Pilgrim’s Gait. David Craig

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      Daoud called out in a high voice, “May it be so. Christ is risen!

      “Truly,” Tom added, perhaps, it seemed to me, because he had learned to do as much. He certainly didn’t seem moved by any noticeable enthusiasm when he said it. Struck me as odd. Cultish behavior? “We do want to be ready to greet Him when He comes,” he added.

      “Speak it, brother,” said Jean-Michele.

      “You and Rich can throw open your windows,” said Ted. “Just in case He comes tonight; stick your feet out to stay alert. Let us know.”

      Rich smiled—a quiet one.

      “I think I’ll just keep my candle lit,” said Nick with a grin, crawling cozily under his several covers.

      “That’s okay by me,” said Jean-Michele as he pulled out his double eye-patch sleeping mask, put it on. (Everybody seemed to take delight in his wearing this.)

      “What are you doing here? That’s what I want to know,” joked Tom. More laughter.

      “Taking a vacation. Now if you don’t mind, l would like to get some sleep. Call for me at about 10ish, won’t you?”

      “Yes, your highness,” said Mickey. “Crumpets then, the morning paper?”

      “That will do.” Someone threw a book in his general direction. Jean-Michele lifted one wing of his eye-patch. “Rabble,” he sniffed, amid the last wave of laughter, groans.

      Things got quiet quickly—a hard day of work it looked like. And then, some time later, I saw Daoud get up in semi­darkness before a little icon of Christ that he had apparently placed on his dresser. He prayed there quietly out of some book for a good fifteen minutes, turning the pages, rocking back and forth slightly as he read. Nick saw me watching him from across the room, winked in my direction.

      “You just never know about this place,” he whispered, smiling. Then he turned over, fell asleep.

      I had said nothing during the whole course of conversation. Wondered how well I would get to know these guys, what they would mean to me. As it turned out, most of them just passed through my life like so many others had before. They each left an impression, favorable mostly, and then were gone. The story of my life, anybody’s really, but the story of this place too, in a special sort of way. People came through all the time. Some would stay for a week, some for a month some for a year or two. Those who really liked it found “vocation,” stayed for what promised to be the rest of their lives. But for most of us, it was a matter of learning to enjoy the place, the people, and then having to leave it all behind.

      3.

      Morning came earlier than I would have been comfortable with. Six o’clock. And then the rush again. Dave assigned me a towel rack, a space, and I washed off as best I could. A quick pit job, like the others, a floss in Jean-Michele’s case. Some shampooed, everyone combed, brushed. Girls at breakfast, had to be. I liked Jean-Michele right off, a French Canadian who mistrusted everyone that wasn’t. “Free Que­bec,” I’d say when I passed him. He liked that.

      I piled, freezing, into the van with him and Nick, waited for the others. I asked what was next as Nick read: cold, ungloved fingers on his Bible.

      “You shall see, my crass American friend. Regimentation. It’s all designed to keep us from the girls,” smoke puffing in front of the fried Frenchman, both of us stamping our feet.

      “You mean we don’t get to work with the women-folk? I’m againest it, I teail you,” I said, feigning spit. “We neaiver do that in Tennessee. Heck, my Aunt Jule, Uncle Bob, they met that way. Been married fer years. . . . Thaiy’re the same person, you know,” I said, tucking at him severally under the ribs.

      He looked at me as if my head were on backwards, said “Watch out for this one,” to Tom, who was just entering the van.

      “If Jean Michele doesn’t trust you, let me shake your hand,” he said with a huge grin.

      “Tainted,” I said, extended my hand, and soon we were all shuffling over, making room for the late arriving, stamping our cold feet.

      Once we were on the road I asked Nick what we would do first. “Not to worry. Just follow the crowd. Someone will always be around to direct you. A service of the place, I think,” he said flashing his big Ukrainian smile.

      “A nice change from the outside world,” added Tom. “We’ll load up the van for the farm first, then lauds in the chapel. After that, my favorite, breakfast,” (he smiled), “then work. They’ll probably send you to the farm. New people usually go there first.” I nodded, got the picture, breathed a white sigh. Work. I was agaienst it.

      I was going to say something to Nick, but he was back in his Bible again. Everyone was lulled to silence by the sound the bitter cold ground made as it tested the morning tires, as we backed out and onto the main road, the beautiful white countryside opening all up around us, freezing exhaust trailing like a small fugitive flag.

      At least four inches had fallen overnight; the trees were caked with luffs of snow, and the clear, cold pale blue early morning sky seemed, itself, frozen, breakable.

      When we got to the main compound, the van backed up to the kitchen door. The guys formed a line, and into the vehicle went cold, empty milk containers, a myriad of plastic buckets, wooden shelf beds for bread, two egg baskets, jugs and bottles.

      An attractive young aproned woman helped with things on her end. And judging by how cleanly both male and female embraced the new day, the humor that passed between them, I didn’t see any strain between the sexes. What had Jean-Michele been talking about?

      That finished, Greg, an artist, came over from his place in line, introduced himself.

      “Day one, eh? So how do you like the place so far?” he laughed. “Has anyone suggested the priesthood to you yet?” When I said no, he responded, “Just wait. I’m taking bets. We’ll keep track. If someone mentions it within three weeks, I win a buck.”

      “On you like a Woolworth’s suit, huh?”

      “My mother should be so persistent. Three different people this last week alone.” He lead, walking away from the house, into a brisk wind, tears forming, running horizontally on our wind-swept faces. Ice began forming on his beard.

      “What’s up now?” I asked, clapping my huge deerskin mitts.

      “Lauds.”

      “Does this mean we have to pray. Will people be watching?”

      “Yeah, can you believe that? Praying. Next thing you know, they’ll be telling us where to work, what we can eat. How did I get here? I don’t remember.”

      Walking between St. Paracletus and the orchard, we found ourselves joining others as we eventually turned right, past some outhouses, garages, a compost heap, shuffling our feet through the newly-fallen snow in the process. And at Greg’s pace, we passed a good deal of them, most of whom had smiles, a good word for him.

      “Geez, these people actually seem to like you. Have they talked to you yet?”

      “They see the collar,” he said, smiling grimly.

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