Gifts from the Past

Did you think I'd gone away? No. When I'm quiet is when you know I'm truly here in the Abbey. The Abbess must have known exactly what I needed when she gave me this cell so near the garden and so far from the books. The stillness in the halls and under the trees renews my soul. I never mind the long walk to the library, because it's then I'm able to examine the art on the stone walls and hidden in little niches along the way.

The hidden ones are the ones that soon become precious to me and when I stand and study them in the dim light, in the shadows, time slows down. I sometimes wonder if I've become invisible to the people who are rushing past, they don't seem to see me, although some stop for a moment as if they sense my presence.

I found something hidden in the library, too. There's a special drawer; I can't tell you exactly where, I think novices have to find it for themselves. Maybe it doesn't even stay in the same place all the time, but moves about of its own free will.

Now you're laughing and saying I need to get out more!

But, no--look what I found! The drawer has scraps of paper left by previous residents of the Abbey as gifts to us. Here are things they wanted to pass on to us, lessons learned, perhaps, even wisdom.

Do you know of a poet named Kabir? I did not. Here's what he says.

My brother kneels (so saith Kabir)
To stone and brass in heathen-wise
But in my brother's voice I hear
My own unanswered agonies.
His God is as his fate assign--
His prayer is all the world’s and mine.
Kabir

Tradition of Gargoyles

Many tales have been told about the Cathedral of Notre Dame, some true, some not. I leave it to you to determine if there is any truth to this story of how its famous gargoyles came to be.

When Pope Alexander III laid the foundation stone in 1163, he admonished all who worked on the cathedral to dedicate their labors to the glory of God and to the Blessed Virgin. And so it was for many years, as a generation of masons and stone cutters, haulers and finishers worked together in harmony toward a common goal. As the building progressed, artists and sculptors chipped away elbow to elbow on scaffolds etching stories of the Bible onto giant archways through which the faithful would pass. Stain glass artisans designed tracery patterns, mixed in oxides and layered liquid colors until they'd created windows as delicate as lacework

When at last the cathedral neared completion, word went out for master sculptors to create the crowning glory of the church, angels that would line the high gallerie connecting the two main towers. The greatest artists from all of France came to Paris to set up shop bringing with them the tools of their trade along with wide-eyed apprentices awed by the sights of the teeming city.

Parisian girls lined up outside workshops eager to offer their beauty for the honor of being immortalized in stone. Those who were chosen soon became vain; those who were turned away, envious. As the deadline drew near, sculptors worked late into the night, models fainted from fatigue, apprentices averted their eyes from the troubling flutter of wings cast by candlelight and lanterns. People argued about who was the greatest beauty, and wine-filled husbands' and suitors' exchanged angry words that spilled over into fist fights and duels.

On the appointed day, apprentices padded wagons with straw and wrapped the angels in blankets and sheep's wool. As individual carts left workshops and wended their way through the streets of the Ile de la Cite, artist recognized fellow artist and each hurled insults to the other, models stole furtive glances at their rivals and turned away in scorn, apprentices who usually gave mutual support, traded obscene gestures.

In the square in front of the cathedral, a huge crowd waited near a stage to judge the finest statue, the greatest sculptor, the most beautiful woman. Hawkers sold meat pies and drink, cut-throats picked pockets. While priests looked on, wondering how things had gone so wrong, men and women placed bets on the winners.

Dark clouds began filling the blue sky, and some offered a quick prayer that rain would not ruin the festivities, but most folk were too distracted to notice. The sculptors arranged their statues and models on the stage and waited, ready to unveil as soon as the word was given. A few drops of rain fell and several of the men swore. The models looked up worriedly and primped their hair.

