Book of Lost Threads by Tess Evans

cottage, washed and changed, and followed the monks who were leaving chapel for the refectory. They ate without speaking while another monk read from The Imitation of Christ in a dusty monotone .
    The outdoor activity had made him hungry, but Michael found that he could eat only half his modest portion. He felt guilty, like a child, and waited to be admonished, but his plate was collected without comment. As he left the table he was summoned once more to Father Jerome’s office.
    ‘How are your hands?’ the abbot asked as they sat down. Michael showed his red, swollen palms. ‘After this, go and see Father Timothy at the infirmary. Some of those blisters are broken and we don’t want them to become infected.’
    Michael didn’t care, but he nodded.
    The priest went on: ‘I’ve spoken to your mother and told her you want to stay with us for a while. That is what you want, isn’t it?’
    Michael nodded again.
    ‘We’re happy for you to stay, but we need to set the ground rules.’
    Michael wasn’t going to argue. Rules were good. Rules meant you didn’t have to make decisions. ‘Firstly, Michael, you are free to go whenever you want, and we are also free to ask you to leave.’ Michael’s eyes widened in panic, and Jerome was quick to reassure him. ‘Don’t worry. We aren’t going to do that for a while yet. But I must ask what you expect of us.’
    Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Absolution, maybe? Aren’t priests supposed to have the power to forgive?’
    ‘Would our forgiveness help?’
    ‘No. At least, I don’t think so. Not really.’
    ‘Stay a while. Work with Brother Kevin. Pray if you can. And keep our rule of silence. At first you’ll want to talk, to fill the silence, but if you pay attention, eventually the silence will fill you. That’s all we can offer you. But it’s a powerful thing.’
    ‘Thank you, Father. I’d like to stay, if that’s okay.’
    Jerome became businesslike. ‘I’m pleased. But we do have another problem: we already have a Michael in the monastery. It’s not uncommon to choose a new name here. Do you have another name we can use for your stay?’
    Michael thought for a moment. ‘What about Finbar? That’s my second name.’
    ‘Finbar it is, then. Saint Finbar was Bishop of Cork, you know. But he spent most of his life as a monk. Off you go, Finbar, and let Father Timothy deal with those hands.’
    Finn spent nearly four months at the monastery. The days unfolded quietly and rhythmically as the monks went about their liturgical tasks at the appointed hours. The days were measured in units of prayer: Matins, Lauds, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline.
    In awe of Jerome, Finn came to love Kevin and Boniface. Boniface said very little, even at the times appointed for social intercourse, but his faded blue eyes looked out on the world, and on the damaged Finn, with a candour, a beneficence, a simple goodness that was innate. Finn wanted to be like Boniface more than anyone he had ever met.
    Jerome was Finn’s counsellor and Boniface his spiritual mentor, but Kevin was his friend. Kevin was different from the other monks. An irascible fellow, he spent much of his time trying to atone for his impatience. Jerome had given the garden to his keeping to help him find the tranquillity that so often eluded him, but it didn’t always work.
    ‘I don’t know why they keep me here,’ he would say ruefully, after another outburst directed at the recalcitrant tractor.
    Finn would grin. ‘Neither do I, old mate. Perhaps it’s the vegies. Or maybe the wine.’
    In the tradition of Saint Benedict, the monastery had a vineyard and produced its own boutique wines; Kevin also worked in the vineyard. On Sundays, the monks were allowed social conversation from lunchtime to Compline and could enjoy a glass of wine or beer with their meals. Finn was surprised to find himself listening more than talking.
    ‘My name wasn’t always Kevin, of course,’ said the monk. ‘I