The Enclave

by John Davis Collins.....© 2001 by John F. Clennan, All Rights Reserved

The Enclave was published by the legendary Bill Loepkey's Inditer Dot Com of Canada. Against advancing illness and frustration which the legal system imposed, Bill Loepkey promoted literature and culture on the internet. It is no small recognition that his countrymen have hono[u]red Bill in their Bibliotek Nationale. Of Enclave Bill said it was the weirdest tale he read. Maybe the tale was a tribute with a moral: it is easier to preach than practice courage in adversity.

I stood at the wrought iron gate fumbling nervously with a great ring of keys in my hands. My long flowing sleeves of my brown robes kept getting in the way. The caretaker's wife, with the early morning sun's glimmer in her jet-black hair, steadied my hands with the touch of her hands and a smile.

The caretaker, standing impassively beside with hands on the white suspenders holding up woolen black pants, took no notice of his wife's reassuring smile.

I steadied my hands. Only I as head of table and keeper of the keys could execute the task. That was the ritual of the community, which tended these grounds.

I looked to the world outside the gate, the city which had engulfed our enclave. The chill of the early morning air sent a shock of excitement. I turned to gaze at the stone castle in the middle of the enclave, before I took the key and turned in the lock.

Life of the enclave was a simple one. Days molded together into seasons and seasons into years, through a simple routine.

Mornings began when I was shaken awake by the caretaker. In the dim light, the streaks of grey creeping into his black beard were the only measures of time this ageless strong hold allowed. I looked up to the narrow window at the top of my cubicle. Dark skies were melting into a softer blue.

As I rose, the caretaker nodded, placed his black hat atop his head and stole away. Quickly I dressed. I held my brown robe about me to scurry down the stone slabbed corridor, careful not to make a sound, which might arouse any sleeper from slumber, before I tugged the chapel bell, at true sunrise.

So it had been since the Day, the former head handed me the keys and, with them, the responsibility to keep the traditions of the sanctuary. "And the first shall be last," were the ritual words.

In the darkened chapel, the caretaker and his dark haired wife clung to the shadows inconspicuous in their black attire lighting candles for morning prayer.

For years, the chapel bell called the faithful of the community at dawn from repose to prayer, lines of dark brown robbed hooded figures silently and solemnly made the procession down dingy stone corridors at daybreak.

And the Head of the Table as keeper of the keys who decided who was and was not to be admitted to the community ruled the community according to tradition without uttering a word. Each had a function, which was executed autonomously.

From the chapel's lectern, I looked over the rows of simple wooden benches. As soon as first rays burst through a simple glass pane window facing east, I bowed my head in silent prayer.

Just as in my days huddled with the community on the benches, no words were said aloud. Once taught a prayer, there was no need to pray aloud or say anything else. And yet in unison, the community would rise from the benches and file out to the great hall for a simple breakfast.

From the chapel I hurried to the Great Hall, so named for its size rather than grandeur. In the large sparsely furnished room, its roof two stories about, upheld by pillars, the community gathered around a rough-hewn table. As the caretaker's wife quickly prepared a hot gruel on the stove behind head of the table, loaves of bread were passed around the table.

At one time, the bread loaves were broken by 120 sets of hands before that which remained was returned to the head of the table who declared, "And the first shall be last," the only words ordinarily uttered aloud in our enclave.

Our rule was silence, but the caretaker's wifes' starched white apron over her black dress, dished out the simple gruel with a sparkle in her black eyes and pleasant smile, which spoke unsaid volumes.

Now I stood at head of table and said the words as I received the bread, I still saw the same smile accompanying the gruel, not clouded by the wrinkles at its edge.

After breakfast, the community filed out into the gardens in spring and summer for labor, cultivating the grapes we crushed for the wine making which raised what little money needed to support the simple regimen of our enclave. In winter, weather allowing, we would peripater among the grounds in silent meditation, as I did this day.

Often, I found myself by the ivied wrought ironed gates where the former head of table had handed they keys to me and I had protested my unworthiness. Yet I knew only I could do the job.

Once handed the keys only I could release the former head from the enclave. I had on that occasion struggled with the keys, clinging on the huge ring, as my predecessor reassured me that the caretaker and his wife would faithfully help keep the gardens.

