At the Gates Read online

At the Gates

  by Judith Lesley Marshall

  Copyright 2013 Judith Lesley Marshall

  At the Gates

  You remember the day you became a servant of the Lord. It was twilight, the time when the hours of light give way to the hours of darkness. You chose this time to pass through the gates to escape the darkness of your life. Perhaps things would have turned out differently if you had waited for dawn. Perhaps then you might have found comfort in a life of solitude and prayer. You did not foresee that this sanctuary would become a prison.

  You became accustomed to the peace and quiet and found solace in the birdsong. Birdsong and the flicker of candles soothed your troubled mind. You filled your pockets with candle stubs to burn in the silence of your cell at night. Candlelight to remind you of the night you spent under the stars with your brother. You wonder what has become of him since. Perhaps he went back to make sure that your bully of a father was dead. You vowed never to return. But you are letting your mind wander when you should be focussed on prayer.

  ∞

  You did not think it would be hard to pray eight times a day. You did not consider that the services were held every three hours and that this meant that you would have to learn to survive on broken sleep.

  'From this day forth your life is set by the bells that signal the time for prayer.'

  The Superior's words of greeting resonate in your mind as the bells sound the end of lauds. That statement should have warned you that your life was to become an endless cycle of prayers: matins at midnight, followed by lauds, prime, terce, sext, none, vespers, compline and round to matins again. You used to chant the names in your cell at night. Chant them to pass the hours. Chant them to numb the thoughts which crept out of the recesses of your mind when you were alone in the dark. Alone except for the flickering of the candle, chanting to calm your breathing.

  'Your every breath is a prayer.'

  Another echo of the Superior laying down a whole host of rules: 'from today you will obey God's will. You will call me Superior and obey me in all things. You will follow the examples set by the monks and consider yourself inferior to all others. You will sleep in a separate cell. You will sleep in your habit so as to be ready to rise without delay. You will not speak until spoken to. You will speak in moderation, simply and modestly. You will follow the Divine Office, join the choir and learn to sing and chant in praise of God. You will confine your walks to within the monastery boundaries. You will not go beyond the gates without my permission. You will confess your sins and be punished for your faults and misdemeanours, including being late for prayers. I am your father now.'

  ∞

  Brother Anselm was the one who took you under his wing when you first came here. He showed you around the buildings and the grounds, helped you to find your bearings and introduced you to the herb garden. You felt safe within its walls and often stole out at night to breathe in the scent of the lavender hedges. You would listen to the owls hooting and hunting, gaze up at the stars and feel at peace with the world. Alone in the garden, you could forget who you were and what you had done and be at one with the Lord.

  My soul waits for the Lord,

  More than watchmen wait for the morning.

  During the day, between services, Brother Anselm instructed you in the care of plants. He taught you how to recognise them, when to feed and water them, when to harvest them, how to dry and store them. The day he told you about the darker side of some of the plants was a revelation. That was the day you became fascinated with their medicinal properties, their potential to kill or cure. You spent your spare time learning Brother Anselm's recipes by heart until you could recite them more accurately than any of the prayers or psalms. You spent many hours in what you came to think of as the poison garden and were careful to wear gloves. Brother Anselm was most insistent about wearing gloves.

  The foxgloves captivated you. They were more of a weed than a plant, grew at an amazing rate and produced pink and white bells. You learnt about their dark side also. Brother Anslem said that it was not plants that were dangerous, but the person handling them. Plants were neither good nor evil but could become so in the hands of the herbalist. It was his responsibility to treat them with respect, to measure doses accurately, to be conscious of his purpose. He allowed you to prepare incense for the altar, but only when he was present. He kept you under close supervision by day, but at night you stole out to the garden to spread your seed. This was your way of nurturing the herbs, of making them your own.

  ∞

  It was cold and damp on the night of Brother Anselm's death. Your robe steamed during prime. You ran two fingers around the cowl of the hood to ease it away from your neck. You felt that it was choking you. You thought that coming here would give you a better life, and it did for a while, but everything changed when Brother Anselm died.