The day grew dim with mist and drizzle. Carefully coiffed curls began to droop. The judges finally gave a nod and, as though one, the artists removed the covering cloths to reveal their treasures. Gasps of pleasure and awe escaped the crowd as they looked at granite and marble worked so skillfully the figures might have been breathing. Features so perfectly mirrored the live models that, but for the color of the stone, they might have been twins. Tendrils of hair curled just as on the live girls, arms stretched forth with slender fingers and nails polished to a shine. Sandaled feet appeared ready to take a step.

And the wings! None had ever seen wings conveyed with such precision and grace. Some were completely unfurled, some wrapped about like a cloak. An enormous angel had one sweet bare foot in front and one behind her, as if she'd just come to earth with the wind still in her wings. Feathers made of stone, and all bore a delicacy bordering on transparency.

Some people in the crowd had tears in their eyes at the extraordinary display of beauty.

The sky grew darker and rain fell steadily. The stone figures gleamed, becoming more beautiful. The models became ugly, angry with their dripping hair and bedraggled dresses. As the visibility decreased the crowd pushed forward. The weak and the unlovely were ignored or shoved back, a few fell and were trampled, but no one reached down to help, so mesmerized were they by the beauty before them. A small knot of people dropped to their knees and worshipped the alighting statue. Others knelt to its creator.

Young women who'd been rejected by the sculptors jeered and laughed at the models in their distress. Someone threw a ripe tomato. More were thrown as the rain poured down and the thunder rolled in. Most of the crowd was kneeling now, eyes closed, as they worshipped the statue and the sculptor, all oblivious to the jagged slashes of lightening piercing the sky between thunderclaps. A lone priest, black robes soaked and clinging to his legs, ran about trying to make himself heard but no one listened, no one heard.

Scattered about were a few who had resisted the frenzy, mostly the old and the disabled, or those blessed souls who'd never had beauty and knew how fleeting and false it could be. One of them shouted above the storm, "Open your eyes and look!" and the crowd obeyed.

At first they saw nothing strange, then in a great, lingering, glare of lightening they noticed that the statues seemed not as big as they'd been. The tall, slender angels were shrinking. Pummeled by rain, granite and marble was slowly oozing down on itself like mud, torsos shortened, limbs became thick and stunted. Tender curls disappeared or twisted into grotesque ears and horns. Some angels kept an almost human form but one that mocked and taunted, others transformed into foolish or even hideous beasts. And as every face collapsed, sweet angel lips widened and gaped and spouted water.

The rain stopped as the people understood. Priests ministered to the injured and frightened, heard confessions and gave penances for months, but refused to write the story. The fallen angels were lifted high onto the gallerie and set there for all of Paris to see. Women went back to their husbands and suitors. Artists returned to their towns and villages and when they were asked to sculpt angels to top the ramparts of new churches or buildings, they declined, stating a tradition begun in Paris. A tradition of gargoyles.

Strange Music and Whispering Shells

I don't believe I ever mentioned the music before; I don't know if any one else hears it, at least not in the same way I do. It was one of the things I knew I'd miss most when I came to the Abbey. I listen to music all the time at home, mostly classical and opera, but hymns too, and stuff from the 50's and 60's, and ragtime, I really love ragtime.

The first time I noticed it was the day Oreo and I found the door leading down to the sea. That night I kept imagining I heard Debussey's La Mer, only I wasn't imagining it. It wasn't piped in and it wasn't a short refrain running through my head, it was the whole piece with full orchestra and it was beautiful. Later, after I got angry and ventured down the steps and into the cave, the sound of waves crashing beneath my window and the music of Fingal's Cave by Mendelsohn haunted my dreams all night long reminding me of how my day had gone and the lessons I'd learned.

Although I didn't bring anything tangible back from that frightening excursion, the seashell Tookie gifted me with is still tucked into the niche in the window ledge. I can hear the sea, of course, when I hold it to my ear, but sometimes I think I hear a woman's voice whispering. I've tried telling myself it's my imagination. I really don't want to go down those dark, slippery steps again.

