He gave the clacker three hard blows. “Clack! Clack! Clack!” Three times the sound rebounded off the high cliffs and returned to the monastery, washing over it like an ocean wave. The clacker, a thick board with a mallet attached by a cord, had been a gift to the monastery from the novices the year he entered. It signified their spiritual awakening. The sound of the clacker was a call to wake up, not just for the residents of the monastery, but for the folk in the valley as well. It was a call to the mountain itself, to the animals and the trees, to the rocks and the streams. It was a call to the whole world, a call to wake up to The Light, a world still asleep in the womb of The Light.

The clacker meant it was time to get out of bed, dress quickly, and line up outside the chapel for morning prayers. But today, as in past days, the call would go unanswered by any flesh-and-blood resident, for The Order had abandoned this monastery years ago. There were no more monks to answer the call of the clacker, no nuns to line up for prayer, only this one defiant pretender, still wearing the robe of his failed time as a novice. In the breaking light, he now moved across the courtyard like a ghost, a shadow stealthfully clinging to the past, reliving again and again the last days of the monastery. By the chapel door, this flesh-and-blood ghost would watch silently as his imaginary companions filed past. Their heads were bowed low and this pleased him, for it showed they were in a proper frame of mind, ready to enter the realm of prayer. When the last had stepped over the threshold of the chapel, he too would enter, turn, and bar the door behind him. Those arriving late would be excluded. He was quite strict about that. Though it was barely the start of a new day, late arrivers were already in a state of sin. Only the fully awake, the fully ready, would be allowed to enter. “As it is in heaven, so shall it be here on earth,” he would say to himself.

Each morning, with devout dignity, he would ascend to the pulpit, turn, and look out over the invisible congregation. To your eye, or mine, this congregation would be invisible; but with his inward eye, he saw them all and knew each one by name, though their faces were hidden and their eyes averted, the cowls of their robes being pulled low over their heads, their gaze fixed downward on the floor. This, too, pleased him, as it was evidence that his discipline was bearing fruit. He nodded in the direction of the still standing congregation, and though no eye saw the gesture, all felt it bidding them to sit, and sit they did, in perfect unison.

In the old flesh-and-blood days of the monastery, the abbot would have taken his seat when the congregation sat, and this lowly novice shivering outside in the early morning air would strike the bell to signal the start of prayers. It had always been that way in The Order, a regimen followed for centuries. It was a tradition that had to be maintained, even in the absence of living monks and nuns. In the old days, each resident would have been assigned a specific task and have his or her status within The Order; but these were decadent times, and the faithful had to adapt to changing conditions. This living ghost was now both the novice and the abbot, presiding over a congregation of his imagination, and it was entirely up to him to keep the ancient tradition alive. In him, and only in him, would that which was continue to be. After seating the congregation the abbot would return to the courtyard and resume his role as novice. He would strike the bell hard three times, pausing after each blow to allow the bell’s echo to return from the mountain. Following the third and final strike, he would walk back to the chapel, bar the door once more, and resume the duties of the abbot.

Sitting high in the abbot’s seat above the altar, he would lift the cowl of his habit to protect his head from the damp draft. Thus, enclosed in the embrace of The Spirit, he too would begin to pray. Immediately a surge of gladness would rise from the depths of his heart, for this was the hour of hours, the sweet hour before the mundane troubles of the day began. Yes, it was the holiest hour of the day, but not the most comfortable hour. In the spring, the wind blew the mountain mist in through the chapel’s open windows to cover every seat with wet dew. The soaked benches would be waiting for the monks and nuns when they entered for morning prayers. In winter, there would be a thin sheet of ice for them to sit on. The Order had removed all the stained glass from the arched windows and taken it with them when they abandoned the monastery. In its place, they had nailed sheets of plywood over openings, thus entombing the sanctuary in darkness. It was he who had removed the plywood and returned the light to the chapel, but being poor and without means, he could not afford glass to cover the arched gaps left in the chapel wall. Because of his poverty, the interior of the chapel remained exposed to the mountain air. He felt it better to let in the elements than to block out the light. If the congregation did not mind the discomfort, why should he?