  The Superior suspected you of poisoning him but you were only following orders. After all, as he always said,

  'Everything you do, you do for God.'

  Brother Anselm told you that the Lord would not wish him to suffer any longer. He told you what to add to the tisane to bring him relief from months of pain which he could no longer endure. You were not the cause of his death. His illness was. You did what the Lord would have done. You brought him mercy. You did not kill him. You never killed anyone. Not even your own father whose death you had wished for many a time. You may be the reason why he fell over but it was the drink that killed him.

  ∞

  You should have left when you were given the opportunity. After Brother Anselm's funeral the Superior suggested you might want to leave the monastery, at least for a while, go with the shepherd monks and look after the sheep. But you chose to remain and look after the garden. That was the day you gave the Superior control of your life. You did not know he would never give you permission to go beyond the gates again.

  How often have you called on the Lord to help you since?

  Why have you forsaken me O LORD?

  Why are you so far from saving me?

  Why does he not hear your prayer? Is he deaf or blind? No. It is you who can neither see nor hear. The answer is before you, every time you think of Brother Anselm.

  'Never harvest or use any plant you cannot identify. Never use a plant whose properties you are not absolutely sure of. And always wear gloves.'

  He taught you whether to use the leaves, fruit or bark of a plant. He told you whether or not it could be eaten or taken internally. He warned you to sue them in moderation and not to use them over extended periods of time. He explained which would cause allergic reactions or irritation to the skin or eyes, and which would be fatal if given in the wrong dosage. He labelled everything with its harvest date and Latin name. He made you learn the names until you could recite them by heart: arnica, digitalis, filipendula, hyssopus, lavendula, stachys, urtica, vitex and so on. Over and over again he drummed into you,

  'Everything on earth that can heal can also harm.'

  Digitalis. That was the answer. Digitalis was Brother Anselm's way. Now it would be yours.

  ∞

  That night you lit all the candle stubs in your possession and used the heat of their flames to prepare the tisane. It seemed to take forever to brew. You kept dipping your finger in to test the temperature and settled for luck warm. It tasted acrid. You tried to gulp it down rather than sip it and fought your stomack to prevent it retching everything back up. Still you could not empty the bowl. You left the dregs and lay down to await the sleep of peace.

  Minutes later you were bent double, oozing sweat and shaking with cold. You tried to reach the bucket to be sick but ended up on the floor on all fours, voiding the contents of your body from both ends. Just when you thought it would never end the world went
black.

  You passed out but you did not die. That is you did not pass over to the other side. Instead you woke up to find yourself still here on earth. Not in heaven. Not in your physical body but somewhere in between. Trapped there until the end of time.

  ∞

  Now you mark the passage of time by the appearance of foxgloves every two years. The monastic community ceased long ago but you keep their timetable. The hours for the services chime through you like tinnitus. You internalised the prayer rhythms during the years when the bells still rang. You keep vigil all night in the garden and complete the prayer cycle in the ruins of the chapel. You like to think that you continue the ritual to preserve the memory of the Brothers but, in truth, it provides a way of getting through the day. After none you spend time at the gates. You look through the bars and witness changes in the outside world.

  Where once there were fields, now there are houses. Soon they will encroach on the monastery walls. You wonder when they will start to spring up within the walls. You wonder what will happen to you then? You cannot pass beyond the boundaries. Not without the Superior's permission. You chant a psalm as you wait for the Lord to call you,

  LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary?

  He whose walk is blameless.

  ###

  About the Author

  Judith Lesley Marshall was born in Bishop Auckland, County Durham. She works as a freelance writing coach and co-ordinates arts/heritage projects across the North East of England.

  Judith believes in the importance of artist dates for keeping the creative wheel turning. At the Gates was inspired by a visit to the Poison Garden at Alnwick Castle in Northumberland.