I can't ignore it any longer. The Abbey's a quiet and serene place. We're not bothered by a lot of distractions here, but some news does leak in. I found out today that Winnie's started a section called Fantasy Cove. That has to be it! The doorway right down my hallway leads directly down to Fantasy Cove! My instincts told me there was something otherworldly about that cave and beach.

I'm usually glad to leave the thrill seeking to others; I'm more apt to seek serenity of spirit and a means to pursue my faith and art than to go off looking for excitement but, I've been here long enough to know the Abbey does many strange things, and none of them by accident.

The whispers in the shell are louder today and more distinct. Whoever she is, she has a strange and exotic accent. I think she's trying to tell me her name. I know she's saying, "Free me!"

Mea Culpa

My understanding of the Abbey changes daily and I am now debased of the foolish notion of ease and perfection. Yesterday and today have been terrible days for me. My faults, sins, shortcomings, whatever I or anyone else choose to call them, have tumbled down on me like pots and pans from an overfull cupboard.

Writing ideas have appeared in tangled masses and have refused to unsnarl no matter how much I work on them. The beautiful manuscript page, so clear in my mind, lies in physical ruins, due to impatience and lack of focus. And the worst of it, my cell window is once again small, high and unreachable. It still lets in the light, but denies me the beautiful view of the sea that was mine for so short a time.

Two nights ago, after having shared the beauty of a lingering sunset with Oreo and Tookey, I rested in my cell content to read and eager to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the joys and miracles of the week. Before bed, I climbed the chair one more time, leaned my elbows on the sill and took deep breaths of the cool salty air. An inky blue sky above me was sprinkled with stars and the full moon laid a milky white path on the calm sea. I did not think anything could be more beautiful.

The following morning I arose early, determined to hurry through work in order to make my way down to the lovely beach just visible beneath me. Oreo left, Tookey soon flew off, and envious of their freedom, I found myself unable to concentrate on my journal. Curious about the new members of the Abbey, I wondered if I might meet one or two of them on the beach. A longing for the ocean convinced me that my promise to write and draw every day was unrealistic.

Still the promise had been made, so I took out my manuscript page and began to ink over the sketched letters. In my hurried state a slight imperfection blossomed into a major mistake when I tried to thicken a line I'd drawn too thin. Like a haircut gone awry, each attempt I made to repair one part made the rest look out of synch.

Finally I gave up; there was no way to salvage the page. Disgusted with myself for choosing a project so far beyond my limited ability, I decided to abandon the entire idea and try for something simpler. But not right then. The day had treated me cruelly, the Abbey had disappointed me, and the talent of the other artists had robbed me of my self-confidence.

I didn't bother putting my drawing things away, just stomped out, leaving the room a mess and made my way down the long row of doors until I came to the one leading down to the sea. It had opened so easily the day before, but this time it wouldn't budge and I thought it had been locked again. I tugged and pulled, stubborn and determined to open it and get my reward for the abominable way I'd been treated.

I nearly fell over backwards when it finally let go. Inside, the stairwell seemed darker than the last time and colder. I wished Oreo had come with me. I remembered the unpleasant feel of the damp walls from before but, without a railing to guide me, I had to hold on to something as I descended the uneven stone steps which were slick with moss and slime.

I started counting them after about two ordinary flights, they seemed to have no end, and the way never got brighter or warmer. I arrived at the bottom at eighty-seven and found myself in a bleak cave with crabs scrabbling about my feet and the stink of rotting sea weed and dead fish in my nostrils. The ocean was gray and as angry as the black clouds that littered the sky. A cold wind was whipping up the waves and, with an ungodly screech, a gull flew into the cave. I put up my arms to protect myself from the huge wings as they came straight toward my face, then turned and fled back up the stairs slipping and sliding all the way.

Shaking with fear and cold, I slammed the horrible door behind me and ran to my room where light poured in as bright and sunny as when I had left but from a small, high, unreachable window.