"Where will you go? What will you do?" I asked as I looked beyond the ivy gates.

"Into the pilgrimage of life", came the reply.

How long ago was that? I thought as I stared at the gate. In a place without clocks or calendars or other markers of time, days melded together into the eternal change of seasons. Was it six months ago, a year ago, or a year and half ago or ten?

In the enclave, which held the cycle of time in the change of season, I couldn't be sure.

I wasn't even sure how long I had been lost in thought by the gate. I regarded the gate more as a demarcation line defining the boundary of the community than a barrier. Any without were free to join. Yet none had come to replace the faces which vanished from the table.

Yet despite the boundary marked by rusty gates held together by great bolts of steel, I regarded myself as the first person alive in the private Eden of my own thoughts.

And the gate had never held anyone who hadn't wanted to remain. The keeper of the keys released any who wanted to go, just as I had released my predecessor. Fortunately, I would not have been required to execute the task a second time.

I do not know how long I had been staring at the chain, when I was grabbed gently on the arm by the caretaker. I looked at the greying skies. It was time to start the evening prayer.

Yes, as I watching the bobbing black top disappear into the chapel, the former head had been right. The caretaker and his wife though not formally members of the community, had remained faithful. What would they do if they had to make a pilgrimage into real life?

I walked slowly among trees and vines, which would in the weeks ahead spring into bloom. The grounds of this Eden not the chaos in the world beyond the iron gates were my concern I reassured myself.

In the enclave, days ended as they began and days stretched into seasons and the caretaker's wife who had given birth three times still smiled sedulously at me in Head of Table as she had at me on the bench. Why would I think it would ever change?

In the chapel light to grey souring, the caretaker and his wife clung to the growing shadows as inconspicuous in black in evening as at dawn.

The bell returned the faithful from labor to prayer, to complete the cycle of endless days.

I looked through the shadows at the caretaker's wife. Where had the children gone in the pilgrimage to the life beyond our gates?

I had no time to muse. The last rays of the dying light shimmered through the simple western pane. I turned to the benches to begin the evening prayer. Another day had ended as it had begun.

After evening prayer, I scurried to my position as Head of Table.

When I first arrived in the Enclave, these may have been over 120 who passed the loaves, pulling a piece no greater nor less than the previous as passing the remainder down and then up the bench so that the Head of Table who received the last piece should in theory have the same as the first. Raising the remainder aloft, the Head of Table would announce, "And the first shall be last."

I had come to head of table to say those words myself.

I had just completed that blessing and the caretaker's wife was leaning over to pour my gruel when a voice from the darkened corridor cried out, "If I hadn"t seen this myself, I'd never have believed it --- so bizarre, so medieval, so - - spooky."

I turned to the voice. From the shadows, out came people in business suits together with a sheriff in the usual grey uniform.

Another voice exclaimed, "Could you imagine, these three people living in this garden of Eden by themselves dressing up like elves and playing a silly game?

And I looked down the long table. When I had come here to the Enclave, the loaves of bread were pulled by six scores of hands. Now only I remained as keeper of the keys in this private Eden.

The sheriff, blond hair tied back in a bulb, threw some papers on the table in front of me and growled, "Eden's closed and you're evicted. The property was sold to developers. Pack your bags and be gone in the morning.

There was silence. Another voice in the shadows whispered with a seductive giggle, "I wonder if they wear underwear under those costumes."

I looked at the caretaker's wife whose face reddened and then to the caretaker himself whose muscles tensed as he prepared to attack any who would try.

Yet tension eased when the laughter re-echoing down the stone corridor subsided with the sheriff's command, "Show's over folks - - until tomorrow morning at least.

I was awaked by the caretaker. His dark eyes reflected the dying twinkle of starlight as he nodded at me. It was time to begin the day.

I swirled in my brown robe down the stone slabbed corridor, careful not to make a sound, before chapel bell gave the signal. In the darkened chapel, the caretaker and his wife both dressed in inconspicuous black, light candles to prepare the simple sanctuary for the silent morning prayer.

From the lectern, I waited with the rows of empty benches for the first ray of light to stream through the simple window facing east. "Today, the prayer is said aloud as we begin a pilgrimage into real life."

Breakfast followed the simple ritual, before we marched to the gate.

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