After 23 years in the monastery, he had finally had enough. There were obvious problems along the way, scandal after scandal tainting the profession that he held close to his heart. But through all of the scrutiny that he and his peers were placed under, he persevered. Abuse had been hurled at him in the street countless times, ranging from words to eggs, but through it all, he had his faith. A connection second to none. The spirit that was within him meant that he brushed off the insults and eggshells alike and went about his day. Went about his life.
No, it wasn’t scandal or scrutiny that made him want to leave the monastery. Nor was it having lost his faith. His faith was as strong as ever, but there was something somewhat stronger still that had been roused from deep within him. It started off with the occasional thought, but it overcame his entire being like an earthquake building its way up from the early beginnings of simple plate movement to the crescendo of destruction that it imparted onto those in the surrounding areas.
That is not to say that his behaviour was in any way destructive. Quite the opposite, in fact. That giving spirit that had been at the core of his time as a man of the cloth, that desire to help the community, remained. But the seismic shift from within him to explore his old desires meant that he could no longer do so through the church.
The battered leather suitcase in front of him could have been no larger than a standard moving box, but within its dust-kissed interior sat everything the man had managed to collate. The thought of being able to fit your life into one box might depress most people, but the ability to just up sticks and change what he was doing was something that roused a sense of excitement in him.
The click of the bottle cap unscrewing bounced off of the solid concrete walls of the monastery, echoing around his otherwise empty room. He eyeballed the statue of Jesus hanging from the cross that hung opposite the cane rocking chair that he took his seat in. Slowly, with an ironic smirk on his face, he raised the bottle as a salute to the muscular figure of Christ before pursing his lips over the bottle and taking a swig of the sweet nectar from within.
In his 23 years working at the monastery, he had not once dabbled in the product for which they were renowned around the globe. He was familiar with the effect it had on people, and the bad press which it had received, but it wasn’t this that put him off of consuming the goods. Nor was it the fear of reprimand from the higher powers for consuming the good produced in the abbey that deterred him. He had simply had no call to dabble in drinking up to this point in his life.
Now was as good a time as any to try, he thought to himself. Without call to deliver any evening services, he would need to find something to occupy his down time after the sun had set moving forward. Not to mention the frugality that had been drilled into him in his younger years meant that he saw no reason he should sample the goods at the prices charged by a convenience store when he had access to it in its abundance for free in his current position.
A bizarre sensation, he thought as he took the first swig. The viscosity of the liquid was treacle-like, and combined with the high caffeine content, he imagined it was having a similar effect on him with each drop as petrol does when filling a car. He didn’t go as far as to make the sound effects, as the sweet yet tangy notes of the tonic wine re-filled the engine that had been empty for so long that he had never truly appreciated that it may be in need of a top-up. A warmth sought out every nook and cranny in his being. He could feel the reactions happening through his blood stream, every blood cell working harmoniously with the next to ensure that the tingly warmth of the liquid filled the cavernous insides of the monk - an old building installed with central heating for the first time. The pipes creaked awake, and he got a taste for oiling them, working his way through the bottle at blistering speed.
Before he knew it, the sun meandered through the stained glass of his window and awoke him, sitting in the rocking chair he had unknowingly fallen asleep in. His head tender, he forced his eyes open and observed his surroundings. Just the one bottle clasped in his hand. The unrelenting allegro played out by his heart shook every inch of his being, unable to steady himself or the chair that rocked back and forth in spite of his best efforts to stop it.
A light chuckle provided a sense of relief, appreciating the bizarre scenario that he found himself in. Experiencing your first hangover at his age is a sensation that has escaped most people. Better now, alone, than in front of his new companions, he thought as he scooped his leather case up from the floor.
He straightened out his brown robes as he reached the door of his room and saluted the statue of Christ one last time, while also subtly checking that he hadn’t forgotten anything. As he locked eyes with Christ, he could not get the words of Isaiah 43:19 out of his head:
“Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”
He smiled, suitcase in one hand, snooker cue in the other, knowing that the Lord would guide this monk on his quest to become Snooker World Champion.
Owen White was an illustrator and artist from the North West based in Leeds. Check out his work.