And Then There Were Nuns by Jane Christmas

Author:Jane Christmas
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55365-800-9
Publisher: Greystone Books
Published: 2013-08-18T16:00:00+00:00

The Cloistered Castle

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Order of the Holy Paraclete

Whitby, England

I ARRIVED WITH MY confused and broken holiness at St. Hilda’s Priory, the home of the Order of the Holy Paraclete (OHP).

My family initially thought I was going to be staying at a religious bird sanctuary, The Holy Parakeet. The term “paraclete” refers to the Holy Spirit, which infuses each of us with character and personality. I was in critically short supply of both.

Rain hailed from the underbelly of a swollen sky, the sort of downpour that nails you the second you step out in it. I made a thirty-foot dash from the car to the shelter of a small canopy above the priory’s front door and got soaked despite the effort. Rivulets of rainwater streamed across my scalp and dribbled down my face. My feet made squishing noises in my water-logged boots. I tugged at my sodden, clinging clothing and tried to make myself halfway presentable.

The priory door was locked. I jiggled the door handle with the barest of hope that doing so would miraculously unlock it. I was beginning to give up on miracles.

To the right of the door were two doorbells with instructions on when and when not to ring each one. It was a layer of complication I did not need at that moment. I pressed one and hoped it would yield a positive result and not a scolding. Thunder crackled, the wind howled, and a fresh lashing of icy rain pelted me. It felt like the beginning of the apocalypse.

I’ll give it thirty seconds, I thought, as I shifted impatiently from one squelchy boot to another. If no one answers the door, I’ll leave and give up my convent aspirations. What was I thinking anyway? I’ll send an email to the prioress and explain that something had come up. A family emergency. Yes, that’s it. I’ll say...

Through the fogged and rain-streaked glass door, a shape instantly materialized. As it advanced closer, I could make out a woman in the gray habit of the order. The door swung open, and I recognized the woman from a website photo: it was the order’s prioress, Sister Dorothy Stella.

“Jane? Oh for heaven’s sake, come in and get out of this miserable weather. What a day! Real Yorkshire weather, this. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. So glad you arrived safely. Oh, it’s good to finally meet you!”

I cannot recall whether we embraced, but I do remember feeling instantly at home: warm, welcomed, relieved, and safe. I was back in Anglican territory.

I tried to formulate a quick impression of the place, wondering whether the next three months would be heaven or hell. I cast wary glances into the dark corners to see if my little Spock-eared friend had followed me from St. Cecilia’s.

The interior of St. Hilda’s did its best to appear inviting in spite of the limited amount of natural light filtering through huge panes of glass that lined the corridor. Around the corner, a planter containing several pots of primrose in vivid shades of lemon yellow, deep purple, bright red, and bubblegum pink winked a welcome.

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