It was too much. I couldn't stay alone in my cell, not then. My head pounded as I headed to the garden and I offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving when I found it in the same spot, bathed in sunlight, sparrows twittering in the quince trees, a cluster of sulphur butterflies fluttering over a bed of marigolds.

I sat down wearily on one of the benches and noticed how filthy my brown robe was; there was a tear near the hem, and my shinbone was aching. I must have fallen coming up the steps and not even been aware of it. At last, I took a deep breath to calm and center myself and noticed an unpleasant odor coming from the plant nearest me. The bluish-green leaves were attractive, but they were definitely the source of the smell. "Rue," the marker read, "often called the herb of grace or the herb of repentance."

It sank in after a bit and I slowly realized I'd been the cause of everything that had befallen me. I listed all the faults I'd been guilty of: impatience, lack of focus, envy, self-pity, willingness to go back on a promise, demanding instant gratification, comparing myself to others, stubbornness, anger, lack of perseverance and, perhaps worst of all, a lack of gratitude for the gift of my own talent.

Seeking to quiet my troubled spirit, I took out my Bible, turned to Psalm 94 and read, "When I said, 'My feet slippeth;' thy mercy held me up. In the multitude of my thoughts within me, Thy comforts delight my soul."

Miracles

My first week in the Abbey passed quickly and, some would say, uneventfully. I worked, slept, ate, meditated in the cloistered garden and read snatches of the herb book in the evenings. The time, however, was full of subtle and unexpected miracles.

I soon became accustomed to the fact that day or night, whether writing in my journal, or working on a manuscript page, the light from that small, unreachable window was always perfect, then just when I'd reach a point where I determined the day had lasted long enough, the light would slowly become dimmer, soft shadows would fall, and within half an hour I'd be asleep in the welcoming darkness.

I continued to leave the door to my cell open, although I'd already given up the idea of catching the person who delivered my meals. Oreo roamed whenever and wherever he wished, always returning in a pleasant mood ready to butt heads with me and purr in my ear, and, of course, always ready to eat.

On the third day I decided to give Tookey a bath. I opened her cage and after pouring some water from the pitcher into the basin I gave her my arm and lowered her in until she stepped off. Usually timid with anything new, she immediately plunged her head into the water and splashed it onto her chest. In an instant she was thrashing both wings in wild abandon and screeching in delight. I added water three more times before she was satisfied and by then I was almost as wet as she was.

"You are beautiful," I told her, although there's nothing quite as ugly as a wet parrot. Most of her primary feathers had turned brown and her fluffy pin feathers stuck out in fierce spikes. Her orange and black eyes dilated with excitement. I put her on top of her cage in the sun and left her door open so she could go in when she wanted. Just as I took a step away, she unfolded her wings and gave a huge shake, showering me again in the process.

The pitcher was nearly empty, as was the basin. All the water was on the bird, on me, or the floor. I was drying things off when I noticed faint, pink rosebuds painted on the fluted rim of the basin. I checked the pitcher, sure enough, climbing up the handle, more roses. The set had been plain, unadorned white. I'd wondered why it was even in my cell when the shower was right down the hall. Could it have been meant for Tookey all along?

As puzzled as I was, I didn't give it another thought, because right then my soggy, old bird, who hadn't flown in years, gave a loud squawk and lunged and scrabbled her way up onto the window ledge. Totally unnerved, I pulled the chair over and climbed up to try and coax her down, but it was obvious she intended to settle in and stay right where she was.

I calmed down after awhile and resumed my writing. The Abbey, I reassured myself, was safe for all creatures, including middle aged parrots. Tookey stretched a wing now and again, rested, fluttered and preened until she was dry. Then she flew off.

The Abbey is full of paradoxes. At home I would have been unable to work, afraid for my pet's safety, here I simply did what was expected of me and trusted in God to do the rest. From time to time I'd look up to see if she had returned, but without any worry or concern, simply out of curiosity.

