Paul Moorcraft - The Anchoress of Shere

Nausea rose in Marda’s throat. “Did you leave her there to die?” she said, her voice breaking. “How long was she here for?”

“She was my guest for some six months,” Duval explained calmly. “A very difficult guest from whom I removed food privileges because she wouldn’t do as she was told. It was exasperating.”

Marda stared at him in horror. “You mean you starved her to death?”

Duval shook his head. “That’s not what I said. I think she chose death and starved herself, in effect. Just before her spirit left her I cleaned her body and performed the last rites. That was the least I could do.”

Her mind raced with the implications of his words. “You mean…you really are a priest?”

“Yes.” He smiled, and the play of light on the contours of his face made him seem even more disturbed.

“But how can a priest do this to young girls?”

“Do what?” Duval looked genuinely bewildered.

Marda was learning to be cautious. She searched for the right words. “Well, accommodate young…guests…in a cellar.”

“I have a mission,” he replied proudly. “Both in my church and in this sacred cellar.”

Again Marda chose her words carefully. “May I ask how many girls have been your…your guests?”

“You are my sixth guest.”

“Are all the others still here?”

“Yes.”

“And they are all…dead?” Marda held her breath.

“Yes,” said Duval regretfully. “They all failed me. Failed themselves really.”

Again Duval smiled with his whole face but emanated no warmth. “But you, Marda, you will live because you will not fail me. I know you won’t fail me. Let us forget about death and think about life. What can we do to make your life more comfortable?” he asked conversationally.

Marda thought carefully before replying. “Couldn’t I live in a room upstairs?”

Duval furrowed his brow in thought. “That would be quite impossible now for a novice. Perhaps later, when I can trust you, yes.”

“Trust me how ?”

“Trust that you will learn what I shall try to teach you. That you will not try to run away before we have finished.”

“Finished what ?” Marda had no idea what he was talking about.

“I am required to teach you about God,” said the priest earnestly. “I am obliged to teach you about the life of an anchoress. An anchoress is a woman devoted entirely to God. Later I shall tell you of Christine, about whom I have been writing, and how a woman can achieve everything through a contemplative life. I believe the modern approximation is…” he paused, searching for words to which she might relate, “to teach you to tune in, turn on and drop out. Dr. Timothy Leary, I believe. Have you heard of him?”

Marda shook her head, completely confused. Her intuition told her that she would survive only by pretending to be much less intelligent than she really was, and then making Duval feel superior by appearing to learn quickly what he wished her to. She had indeed read about Leary and had discussed his ideas with friends, but she knew that “no” would be the correct answer to the question. Somehow she sensed that he wanted, as did all men, or certainly all men with diminished egos, to explain things to her. Let him go ahead, then.

“Dr. Timothy Leary experimented with drugs in America,” lectured Duval. “LSD-‘acid,’ it’s called-can make a person explore their inner mind, he claims. Silly, really. The religious mystics had better, safer and more sustained visions without this ‘acid.’ Religion, approached properly, can give you a real ‘trip’”-Duval waggled two fingers on each hand to provide the quotation marks-“if you want it enough.”

“And when I have learned your religious course properly, I can go?” asked Marda hopefully.

“If you reach the level of attainment of which I think you may be capable, you will not only learn a new philosophy of life, but you will also be free to decide whether to stay or go.” The lie came easily.

Marda forced a lopsided grin for Duval, then looked thoughtful. “How long will I take to pass your…exam, your examination?” she asked seriously.

“Historically speaking, a few-very few-people have reached the mystical stage in weeks. Others take a lot longer.”

“What about those who fail?”

“As long as you are sincere and you try”-Duval’s eyes glanced heavenwards-“God helps you to try and try again.”

Marda’s knees felt weak, but she struggled to stay engaged in this sinister tutorial. “But some fail, perhaps like the girls in the other cells?” She was not sure if she wanted him to answer this.

Through the grille, Duval looked at her kindly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to look after you. Ensure you eat properly. Make sure you are warm. In return I merely expect you to listen to me and to answer me openly and honestly. We will start with a little Sunday school-Bible classes, if you like-and then as we progress and study and gain spiritual depth, I will try to explain why I have chosen you.”

By now Marda was convinced she was dealing not only with a homicidal religious maniac but also a patronising bastard. The only course was to placate him and wait for an advantageous occasion to escape. Meanwhile, appeasing him meant food. Obviously the first lesson.

She took a deep breath. “The sooner we start, then, the better,” she said brightly. “Is that OK with you, Michael?”

Duval looked at her with a slightly quizzical expression. “Indeed,” he said thoughtfully.

Shifting his standing position, he composed himself to begin the lesson. “Let us talk about faith,” he began. “My first definition of faith was provided by my old theology tutor. He told me that a philosopher is a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat that isn’t there, and a theologian is the man who finds it. I thought it was amusing the first time I heard it, but I soon realised that faith depends upon doubt. Believing in God unquestioningly sometimes, yes, but at other times doubting him. Doubt isn’t the opposite of faith, it’s a crucial element. Religion may be morally useful without necessarily being intellectually sustainable. So you could say that a believer is happier than a non-believer. Perhaps that’s as valid as saying that a drunken man is happier than a sober one.”

Marda wondered yet again whether he was merely trying to impress her or whether he wanted genuinely to engage her in conversation. Intuitively, she grasped that he wanted questions from an eager pupil.

“What is God like?” was Marda’s first question, as she assumed an attentive posture on her bench.

“So you believe in God?” replied Duval, peering through the grille.

“Yes,” she said. But what she really wanted to shout was, I cannot believe in God because long ago he would have destroyed evil men like you. How could God allow such an unspeakable evil? In other circumstances she might have wanted to discuss the holocaust, but for now she was keeping it simple.

“I can tell you that God is alive, Marda, because I spoke to Him this morning,” said Duval smugly. “Perhaps you are surprised by such direct communication. You mentioned, I recall, that you are not a Catholic.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied defensively, “but that doesn’t mean I’m hostile.”

She started to cough suddenly, as the nauseating taste of bile rose in her mouth. She was shivering from the horror and unreality of her interrogation, but she knew she had to try to disguise her disgust. She patted her chest and coughed again. “Please excuse me; the cold is getting to me.”

Duval waited for her to continue. The coughing fit gave Marda time to select her words. “I’m interested in religion but not really inspired by it. I told you, I think, that I was christened in the Church of England and then didn’t really bother. I went through a period of doubting God’s existence. You know how it is. Well, maybe you don’t. That was a stupid remark,” she said, feeling awkward.