‘It’s the monastery,’ said Salma. ‘We are watching it being built.’ Her relief that she was near a familiar landmark overcame the oddity that they had been swept back in time. The monastery meant that they were close after all to where they had started. They had indeed returned part of the way.
Caution made them hold back, made them hide themselves under a tree. The scene before them was all freshness and hope. A house of worship rising. They felt the sincerity that fuelled the manual work, men toiling to build what they might not live to see, working for a necessary grandeur and elevation. Moni, Iman and Salma saw the monks come in and takes their vows, some of which they would keep and many of which they would not be able to uphold. Vows of celibacy that were not imposed on them by the Almighty, which they took on voluntarily and then fell into sin. Iman, Salma and Moni saw the years sweep over the monastery, the waning of faith bringing with it corruption and corruption further eroding faith. They saw the abuse of little boys and the unlawful accumulation of wealth. They saw worldliness encroach upon the sacred, the secular triumphing over the religious, how this life became more important than the next. They saw enthusiasm dwindling and distractions growing until the place was empty, devoid of prayers. Then the renovations began. Architects hired to restore the original features, designers to make the apartments fit the theme. The chapel becoming a swimming pool.
But not everything was swept away. There was something of the prayers left behind, a concentration of what had been the most sincere, a density. The three of them had come upon it in the refectory, Salma first, then Iman and Moni. They felt the print left by the priest who had read the prayers up at the pulpit while the monks ate their meals. Men deprived of women experienced the deepest thankfulness for the food on their plates.
‘You can see him now,’ said the Hoopoe. ‘If you go down and look through the window, you will be able to see the whole scene.’
The three held hands and ran down the hill. The sun shone down on them and afterwards, for the rest of their lives, they would remember this as one of their happiest moments. They would recall the anticipation and how young they felt, like little girls, with all their strength and flexibility, with easy joints and laughter in their throats. Iman held Salma’s hand and Salma held Moni’s hand. It started to rain, a light drizzle that sprinkled them as they moved. The water touched their heads and made them special. The hill sloped down, and they gave in to the pull of gravity, the acceleration of their steps and heartbeats. Each of them was self-conscious, aware of her restored body, how good it felt to be whole, to be upright. How good it was to have a clear mind and balance, to have a tongue that could talk and feet that could hold up her weight with ease.
‘It’s Nathan,’ said Iman, when they looked through the window. ‘I thought at first he was Mullin, but it’s Nathan. He is the one reading the prayer. He is the one grateful that he had lost his chains. He came back home and had been forgiven. It is he who built the monastery.’ She recognised him from the Hoopoe’s description, from spending story time on him and his journey to Jerusalem. She recognised him from that time she had glimpsed his image through the window and thought he was, like her, dressed up in costume.
There he was now, through this window, no longer in chains, understanding what he was reading: every word. They recognised him as one of them, a believer, though he had not lived long enough to know the Last Prophet, nor to hear the final revelation. They had in common with him the knowledge of their Creator, the desire to seek forgiveness, the trajectory of slip and rise, the journeying to come close. They understood him, and he would have understood them too, if he had lived in their own time. The similarity between them was more than the difference. Through the window, the medieval scene was as exotic as a European painting, the rituals alien but acceptable. They had an affinity to it, an understanding that existed despite the barriers of time and race.
The scene could not last long. Just long enough for Iman to make her guess and for the three of them to bear witness. Then it flickered and was gone. The refectory was empty, the monastery in a further period of time. It could even be the future, as the furniture was different from how they had seen it, the tartan chair no longer tartan, the billiards table replaced, the design more minimal. But the pulpit was still as it was, the wooden panelling, the door and the large window. ‘The room is waiting for you,’ said the Hoopoe. ‘It is your turn now.’ That was the last thing he ever said to them, the last they saw of the shimmer of his crown and the black stripes of his feathers. ‘It is your turn now.’ For the final steps of the journey, the guide does not need to be there. It is the traveller’s private time, the traveller’s specific destiny and not that of the guide.
The three stepped into the room and they knew what they had to do. It was obvious. One after the other, they climbed the pulpit. They sat, they did not stand up. They did not need