Lunch time came and went, still no Tookey. I took my usual afternoon break in the garden, hoping to see her perched in one of the quince trees and was disappointed to find she wasn't there either. I suddenly realized this was the first time I'd worried about anything since I'd come to the Abbey. I opened my pocket Bible to Matthew 6 and read about the lilies of the field and the birds of the air, reminding myself that God was taking care of all my needs (and Tookey's) and that I'd come to the Abbey to practice my writing and art in the context of my faith.

I drew for the rest of the day, abstract forms, stain glass possibilities, patterns, lines, shapes--straight and symmetrical, flowing loops and curves, and every one led me further into the contemplation of the majesty of creation and the wonder of the Creator. The movement of my hand became worship, my eyes adored, my voice praised, and all my heart gave thanks to God's awesome power.

I have no idea how long I worked (drew? prayed?) there is no clock in my cell and no way for me to judge the time, but eventually I felt weary and lay down on the bed to rest. I awoke, I think because I was hungry and smelled food. Evidently Tookey returned for the same reason.

I saw her up in the window when I brought in my dinner tray. As soon as I uncovered the plate of angel hair pasta, she swooped gracefully onto my shoulder and snuggled her face against mine. Her feathers were soft from the bath and had the scent of the open air. She would have been more than willing to eat directly from my plate but after a bit more nuzzling, I filled her dish with pasta and put it in her cage.

While she ate, I used my dinner knife to pry open the hinges to her cage door and remove it. Her cage was her home, as this cell was mine, but never would either door be locked again.

Oreo soon joined us and after we had finished eating, I again slid my chair over to the window, but this time with a difference. When I stood on it I could lean my arms on the sill and, for the very first time, look out. The view took my breath away. A pale blue sky with a cluster of clouds riding on the horizon met a glittering azure sea. Gulls called out and wheeled the heavens searching for fish. Waves crashed against rocks and tumbled onto the sandy shore beneath us.

Oreo leaped up and strolled the ledge a few times, then sat to one side and began to wash. Tookey flew from her cage, her green and yellow feathers more brilliant than I'd ever seen them, her orange epaulets sparkling like a firebird's. Retrieving something from a niche in the stone, she waddled toward me and presented it as a gift.

A small scallop shell. A sign of pilgrimage.

Work and Leisure

I tucked my new brown robe and sandals under my arm and went to find the showers, Oreo trotting along at my side as if he were a dog. It was a good thing the Abbess had given me the map, I'd never seen so many doors in my life and none of them marked.

When I returned to my cell, I read her note again. It was obvious I should get straight to work, equally as obvious she didn't want me to get distracted, but those doors were driving me crazy. "Most of the doors you pass will be locked." Did that mean don't bother, keep out, or have a look? The map showed the small portion of the monastery open to me. So, if some of the doors were unlocked, was that part unrestricted? I had thought the Abbey would offer clear cut insight, rules, and specifics, and yet it was giving me exactly what ordinary life offered, choices, contradictory advice, and confusing signals.

"So, I guess we're back to the "free will" thing again, huh, Lord?" I resolved to work diligently until I thought I deserved a break and then investigate. I left my own door open, hoping to, at least, get a nod from whomever delivered the meals.

There was no point trying to write, my mind was bubbling like an alchemist's cauldron. I emptied my tote bag on the bed and spread out the various papers I'd brought, made piles of pencils, markers and other drawing supplies.

Since I had nothing but a few pictures on the Internet to go by, I was at a loss as to how to begin. I had brought some lovely neutral colors, egg shell, cream, cocoa, and a brown. The idea was to enclose several of the pages of an unwanted book, covering them completely, and turn the new pages into a modern day illuminated manuscript.

I decided to make some templates before I started cutting anything. I'd packed in a hurry and forgotten to bring scrap paper, but the manila envelope that had held the paper would do.

"I have everything I need to begin," I murmured, recalling the Abbess's words.

