The path from his brother’s cottage wound down a hill, past a grotto and around the back of the monastery to the laundry room. Nat had nearly forgotten about the jeans and other clothes he had run through the washer and dryer earlier. Good thing Gus reminded him. He forgot things like that, his mind being cluttered with more important things. You could always get another pair of jeans, but where could you get an opalized skeleton? He smiled to himself at his joke. He stuffed the clothes into a plastic bag. Some of them were still damp, but they could dry in the car. As he passed his rented red Jeep parked outside the laundry room door, he threw the bag and his backpack in the back seat.
What was that? Had he seen someone over by the statue of St. Benedict? He stood a moment, watching. He guessed not. Not a person anyway. Around here it could have been a deer or raccoon or that fox that had been spotted by more than one person zigzagging out of the woods at dusk. He felt in his back pocket for his keys but decided not to lock the Jeep. Who would steal anything in a place like this anyway? A monastery? If you’re not safe here, you might as well give up. The end of the world was at hand. Repent, ye sinners, he joked to himself.
Better say goodbye to Sister Cleopha, he decided, hoping he’d find her cooking in the kitchen. And could she cook! He had seen her cache of herbs and spices and pieces of bark from Haiti, wrapped in linen pieces, tied with vine, stored in a tin in her kitchen. A pinch of this, a leaf of that enhanced every meal. She had done some traveling in her life, too, and enjoyed his stories. She spoke French. Besides she might have a leftover or two. He didn’t think he could take another Spaghetti-O and Sprite dinner with Gus. Nat disappeared in the side door of the monastery.

Fifteen minutes later he emerged looking fed and content and headed toward his Jeep. Peaceful place, he thought, stopping to look around. He had to admit it suited his brother’s personality. Gus liked nature and quiet. The contemplative life. Praying. Being helpful. Nat, himself, couldn’t take that for more than a day. Boring as cornmeal with nothing going on. Still, he stood a moment, smelling the wet earth, the cedars, listening. Somewhere an owl hooted. A dog barked in the distance. Something oinked in a tree above him, probably an opposum. Leaves rustled as a creature of the night slipped away. It might be that red fox, a vixen with kits. He heard it had a den nearby. Probably more animals than fox in a place like this. Might even be bear.

A brief flash of light caught his eye. It came from over near that place called the piggery, the old barn where the early nuns had raised pigs. Now, one of the nuns, a shy one called Sister Lucia, used it for drying and polishing gourds she grew for some reason or other. There seemed to be an awful lot of gourds around, hanging from trees, in baskets, sitting on tables, still growing on vines.

There was another quick flash. No, it seemed to be in that graveyard. Probably that old guy, Seamus, digging the grave for that nun who died. Suddenly, Nat felt guilty. He knew Gus was disappointed he wouldn’t stay for the funeral. Probably wanted him to hear his homily or just be in church for a change. Thinks I’m a heretic, maybe even a pagan from all the places I’ve been. He gave a lighthearted chuckle. Always wanting to get me back to the faith for the sake of Mom’s memory. Give it up, Gus. You and I just aren’t made from the same mold. We’ve got different blueprints. Mom knew that from the start.

Nevertheless, Nat’s conscience bothered him. Maybe he would wander over there. The old guy could tell Father Augustine that his brother had said a prayer, acted reverent. It wasn’t the same as praying in church, but it was a holy gesture. He didn’t feel like walking back up to the log cabin to see Gus again. Might have to eat one of those dried-out packaged tarts.

Instead of going out onto the path, Nat took a short cut, stumbling over a pile of Sister Lucia’s gourds behind the piggery. Everywhere you looked there were gourds. What were they for? What did she do with them?

He couldn’t see the flashing light anymore, but caught a glimpse of movement in the graveyard and went right over. He would put in an appearance, say a prayer and then get going to the airport, grab the next flight to Belize. Grab some gold.

“Hi, there,” he said, peering into the six-foot deep grave to see the figure huddled there. Huddled? What was this person doing? Nat realized immediately that he had startled this person who was now scrambling out of the hole, awkwardly but swiftly, and rushing right toward him.

“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Nat, confused and a little alarmed. Although Nat couldn’t see too well in the dark, he didn’t think he liked the person’s attitude. Holding up two fingers in a peace signal, Nat stepped back and turned, leaning into a run. But too late. The figure tackled him into the grave, threw him onto the earth, and, with a heavy duty flashlight, bashed his head again and again and again and again.