22nd March

Dearest Cecelia,
It is time for me to leave the sanctity of the abbey here at Gilead, on the Isle of Lenore. I am hungry, no, famished for the adventure which lies outside these walls. I am well rested, my spirit nourished and I am renewed in my quest for the scrolls of Lemuria. One does wonder where the time has gone and if Jack has made any new discoveries in my absence.

During my delightful stay, I have become particularly close to a young novice by the name of Jelena. She is a gentle, timid girl who sought refuge here when her home life became terrible and frightening. The Abbess nurtured the broken child with tenderness, patience and poignant passages of Scripture until she was restored once more. Jelena spent many an afternoon conversing with me on matters of the gospel. We found during these discussions that we were in agreeance on most points. The quiet nun has made quite an impression on me and so I have entrusted her with the contents of my queer little journal which I retrieved from the glass garden one night by teleporting using the walnut. Now, Latin is not one of Jelena’s favourite subjects, she has thus far learned only the prayers necessary for Mass. However, she was able to recognise one word which appears near the grounds of the abbey. Jelena and her fellow novices often make the journey into town by foot, walking to the local hospices to tend to the ailing and elderly. Along the east wall of the abbey there is an ancient road which links Gilead to another town several miles away. This road was often used by local traders who passed by Gilead with carts loaded with wares such as silks, brocades and assorted teas, herbs and spices from the Orient. Close to this road stands a milestone, weather beaten, its markings all but faded. Chiselled into the stone is the word which appears most often in the section following the Royal Tree entry in the journal, Calculus.

Jelena informs me that this very road leads directly to the town of Braic where the Calculus, the Latin term for Counting Stones, stands. The stones’ true purpose for construction has since been lost to the modern world. They stand in a formidable circular formation, in a similar fashion to those which have stood for so long at Stonehenge. Perhaps then, they served a similar purpose in centuries past?

It is quite clear then, that the Counting Stones of Braic are to be my next destination. I shall return to the Vulcania on the morrow to pack the necessities and return the journal to safekeeping within the glass garden. Perhaps Jack should like to accompany me on this next leg of the journey?

I have promised to continue a correspondence with Jelena and return to the abbey as soon as I am able. Jelena is certain that I would thrive here, living a cloistered life. I haven’t the heart to tell her otherwise.

Elizabeth.

the arch

For how many months
did the stonemason toil at this
archway of smooth grey stone
which looms before me at
the pinnacle of irregular steps,
a sombre facade which
belies the warm and fertile
soil hiding within. A beacon
for those whose past is a tangle
of wild and untended thoughts,
weeds which struggle to find purchase
in the starved earth, gasping for nutrients.
The way ahead is lined
with ornamental cherry trees in bloom,
the path blanketed by a layer -
paper thin petals grown heavy
with the day’s drizzle of rain,
fallen. A plaque above denotes
the generosity of one devout spirit,
eternally grateful for Her
welcoming embrace and
the stained glass Virgin bestows her
beatific smile
upon those who pass beneath
the great stone construction.
A glance to the left reveals
gossamer-winged butterflies
lighting upon turnsole,
pink and blue. Salvia divinorum,
the seer’s sage clusters
about the wheel of a rusted barrow
from which fragrant culinary herbs tumble
silvery and sweet and begging to be tasted upon
the tongue of this humble servant
striding toward Salvation.

the abbey garden

an ornate setting
of pale wood and wrought iron
under over latticework woven, melded, beaten
into submission by a heavy hand
exposed to elements and its patina softens
to green.
roughly hewn roses nestled among
fine detail, the work of a tradesman
and an artisan.
there are gaps where the sunlight
reaches through and lovingly caresses
my notebook
though the chill wind cuts an unforgiving
path through the sycamore
overhead and I shiver
beneath my borrowed serge.
my mind witters during this
contemplative seclusion, prayers not yet
fully formed but trivial thoughts -
butterflies which dance from one
merry bud to another.

4th March

Dear Cecelia,
This March evening finds me tucked neatly away on the Lost Isle of Lenore, or more specifically within the stone walls of the Abbey in Gilead, Lenore. I have retreated here, more than a little horrified by the advances I made toward Jack at Violetta’s party. I am here either to seek penance for my actions or lick my wounds. I am not sure. I do know one thing with the utmost certainty. I must put an end to my engagement to stodgy old Charles. Now, this does not mean that I intend to pursue a relationship with Jack. Perish the thought! Rather, I should prefer to be alone than spend my life with a dreadful bore such as Charles. He is still missing, and of course I am distraught, but this time apart has made obvious to me just how little I need and miss him in his absence.

I have spent the past few days observing the monastic order as they attend to their daily routines. It would seem that idleness is not tolerated among these faithful Brides of Christ. Their days are spent at a variety of tasks – from choir practice to making the church vestments to be worn by the priests during Mass. I have paid many a visit to the work room where industrious nuns make the surplices – decorative tunics which are worn over the priests’ cassocks. I watch intently as some of the more experienced needleworkers fashion the heavily embroidered chasubles which are worn only for the celebration of the Eucharist. The garments here are of a surprisingly modern style. The chasuble is less of an oval piece of cloth and resembles instead, a broad scapular, the front cut away as to allow the priest to clasp his hands in prayer. The decorations, namely crosses in a heavy golden thread, which adorn the backs of these stiff brocade vestements are quite complex and the nuns who sew them possess a level of skill and dexterity that I have not witnessed before.

When not at work, these faithful women spend many an hour knelt before the Most Blessed Sacrament in Perpetual Adoration. At least two people are rostered to kneel before the unconsecrated bread and wine so that He is never left alone. Here, the Sacrament is exposed – laid out beneath a white host and attended to by the endless procession of nuns. I am in awe of their dedication to their tasks and find myself wondering if I shall ever achieve such devotion in both my practical and spiritual lives.

For now, though, I am content to dwell amongst those who sit in adoration of the Lord, to absorb this cloistered life and allow the tranquility to envelop me.

Elizabeth.