When the sun is down we repair to one of the larger public rooms to fulfill the last obligation of our day: the gymnastics session, with Frater Bernard. According to the Book of Skulls, keeping the body supple is essential to the prolongation of life. Well, that’s not news, but of course a special mystical-cosmological aspect informs the Brotherhood’s technique of keeping the body supple. We begin with breathing exercises, the significance of which Frater Bernard has explained to us in his usual laconic way; it has something to do with rearranging one’s relationship to the universe of phenomena so that the macrocosm is inside one and the microcosm is outside, I think, but I hope to get further clarification of this as we go along. Also there is much esoteric stuff involving development of the “inner breath,” but apparently it’s not considered important for us to comprehend this yet Anyway, we squat and vigorously hyperventilate, dumping all impurities out of our lungs and sucking in good clean spiritually approved night air; after an extended period of exhaling and inhaling, we move on to breath-retention drills that leave us giddy and exalted, and then to strange breath-transportation maneuvers, in which we must learn to direct our inhalations to various parts of our bodies much as we did previously with the sunlight. All this is hard work, but the hyperven-tilation produces a satisfactory euphoria: we become light-headed and optimistic and convince ourselves easily that we are well along the road to life eternal. Perhaps we are, if oxygen = life and carbon dioxide = death.

When Frater Bernard judges that we have breathed ourselves into a state of grace, we begin the reeling and writhing. The exercises have been different each night, as though he draws on a repertoire of infinite variety developed over a thousand centuries. Sit with legs, crossed and heels on floor, clasp hands over head, touch elbows five times rapidly to floor. (Ouch!) Touch left hand to left knee, raise right hand over head, breathe deeply ten times. Repeat with right hand to right knee, left hand aloft. Now both hands high overhead, bob head vociferously until stars sparkle behind closed eyelids. Stand, put hands to hips, twist violently to the side until trunk is bent at a ninety-degree angle, first toward left, then toward right Stand on one leg, clutch other knee to chin. Hop like madman. And so on, including many things we are not yet limber enough to do — foot wrapped around head, or arms flexed in inverted position, or rising and sitting with legs crossed, and so forth. We do our best, which is never quite good enough to satisfy Frater Bernard; wordlessly he reminds us, through the suppleness of his own movements, of the great goal toward which we strive. I’m prepared to learn, any day now, that in order to attain life eternal it will be absolutely necessary to master the art of sticking one’s elbow in one’s mouth; if you can’t do it, it’s tough, baby, but you’re doomed to wither by the wayside.

Frater Bernard works us close to the point of exhaustion. He himself goes through every routine he demands of us, never missing a single bending or flexing, and showing no particular signs of strain as he cavorts. The best of us at these calisthenics is Oliver, the worst Eli; yet Eli goes about them with a weird clumsy enthusiasm that must be admired.

Finally we are dismissed, usually after about ninety minutes of work. The rest of the evening is free time, but we take no advantage of our freedom; at that point we’re ready to topple into bed, and do, for all too soon will come the dawn and Frater Franz’s cheery rat-tat-tat on my door. And so to sleep. I’ve been sleeping soundly, more soundly than ever before.

Thus our daily routine. What does it all mean? Are we growing younger here? Are we growing older? Will the shining promise of the Book of Skulls be fulfilled for any of us? Does any of what we do each day make sense? The skulls on the walls give me no answers. The smiles of the fraters are impenetrable. We discuss nothing with one another. Pacing my ascetic room, I hear the paleolithic gong tolling in my own skull, clang, clang, clang, wait and see, wait and see, wait and see. And the Ninth Mystery hangs over us all like a dangling sword.

chapter twenty-nine

Timothy

This afternoon, while we were scraping up barrels of hen shit in ninety-degree heat, I decided that I’d had it. The joke had gone on long enough. Vacation was just about over, anyway; I wanted out. I had felt that way the first day we were here, of course, but for Eli’s sake I suppressed my feelings. Now I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I decided that I’d speak to him before dinner, during the rest period.

When we came in from the fields I took a quick bath and went down the hall to Eli’s room. He was still in the tub; I heard the water running, heard him singing in his deep monotone voice. Eventually he came out, toweling himself. life here was agreeing with him: he looked stronger, more muscular. He gave me a frosty look.

“Why are you here, Timothy?”

“Just a visit.”

“It’s the rest period. We’re supposed to be alone.”

“We’re always supposed to be alone,” I said, “except when we’re with them. We never get a chance to talk privately to each other any more.”

“That’s evidently part of the ritual.”

“Part of the game,” I said, “part of the crappy game they’re playing with us. Look, Eli, you’re practically like a brother to me. There isn’t anyone can tell me when I can talk to you and when I can’t.”

“My brother the goy,” he said. Quick smile, on-off. “We’ve had plenty of time for talking. We’re under instructions now to keep apart from one another. You ought to go, Timothy. Really, you ought to go, before the fraters catch you in here.”

“What is this, a goddamn jail?”

“It’s a monastery. A monastery has rules, and by coming here we’ve made ourselves subject to those rules.” He sighed. “Will you please go, Timothy?”

“It’s those rules that I want to talk about, Eli.”

“I don’t make them. I can’t excuse you from any of them.”

“Let me talk,” I said. “You know, the clock keeps ticking while we stay here being a Receptacle. We’ll be missed, soon. Our families will notice they haven’t heard from us. Somebodyll discover we didn’t go back to school after Easter.”

“So?”

“How long are we going to stay here, Eli?”

“Until we have what we want.”

“You believe all the crap they’ve been telling us?”

“You still think it’s crap, Timothy?”

“I haven’t seen or heard anything to make me change my original opinion.”

“What about the fraters? How old do you think they are?”

I shrugged. “Sixty. Seventy. Some of them may be in their eighties. They lead a good life, plenty of fresh air and exercise, careful diets. So they keep themselves in shape.”

“I believe Prater Antony is at least a thousand years old,” Eli said. His tone was cold, aggressive, defiant: he was daring me to laugh at him, and I couldn’t. “Possibly he’s much older than that,” Eli went on. “The same for Frater Miklos and Frater Franz. I don’t think there’s one Of them who’s less than a hundred fifty or so.”

“Wonderful.”

“What do you want, Timothy? Do you want to leave?”

“I’ve been considering it.”

“By yourself or with us?”

“Preferably with you. By myself if necessary.”

“Oliver and I aren’t leaving, Timothy. And I don’t think Ned is either.”

“I guess that puts me on my own, then.”

“Is that a threat?” he asked. “It’s an implication.”

“You know what’ll happen to the rest of us if you pull out.”

“Are you seriously afraid that the fraters will enforce that oath?” I asked.

“We swore not to leave,” Eli said. “They named the penalty and we agreed to abide by it. I wouldn’t underestimate their ability to impose it if one of us gave them cause.”