I soon ran into a glitch, my paper wasn't long enough to fit, but as often happens with art, what doesn't follow the plan leads to something even better. I extended a cream colored sheet with chocolate brown ( vanilla and chocolate--of course! Why hadn't I thought of that?) which gave me a two-inch strip of rich brown near the binding. This would make my initial letter really pop!

"Lord make me an instrument of thy peace," the opening line of the St. Francis prayer was to go on my first page. I worked for hours, it seemed, on the "L" trying different sizes, shapes, drawing tools, until I finally decided to cut two elongated "S" shapes out of shiny gold paper, fit them together, then added a similar shape at the back of the letter to give it more character. I thought it might be a simple enough alphabet for me to use throughout the project, since lettering wasn't exactly my strong suit in art.

Satisfied that I was off to a good start, I looked around my little cell and took in the fact that I'd just arrived the day before and already I'd begun a project I'd been longing to tackle for months. The room's gray stone walls and minimal furnishings were not particularly inviting, but the bed, little more than a cot, had been blissfully comfortable and the light from that strange window had been perfect for my project so far. My curiosity got the better of me; there was nothing visible but blue sky, but I pulled the chair closer to the wall and climbed on it. Even standing on my toes the window was still way above my head.

The exercise felt good. I had no idea how long I'd worked, but my shoulders and legs needed stretching. I walked into the hall and tested the first door I came to; it was locked up tight. And the next and the next. For some reason I thought it might work better if I started from the far end and worked my way back. I was right, the second door opened with a creak and looked down on a dark and dusty stairwell. The sides of the walls were moist to the touch and I watched as Oreo stretched forward to sniff the damp, musty air.

"Smells like rotting piers and sea water to me. What do you think?"
I asked.

He appeared to give it some thought, then sauntered back into the hall.

"Well, that's good enough for me, some other time, perhaps. I'm not supposed to go off adventuring yet, but maybe next week we'll check it out. It doesn't smell sinister, just stinky. I didn't know we were near the ocean, but I bet you'd like it."

White-tipped tail held high, he trotted ahead a few doors and stopped.

"That one, huh?" The door opened quietly and easily as though its antique hinges had been recently oiled. I heard the sparrows first and then felt the warmth of a summer breeze. Oreo was already padding silently over the slate floors and heading into the garden before I even crossed the threshold. I'd seen pictures of cloisters with herb gardens in books but this was the first time I'd ever seen one in person and its beauty took my breath away.

The garden was enclosed on all four sides by a series of gracefully columned archways that connected to each other at a height perfectly designed for sitting. In Mediaeval times, this was where the monks or nuns would meet each other, work, read, and meditate.

Herbs needed for healing, and seasoning food were grown here. I wondered what else they might be used for and suddenly longed for a laptop. The Abbey must have a library where I could learn about them, I thought, and perhaps someone who could explain their uses and tell me the legends associated with them. I walked the pathways slowly, grateful that the beds were labeled. Parsley, basil and chives were the only ones I could have identified on my own. There were four distinct sections at the corners and several divisions in the center of the garden, beds were marked off with low wattle fences. Two lovely fruit trees caught my eye, about as tall as a man and with twisted branches, they turned out to be quinces.

I lingered a little longer then turned to make my way back to my unadorned cell and the work that was waiting for me. I found my meal tray had arrived and with it an exquisite leather bound volume on herbs.

Moving in -- Day Two

I awoke this morning, after a peaceful night's rest, and fed Tookey and Oreo the food I had brought with me. I'm unsure of where I'll be able to purchase more, and I have only one week's worth for each. The area around the Abbey seemed empty and desolate as I drove in yesterday and the last town I passed through had to be at least an hour away.

