The Beautiful Mystery

And word had spread that the prior had been alive when Simon had found him. Had received last rites, while alive. It gave Dom Philippe immense peace of mind to know that. Though he wondered why Simon hadn’t mentioned it before.

And then he found out.

Mathieu had not only been alive, but he’d spoken. Said one word. To Simon.

Homo.

Dom Philippe was as baffled as anyone by that. With one word left to say in this world, why would Mathieu say “homo”?

He knew what the congregation suspected. That Mathieu was referring to his sexuality. Asking for some sort of forgiveness. Some extreme unction. But the abbot didn’t believe that was true.

Not that Mathieu wasn’t a homosexual. He might well have been. But Dom Philippe had been his confessor for many years, and Mathieu had never mentioned it. It might, of course, have been latent. Deeply buried, and only came roaring to the surface with the blow to his head.

Homo.

Mathieu had cleared his throat, struggled to get the word out, Simon had said, and finally rasped, “Homo.”

The abbot tried it. Clearing his throat. Saying the word.

He repeated it. Over and over.

Until he thought he had it. What Mathieu had done. What Mathieu had said. What Mathieu had meant.

But then Frère Antoine had entered and bowed slightly to the abbot.

“Yes, my son, what is it?” Dom Philippe rose to his feet.

“It’s about Frère Sébastien, the visitor. He says he was sent from Rome, when they heard about the death of the prior.”

“Yes?” The abbot indicated a seat next to him and Frère Antoine took it.

The choirmaster looked worried and had dropped his voice. “I don’t see how that can be.”

“Why do you say that?” Though the abbot had himself already worked it out.

“Well, when did you inform the Vatican?”

“I didn’t. I called Monsignor Ducette at the archdiocese in Montréal. He informed the archbishop of Québec, and presumably the archbishop told Rome.”

“But, when did you call?”

“Right after we called the police.”

Frère Antoine thought about that for a moment. “That would make it about nine thirty yesterday morning.”

It was, thought the abbot, the first civil exchange he’d had with Frère Antoine in months. And the abbot realized how much he missed this monk in his life. His creativity of thought, his passion, the debates over scripture and literature. Not to mention hockey.

But now it seemed restored, their common ground the death of Mathieu. And the arrival of the Dominican.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Dom Philippe admitted, and looked into the small fire in his small rooms. With the new geothermal they had central heating. But the abbot was a man of traditions, and preferred an open window and the warmth of the hearth.

“It was six hours later in Rome,” said the abbot. “Even if they reacted immediately it seems unlikely Frère Sébastien could make it here this quickly.”

“Exactly, mon père,” said Antoine. It had been a long time since he’d called Dom Philippe that, having used the more stilted, more formal, colder “Père Abbé” for the past few months. “And we both know the archdiocese moves like continental drift, and Rome as fast as evolution.”

The abbot smiled then grew serious again.

“So, why is he here?” Frère Antoine asked.

“If not because of Frère Mathieu’s death?” Dom Philippe held Antoine’s anxious eyes. “I don’t know.”

But for the first time in a long time the abbot felt his heart calm. Felt the crack that had caused him so much pain, closing.

“I’d like your thoughts on something, Antoine.”

“Certainly.”

“Frère Simon says that Mathieu said one word before he died. I’m sure you’ve heard that by now.”

“I have.”

“He said ‘homo.’” The abbot watched for the choirmaster’s reaction, but there was none. The monks were trained, and accustomed, to keeping their feelings and their thoughts to themselves. “Do you know what he might have meant?”

Antoine didn’t speak for a few moments, and broke eye contact. In a place with few words, the eyes became key. To break contact was significant. But his eyes found their way back to the abbot.

“The brothers are wondering if he was talking about his sexuality…”

There was clearly more Frère Antoine wanted to say, and so the abbot folded his hands in his lap and waited.