The Descent

Along  with  the  road  that   led  to  its  high  walls,  St.   Catherine's   was   falling  into disrepair.  De  l'Orme  had  listened  to  the  scandalized  abbot  tell  how  a  number  of  the monks  had  turned  idiorhythmic,  acquiring  property  in  the  now-abandoned  tourist village, eating meat, putting icons and mirrors  and  rugs  in  their  monastic  apartments. Such  corruption  led  to  disobedience,  of  course.  And  what  was  a  monastery  without obedience?  Even  the  shapeless  bramble  tree  in  St.  Catherine's  courtyard,  said  to  be Moses' burning bush, was dying.

De  l'Orme  drew  a  lungful  of  the  evening  breeze,  breathing  the  incense  like  oxygen. He  could  smell  an  almond  tree  nearby,  even  now,  in  winter.  Someone  was  growing  a small pot of basil. And there  was a sweet  odor, ever  so faint: the bodies of dead saints. Anthropologists  called  it  second  burial,  this  practice  of  disinterring  their  dead  after several  years  and adding the bones  and  skulls  of  monks  to  the  monastery's  collection. The  enamel   house  was   jokingly  called  the   University.   The   dead   go  on  teaching through their memory,  so went the tradition. And what will you  teach  them,  Thomas? de l'Orme wondered. Grace?  Forgiveness?  Or a warning against the darkness? Evening  vespers  was  beginning.  Remarkably,  a  caged  parakeet  had  been  allowed into  the  courtyard.  Its  song  matched  the  monks'  Kyrie  eleison,  the  notes  of  a  tiny angel.

At  moments  like  this,  de  l'Orme  longed  to  return  to  the  cloth,  or  at  least  to  the

hermit's cell. If you let it  be  just  as  it  was,  the  world  was  a  surfeit  of  riches.  Hold  still, and the entire universe  was your  lover. But it was too late for that.

Santos arrived  in  a  Jeep  that  rattled  on  the  corrugated  dirt.  He  disturbed  a  herd  of goats,  you  could  hear  the  bells  and  scurry  of  hooves.  De  l'Orme  listened.  Santos  was alone. His stride was powerful and wide.

The  parakeet  stopped.  The  Kyrie  eleisons  did  not.  De  l'Orme  let  him  find  his  own way.

After  a  few  minutes,  Santos  put  his  head  inside  de  l'Orme's  chamber.  'There  you are,' he said.

'Come in,' said de l'Orme. 'I didn't know if you'd make it before nightfall.'

'Here I am,' said Santos. 'And look, you have  our supper. I brought nothing.'

'Sit, you must be tired.'

'It was a long trip,' Santos admitted.

'You've  been busy.'

'I came as quickly as I could. Is  he buried, then?'

'Today. In the cemetery.'

'It was good?'

'They  treated  him as one of their own. He would have  been pleased.'

'I didn't like him much. But you loved him, I know. Are  you all right?'

'Certainly,'  said  de  l'Orme.  He  made  himself  rise  and  opened  his  arms  and  gave Santos  an  embrace.  The  smell  of  the  younger  man's  sweat  and  the  barren  Mosaic desert  was good. Santos had the sun trapped  in his pores, it seemed.

'He led a full life,' Santos sympathized.

'Who  knows  what  more  he  might  have  discovered?'  said  de  l'Orme.  He  gave  the broad  back  a  tap  and  they   parted   the   embrace.   De  l'Orme   sat   carefully   on  his three-legged  wooden  stool.  Santos  lowered  his  satchel  to  the  floor  and  took  the  stool de l'Orme had arranged on the far side of the table.

'And now? Where do we go from here?  What do we do?'

'Let's eat,' said de l'Orme. 'We can discuss tomorrow over  our meal.'

'Olives.  Goat  cheese.  An  orange.  Bread.  A  jug  of  wine,'  Santos  said.  'All  the  makings for a Last  Supper.'

'If  you  wish  to  mock  Christ,  that's  your  business.  But  don't  mock  your  food,'  de l'Orme said. 'You don't need to eat if you're not hungry.'

'Just a little joke. I'm famished.'

'There  should  be  a  candle,  too,'  said  de  l'Orme.  'It  must  be  dark.  But  I  had  no matches.'

'It's still twilight,' said Santos. 'There's  light enough. I prefer  the atmosphere.'

'Then pour the wine.'

'What  could  have  brought  him  here,  I  wonder,'  said  Santos.  'You  told  me  Thomas had finished with the search.'

'It's clear now, Thomas was never  going to be finished with the search.'

'Was  there  something  here  he  was  looking  for?'  De  l'Orme  could  hear   Santos's puzzlement.  He  was  really  asking  why  de  l'Orme  had  instructed  him  to  come  all  this way.

'I thought at first he had come for the Codex Sinaiticus,' de  l'Orme  answered.  Santos would know that the Codex was one of  the  oldest  manuscripts  of  the  New  Testament. It  totaled  three  thousand  volumes,  only  a  few  of  which  still  remained  in  this  library.

'But now I think otherwise.'

'Yes?'

'I believe  Satan lured him here,' de l'Orme answered.

'Lured him? How?'

'Perhaps with his presence. Or a message. I don't know.'

'He  has  a  sense  of  theater,  then,'  Santos  remarked  between  bites  of  food.  'The

mountain of God.'

'So it appears.'

'You're not hungry?'

'I have  no appetite tonight.'