Wondering what I was supposed to do about my own breakfast, I ventured out of my room and nearly tripped over a tray that had been left for me. I caught a lovely whiff of orange spice tea as I lifted it and carried it back into my room. It was too large for my writing desk so I used my solitary chair as a table and sat again on the remarkably comfortable bed. Fresh toast, still warm and riddled with the yeasty pock marks of home made bread sat in a vine basket waiting to be slathered with butter and dolloped with apricot preserves. I dug right in while I read the note from Heather which she'd tucked beneath the bread basket. " Welcome to Lemurian Abbey. Enjoy your breakfast and please begin your projects as soon as you have finished. Although there are others here, I would prefer that you remain solitary and silent for at least the first week. To that end, your meals will be delivered and the empty tray will be removed if you just leave it outside your door. The Abbey is large and confusing to navigate. I've enclosed a map showing only the small portion of the monastery that is presently open to you. You may walk through the halls, and of course, use the showers and facilities, however most of the doors you pass will be locked. Even the windows are placed high so that you won't be tempted by distractions. Feel free to let Oreo roam whenever he chooses, he'll be perfectly safe. And don't worry if Tookey gets raucous, the stone walls are thick and forgiving. Heather--P.S. There's a gift waiting for you in honor of your St. Francis project. I hope you like it."

I had no idea what she meant by gift; it was only later when I placed the tray in the hall that I found the package, a pair of sandals and a brown robe similar to the one worn by St. Francis and his followers.

Moving Day

Lemurian Abbey! I'd expected to find perhaps only the foundation or an outline of a building, but to my amazement I saw a huge gray stone monastery reaching into the heavens and spreading out in all directions.

Heather greeted me in a flowing blue gown and made me welcome despite the fact that I was dressed in forest green sweats, trailed by a black and white cat and carrying a large bird cage. I nervously explained that Oreo had practically insisted on accompanying me, since he felt a vital part of my writing after our trip down the manhole and, I babbled on that, I had to bring Tookey since it was impossible to find anyone who could feed a neurotic, menopausal Amazon anything other than an extremely long stalk of celery. Heather has evidently had strange encounters with nervous novices before because she never lost her elegant composure, although I did notice she insisted on walking on the side opposite Tookey's cage after the bird reached out and tried to grab her sleeve.

My first impression of the place is that it's so complex and maze-like I'll never be able to find my way back to my room if I leave it. Well, this is from someone who gets lost in a revolving door. It's also one reason I'm already glad I brought Oreo. Once I feed him, he'll remember where he belongs and lead me back if I get confused.

My room truly is a cell, very small, and minimally furnished. The length of the bed is the length of the room. An old fashioned pitcher and wash basin just fit the table that holds them. I have a writing desk and straight back chair and, high up in one rough stone wall, a small window lets in the light.

I wanted to ask Heather about the strange rumors I'd heard about lemurs and an alchemist's tower. I wondered how many others had come and who and where they were, but she didn't linger, just told me to have a good night and that we'd talk more tomorrow.

She turned as she was about to leave and asked, "You did bring the supplies you need for your projects, didn't you?"

I held up my journal and pen and pointed to the canvas tote bag I'd placed on the bed. "I have some things in there for my altered book, but I've never made one before and I don't know if I've brought the right stuff."

"You'll soon find in the Abbey that you have everything you need. Sweet dreams, " she added.

When she was gone, I put my tote full of art supplies on the chair and laid my journal and pens on the desk. I had arrived at Lemurian Abbey in broad daylight and been shown to my cell. In the few minutes Heather and I had been speaking the day seemed to have ended. Light from a sickle moon was pouring milky white beams through my window and I was longing for sleep. Was I suffering from jet-lag? Was I on NJ time or Australian Time. I was so tired I couldn't even recall if it was winter or summer.

I noticed a metal hook protruding from the corner of the wall near my writing desk and hung up Tookey's cage. She was fast asleep. Turning down the blankets, I snuggled into bed with Oreo curled at my side. Tomorrow I would begin. "I have everything I need," I murmured over and over until I fell into a contented sleep.