It is penance. No meat. No speech. No guest who’s not family. No book that’s not God’s. No choice that is not Père Abbot’s. No fish unless sick. In winter frost thickens the windows and walls. Bed at seven like children. Up at two when night still blinds the cold panes and the bells begin clanging. Kneel then, head heavy with hood. Nine offices, each with its own special bell. At least nine kinds of work, each a penance. Milking in shadowy stalls, hardly seeing cow or the pail. Filing out to break stones big as beds. Pulling weeds, haying fields filled with sun. Hay dust swarms the barn. Inside, mopping floors, the refectory stagnant with beans, cabbage soup. Dipping candles, stitching stiff boots. Idle hands cradle demons. Even the silence is thick with merciless sounds: Frère Marcel wheezing through Mass; Frère Jean smacking his lips through each meal. Offering these up. Each penance wings a soul past the stone walls to rest in the willows that weep on the shore.