ghost still haunted Finn. Although it happened less often, there were still nights when he awoke with a vision of a single shoe or a bloody sheet, or the taste of damp earth filling his mouth and nose.
‘It’s called post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD,’ Father Jerome had told him. ‘You’re having what are known as “flashbacks”. It’s hard to control their frequency, and the triggers are often quite unpredictable. PTSD is common among soldiers who’ve seen action. After the First World War they called it “shell-shock”. No-one understood it then, but we’re making some progress. If it continues, you may be able to learn to control it, but there’s no cure as such.’
On the Feast of Saint Benedict, Finn went to the chapel for the first time. There had been no pressure to attend, but he felt that it was a mark of respect to honour the founder of the Order. It was also Open Day at the monastery, and his parents arrived after lunch. They were pleased to see him so much calmer. He was still thin and had become a little stooped from his work in the garden, but they saw there was a new, outdoors toughness in his body, and a healthy ruddiness in his cheeks.
‘Time to come home?’ enquired his mother hopefully.
Finn was evasive. He had a plan, and needed to discuss it with Father Jerome. ‘I’ll stay a while yet,’ he replied. ‘I have to help Kevin prepare the winter garden.’
‘Whatever you think best, darling.’ His mother was in her mid-seventies and the events of the last six months had sapped her strength. ‘Just ring us when you’re ready.’
His father clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you so much better, son.’
Finn made an appointment to see Father Jerome the next day. He dressed carefully, and felt a churning in his gut as he entered the abbot’s room.
Father Jerome put down his pen and looked up as Finn, red-faced and a little flustered, took his customary seat facing the painting of Saint Benedict that hung behind the abbot’s desk.
‘Good morning, Finbar.’
Finn had rehearsed the moment and finally decided that it was best to just say what he wanted without preamble. After briefly returning the greeting, he plunged in: ‘Father Jerome, I’d like to become a Benedictine.’ He beamed. ‘Like you,’ he added, unnecessarily.
Jerome sighed. He’d been afraid of this: Finbar’s mother had warned him that her son was inclined to exaggerated gestures, so he proceeded warily. He didn’t want the work of the last months undone. ‘Now, why do you say that, my son?’
‘Because I want to be like you. And Father Boniface. Or even Brother Kevin.’
‘Why do you think we’re here, Finbar?’
‘Because . . . because, you know . . . like Kevin says, you’ve been called.’
‘Have you been called, Finbar?’
‘I think so—how can I tell?’
‘You know, all right.’ Jerome returned to the original question. ‘You haven’t really answered me, Finbar. Why do you think we’re here? What is our purpose?’
‘You help people like me?’
‘Not as many as you might imagine.’
‘You live a good life.’
‘That’s possible anywhere.’
‘You work. Kevin has his garden. Timothy has his infirmary. Ambrose has his wine-making. Boniface has . . .’ What did Boniface have? Finn felt he was on shifting ground. ‘Well. Boniface is Boniface.’
‘Boniface is a rarity—a truly holy man. The rest of us, Finbar, are trying. Our main work here is our relationship with God. You’ve seen the Latin inscription at the entrance to the chapel? Orare est laborare, laborare est orare. It means: To pray is to work and to work is to pray. Prayer is the centre of our lives. That’s what it’s all about. Prayer. Do you pray, Finbar? You rarely come to the chapel.’
Finn hung his head miserably. ‘I’m not a believer, Father. You know that.’
Jerome smiled. ‘Then there’d be many times during the day when you’d have real trouble being a Benedictine.’ His voice sobered. ‘Look, when you came here, your condition was acute; now you’re in the chronic phase, and you have to learn to cope with life again. You won’t recover yourself here, Finbar. This isn’t a place to hide from life. We’ve done as much as we can. You’re strong enough now. It’s time you thought of leaving.’
Stricken, Finn returned to his cottage and looked around at the sparse furniture, his blue coffee mug, his few books, and the plain white bedspread visible through the open door of the bedroom. Out of the window, he could see a honeyeater