glowers,” I said.
“At times, so do I.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it’s a concerned sort of glower, and you’re a nun.”
“And he’s a spiritual pilgrim.”
“We have proof you’re a nun, but we only have his word about what he is.”
“Have you seen bodachs following him around?”
“Not yet.”
Sister Angela frowned, short of a glower, and said, “He’s been kind to us here at the school.”
“I’m not accusing Mr. Romanovich of anything. I’m just curious about him.”
“After Lauds, I’ll speak to Abbot Bernard about the need for vigilance in general.”
Lauds is morning prayer, the second of seven periods in the daily Divine Office that the monks observe.
At St. Bartholomew’s Abbey, Lauds immediately follows Matins—the singing of psalms and readings from the saints—which begins at 5:45 in the morning. It concludes no later than 6:30.
I switched off the computer and got to my feet. “I’m going to look around some more.”
In a billow of white habit, Sister Angela rose from her chair. “If tomorrow is to be a day of crisis, I’d better get some sleep. But in an emergency, don’t hesitate to call me on my cell number at any hour.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The world turns and the world changes. Nuns with cell phones.”
“An easy thing to get your mind around,” she said. “Easier than factoring into your philosophy a fry cook who sees dead people.”
“True. I guess the equivalent of me would actually be like in that old TV show—a flying nun.”
“I don’t allow flying nuns in my convent,” she said. “They tend to be frivolous, and during night flight, they’re prone to crashing through windows.”
When I returned from the basement computer room, no bodachs swarmed the corridors of the second floor. Perhaps they were gathered over the beds of other children, but I didn’t think so. The place felt clean of them.
They might have been on the third floor, where nuns slept unaware. The sisters, too, might be destined to die in an explosion.
I couldn’t go uninvited onto the third floor, except in an emergency. Instead I went out of the school and into the night once more.
The meadow and the surrounding trees and the abbey upslope still waited to be white.
The bellied sky, the storm unborn, could not be seen, for the mountain was nearly as dark as the heavens and reflected nothing on the undersides of the clouds.
Boo had abandoned me. Although he likes my company, I am not his master. He has no master here. He is an independent agent and pursues his own agenda.
Not sure how to proceed or where to seek another clue of what had drawn the bodachs, I crossed the front yard of the school, moving toward the abbey.
The temperature of blood and bone had fallen with the arrival of the bodachs; but malevolent spirits and December air, together, could not explain the cold that curled through me.
The true source of the chill might have been an understanding that our only choice is pyre or pyre, that we live and breathe to be consumed by fire or fire, not just now and at St. Bartholomew’s, but always and anywhere. Consumed or purified by fire.
The earth rumbled, and the ground shivered underfoot, and the tall grass trembled though no breeze had yet arisen.
Although this was a subtle sound, a gentle movement, that most likely had not awakened even one monk, instinct said earthquake. I suspected, however, that Brother John might be responsible for the shuddering earth.
From the meadow rose the scent of ozone. I had detected the same scent earlier, in the guesthouse cloister, passing the statue of St. Bartholomew offering a pumpkin.
When after half a minute the earth stopped rumbling, I realized that the primary potential for fire and cataclysm might not be the propane tank and the boilers that heated our buildings. Brother John, at work in his subterranean retreat, exploring the very structure of reality, required serious consideration.
I hurried to the abbey, past the quarters of the novitiates, and south past the abbot’s office. Abbot Bernard’s personal quarters were above the office, on the second floor.
On the third floor, his small chapel provided him with a place for private prayer. Faint lambent light shivered along the beveled edges of those cold windows.
At 12:35 in the morning, the abbot was more likely to be snoring than praying. The trembling paleness that traced the cut lines in the glass must have issued from a devotional lamp, a single flickering candle.
I rounded the southeast corner of the abbey and headed west, past the last rooms of the novitiate, past the chapter room and the kitchen. Before the refectory, I came to a set of stone stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, a single bulb revealed a bronze door. A cast bronze panel above this entrance bore the Latin words LIBERA NOS A MALO.
Deliver us from evil.
My universal key unlocked the heavy bolt. Pivoting silently on ball-bearing hinges, the door swung inward, a half-ton weight so perfectly balanced that I could move it with one finger.
Beyond lay a stone corridor bathed in blue light.
The slab of bronze swung shut and locked behind me as I walked to a second door of brushed stainless steel. In this grained surface were embedded polished letters that spelled three Latin words: LUMIN DE LUMINE.
Light from light.
A wide steel architrave surrounded this formidable barrier. Inlaid in the architrave was a twelve-inch plasma screen.
Upon being touched, the screen brightened. I pressed my hand flat against it.
I could not see or feel the scanner reading my fingerprints, but I was nonetheless identified and approved. With a pneumatic hiss, the door slid open.
Brother John says the hiss is not an inevitable consequence of the operation of the door. It could have been made to open silently.
He incorporated the hiss to remind himself that in every human enterprise, no matter with what virtuous intentions it is undertaken, a serpent lurks.
Beyond the steel door waited an eight-foot-square chamber that appeared to be a seamless, wax-yellow, porcelain vessel. I entered
