The Peacock Mosaic

Shelter from a Storm


  

Clouds had been gathering for hours. It began spitting rain; then turned into a shower; it started to pour; pelted down and we ran inside an ancient abbey. Damp and cold, we wandered through long stone corridors feeling the ghosts of the abbey following in our wake. In the disused cells and halls our words echoed even when we whispered. I found myself turning around to see if anyone was listening. In my mind’s eye I could see young hooded monks with faces illuminated like pale moons gliding through the archways and the creased faces of the ancient ones, who were bent over and shuffling along, envious of their younger brothers. I swore I could hear a low melodious chanting somewhere just beyond eyesight. We came upon a small chamber where a meal had been prepared, had we disturbed someone? Who else was in the abbey? I sat on the bench. Cold, wet and hungry, I felt tempted to partake of the meagre repast. With sudden presence of mind I asked Helen to take a photo with my camera. The camera doesn’t lie, does it?

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