Walking the Bible by Bruce Feiler

Author:Bruce Feiler
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

2. On Holy Ground

I bolted upright the first time I heard the bells—a sound so loud it yanked me from sleep. I held my ears when I realized the clamor was just outside my door. And when the ringing showed no signs of stopping, I stuck my head back under the covers for a few minutes of muffled relief: a carillon fifteen centuries old; a wake-up call older than the clock.

A few minutes later the chimes finally did stop and I emerged from my cocoon. I looked at my watch: 4:25. The room was whitewashed, with a bed, a desk, and a chair. A reproduction of an eighth-century crucifix hung on the wall, alongside a small painting of Saint Catherine, the Egyptian martyr. Before I came to the mountains various people had warned me—“Staying in Saint Catherine’s was the longest night of my life,”“the coldest night of my life.” As a result, I had brought enough equipment for Everest: sleeping bag, gloves, hat, scarf, toilet paper, turtle-neck, extra socks. “Would you like a sleeping pill?” Avner had asked. But the room was quite accommodating, with two sheets, a bean pillow, three blankets, and a comforter. There was also a portable heater in the cupboard, a switch for hot water, a toilet, and even, for cleanliness-conscious Muslims or prissy Europeans, a bidet. This was the Ritz for pilgrims, a hermitage with a view.

I slid on my boots without touching the floor and splashed water on my face. The morning service started in five minutes, and I didn’t want to be late. Outside, the courtyard was still dark. A rosefinch hopped quietly on the banister; even the birds didn’t speak at this hour. I was stationed on the third floor of the dormitory, a dark wooden building with slabs of plaster that was Tudor not just in appearance. Shakespeare could have slept here. Across the square was another three-story building that looked almost Moorish, with stone arches and candles flickering in the rooms. In between was a jungle of structures with assorted ecclesiastical purposes—a refectory, a handful of chapels, a library, even a mosque, built in the twelfth century to appease marauding Muslims. With its contrasting styles, angled walls, and competing rooflines, the monastery had the appearance of one of those milk-carton cities children make in school, then leave in the attic to collect dust and nostalgia and when discovered a generation later seem more charming than ever.

The previous night, after checking into my room, I sat on the banister and admired the timelessness. The place seemed almost haunted, with cats scampering across the eaves, skeleton keys dangling against brass doorknobs, and doors opening, creaking, then slamming shut. A monk chanted evening prayers. It was impossible not to think of The Name of the Rose, with its intrigue and manipulations; death in the abbey of the Lord. But even in this stew of allure, I felt remarkably safe. The black cat that ran across my path made me smile, not quiver. With its church and mosque and bedouin well, Saint Catherine’s touches all bases, even superstition.

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