"Well," I said, bending to pull a small weed from between the paving stones, "I was baptized as a Catholic. But my parents died when I was five, and I went to live with an uncle. Uncle Lambert was…" I paused, recalling Uncle Lambert's voracious appetite for knowledge, and that cheerfully objective cynicism that regarded all religion merely as one of the earmarks by which a culture could be cataloged. "Well, he was everything and nothing, I suppose, in terms of faith," I concluded. "Knew them all, believed in none. So nothing further was ever done about my religious training. And my… first husband was Catholic, but not very observant, I'm afraid. So I suppose I'm really rather a heathen."
I eyed him warily, but rather than being shocked by this revelation, he laughed heartily.
"Everything and nothing," he said, savoring the phrase. "I like that very much. But as for you, I am afraid not. Once a member of Holy Mother Church, you are eternally marked as her child. However little you know about your faith, you are as much a Catholic as our Holy Father the Pope." He glanced at the sky. It was cloudy, but the leaves of the alder bushes near the church hung still.
"The wind has dropped. I was going for a short stroll to clear my brain in the fresh air. Why do you not accompany me? You need air and exercise, and I can perhaps make the occasion spiritually beneficial as well, by enlightening you as to the ritual of Perpetual Adoration as we go."
"Three birds with one stone, eh?" I said dryly. But the prospect of air, if not light, was enticing, and I went to fetch my cloak without demur.
With a glance at the form within, head bent in prayer, Anselm led me past the quiet darkness of the chapel entrance and down the cloister, out to the edge of the garden.
Beyond the possibility of disturbing the monks within the chapel, he said, "It's a very simple idea. You recall the Bible, and the story of Gethsemane, where Our Lord waited out the hours before His trial and crucifixion, and His friends, who should have borne Him company, all fell fast asleep?"
"Oh," I said, understanding all at once. "And He said 'Can you not watch with me one hour?' So that's what you're doing—watching with Him for that hour—to make up for it." I liked the idea, and the darkness of the chapel suddenly seemed inhabited and comforting.
"Oui, madame," he agreed. "Very simple. We take it in turns to watch, and the Blessed Sacrament on the altar here is never left alone."
"Isn't it difficult, staying awake?" I asked curiously. "Or do you always watch at night?"
He nodded, a light breeze lifting the silky brown hair. The patch of his tonsure needed shaving; short bristly hairs covered it like moss.
"Each watcher chooses the time that suits him best. For me, that is two o'clock in the morning." He glanced at me, hesitating, as though wondering how I would take what he was about to say.
"For me, in that moment…" He paused. "It's as though time has stopped. All the humors of the body, all the blood and bile and vapors that make a man; it's as though just at once all of them are working in perfect harmony." He smiled. His teeth were slightly crooked, the only defect in his otherwise perfect appearance.
"Or as though they've stopped altogether. I often wonder whether that moment is the same as the moment of birth, or of death. I know that its timing is different for each man… or woman, I suppose," he added, with a courteous nod to me.
"But just then, for that fraction of time, it seems as though all things are possible. You can look across the limitations of your own life, and see that they are really nothing. In that moment when time stops, it is as though you know you could undertake any venture, complete it and come back to yourself, to find the world unchanged, and everything just as you left it a moment before. And it's as though…" He hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing words.
"As though, knowing that everything is possible, suddenly nothing is necessary."
"But… do you actually do anything?" I asked. "Er, pray, I mean?"
"I? Well," he said slowly, "I sit, and I look at Him." A wide smile stretched the fine-drawn lips. "And He looks at me."
Jamie was sitting up when I returned to the room, and essayed a short trip up and down the hall, leaning on my shoulder. But the effort left him pale and sweating, and he lay down without protest when I turned back the coverlet for him.
I offered him a little broth and milk, but he shook his head wearily. "I've no appetite, Sassenach. If I take anything, I think I shall be sick again."