Previously:

Madeline, who has portaled into the 16th century is now a monk called Samuel. She is slowly identifying her new friends from the 21st century as they spend time in cottages with others who are taking harp therapy lessons. 

*******

The other useful information I have received is the beads I thought were a necklace around my waist are the large version of the rosary. 

For me, they served as a notification for who was walking toward me. I’ve gotten so I am able to identify a brother by how his beads rattle.

Everyone has a different stride, some lanky, some hurrying, and others more graceful. This causes the Rosary beads to click together differently for each brother. 

It’s nice to know who the brother is, I just want to know who some of these brothers will be. I have two solved, Stephen who was begging for food is Cordelia and Sylvester is Somara. 

I’ve got a hunch, Robert is Karin who becomes a psychiatrist. Even back in the 15th century, he is showing kindness beyond the call of duty. 

He risks getting severely penanced to help many who find they can trust him. I miss seeing Karin’s smile. We’ve become quite close while she has been taking harp lessons in the 21st century. 

I am getting confused about how to phrase things. Karin isn’t here in the 16th century, Robert is. Neither Caren, nor Cyndy, nor Cordelia, nor Mary Jo, nor Somara, are taking harp lessons in this lifetime. They may not even know how to play the harp, yet. 

You’d think the longer I remain here, the less confused I’d be, but it seems to have only worsened matters. My head is like a closet with things just thoughtlessly thrown into it.

*******

Working with the cows gives me time to ruminate over vital facts. My most comforting ole girl is Alfalfa, who reminds me of a beloved calf on my grandparents’ farm, in my 20th century childhood. 

I need to find out where Patrick disappears to everyday. Is his activity legal? Does he leave the Monastery grounds, risking expulsion? Does his closeted behavior have Prior Richard’s blessing? Is he safe? 

Not that I can do anything about it. I just have to know. I care about him and I might know him from the 21st century. I hope I’ve timed things right today. 

When I’m finished here, I’ll rush the milk bucket to the kitchen bench, where I have been requested to leave it. Then, I’ll slip back outside to watch for his return and track his route.

I used to love to shovel manure, as a child at my grandparents. I take a big inhale and am lifted away for a short time, reminiscing about those days. It occurs to me this might be where I acquired a taste…er…attraction… affinity, for the ‘o’de perfume de manure.’

As I toss the last bit of manure onto the pile, I spot Patrick exiting a small mysterious stone building, kiddie corner to where I am standing.

My bemused eyes follow him ‘til he disappears into the monastery. Following my previous clandestine plan, I am back outside, playing hide and seek until I am safely back with my girls, the Jerseys.  

If I could get to the back of that building, I could jimmy the door with a slab of wood, undetected. I have to get inside that building to see what he’s been doing every day. There seems to be only one or two other senior-level brothers working with him.

I can conveniently dart to a hedge, lining the side closest to me, then quickly get the answers to my many questions. Continuing to carry out my project, I encounter one damned deterrent.

There is no rear entrance. There is one long stretch of stonework, no planked door. I have to risk entering through the front, exposed to everyone.

It occurs to me that there is little chance of anyone spying on my attempting to gain access to a forbidden area, gambling with the security of the longevity of my residence here, risking expulsion. 

Any windows in there are too high up from the floor for anyone to have the opportunity to peer out to see even a blue sky. This was one more of Benedict’s monastic methods to ensure further denial of the senses.

This time, one of his torturous inventions is going to favor me. My wooden wedge works well. The heavy door scrapes and creaks on its leather hinges. I am beside myself when I stick my head through to the interior.

Throughout the time we have been at the cottages, she gifted us with a different, lovely bowl. Each was a  piece of pottery Caren had fashioned for the occasion, much like these lined up on shelves, I am staring at, in the 16th century room. 

I now am convinced Patrick will eventually be reborn into the 20th century in the United States as a girl named Caren, to become a renowned potter. Joyously, I refasten the door and dance down the steps.

I catch myself in mid-air, returning to reality. How much time have I used?  Being outside, I would miss the call for Vespers. They may have already begun.

I cannot, cannot be late. We are not doing this again. I beg under my breath, ‘Please, please don’t let me be late, don’t let them have already started. 

Though running through the halls and corridors is forbidden, I hurriedly sashay toward the chapel. I almost faint on rubbery legs when I realize what I’m seeing.

There are at least five of my brothers entering the chapel. Either I’m saved or we are all doomed. I assume the usual prostrate position on the floor hoping to create an impression of normalcy.

We return to our prayer benches and begin to chant the psalms. More ‘bashing Babylonian babies against the rocks’ in Psalm 137:9.

“ Blessed is he who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks. Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.”

During our short time preceding supper, I hurriedly jot down my findings regarding Patrick. Oh, I’m excited now. I’m slowly finding everyone who is attending or accompanying participants in the harp therapy course of the 21st century.