve been to the Well of Souls.”

“You what?”

“The Spirit Well,” Kit said, his voice ringing in the empty plaza. “I’ve been there, Mina-I know how to find it.”