Birgitta the Nun

Part 59 - The Madness

In another part of the monastery, Pristine had her plans going. Time was mature, and invited the nun to act before long. A certain correct ministry would have to be contacted, approached with the most obscure, but literal, accusations. The charges against the monastery, formulated in the neatest of wordings, would be impossible to untangle without a substantial change. The abbess wouldn't have to return, oh no—there was no need for that. Pristine would take care of things. Birgitta's hotel bills offered an excellent opportunity for an assault on the monastery. And it would take place - Pristine had made up her mind - with or without any note of authority.

The monastery was neither a private nor a public institution, but stood on several pillars somewhere in between. This was something that Sœur Pristine planned to make use of. Why not provide the gregarious part of the land with something appropriate and effective? Why not make this closed off territory a bit hospitable—yes, even generous? She would open the convent up and invite activity and commerce. Also order and hygiene.

Pristine reveled at the idea: a first-rate restaurant, here at the convent. It was brilliant. It would not only serve the public and be of general amusement, but also in fact make a profit. As things were now, the massive stone building did nothing but cost money, and bit by bit decay and depreciate.

At the center of the monastery, Pristine wandered about the grand dining hall. Its high-vaulted ceiling and vast stone floor always made a great impression on her. It could assemble so much, this room. Everything would fit in there—every article and activity conceivable. Pristine swirled, but came to a halt.

Though her vestment was old and torn, the coarse fabric wouldn't comply and stop its itching. She scratched her chest for the hundredth time that day, and longed to be free of the disturbing outfit. Who would wear these kind of things, really? Well—flagellants, of course, because that's what she was dealing with. They loved that kind of bunk - masochism, asceticism, and austerity - it was all a part of their wicked plan.

She went up to the grand table in the middle of the hall and poked her bony index finger at a chair. It tilted backwards - kept going - and fell to the floor with a horrible crash. This was no good, Pristine shook her head. These chairs would have to be burned, and replaced with something more sturdy and elegant. Yes, especially elegant - she liked that. And the table would have to go too, absolutely—no more poor slopping at a collective dining table. It was time for integrity. Small, separate dining tables, giving occasion for private and, of course, important, conversations—that was the way to go.

Pristine could see it all before her, the whole of her plan being realized: tables for two and tables for four. A maître d'hôtel running her legs off. Steaming plates proceeding in a steady line from the kitchen. The smiling faces of overly pleased customers—there would have to be some restriction of simple clientele of course, but that would be soon taken care of with a bit of over-pricing.

Pristine's head started to spin with ideas. The wind of change was stirring about her. This would be her breakthrough—this would be where she finally settled a refined future for her daughter.

Incidentally, not only the head of Pristine started to spin - as it was, the whole of the dining hall, and every furniture in it, began to stir. The old wooden chairs screeched as they were forced to shift. The grand table scraped gravely against the floor as it was pushed by some invisible force. The tapestries of the high walls took fright, and tore away from their hooks. They danced around the ceiling, lifted by an impossible wind.

Outside - in the garden and all around the immense stone building - calmness and quietness reigned. The evening was in no mood for a fight, and the only storm happening would be inside the monastery.

The movement around Pristine continued to spread. Small currents of air whirled around her, collecting dust at her busy feet. Every atom of the convent felt the effect. Pristine was not supposed to be there: her spirit did not belong in a monastery, and its presence upset the environment terribly. She pushed, everything quivered, the storm grew. And so she set the whole of the atmosphere shaking.

Thus, Pristine lost her last contact with the earthly. For now, reality was lost to her: she closed her eyes and let it drift away.

In the middle of the turbulence, Madeleine came rushing. She caught a glimpse of the hustling Pristine and directed her steps accordingly. But, before she had reached the dining hall, a gust of wind caught her, and sent her flying out of the room. She crashed against the hallway wall and almost lost her grip on the cheque. But only almost. What just happened? She considered the set back - then she let it go. She was going to save the monastery and that was that. The adrenaline of Pristine was contagious—the energy spread.

Madeleine frowned as she again approached the dining hall. The turmoil continued about her, but she didn't notice. It did not concern her. Only her mission concerned her. She was going to overtake Pristine - and she was going to save the monastery.

She put the cheque between her teeth and crawled into the storm. On her hands and knees, she had no problem maneuvering the winds. She could not see reason anymore. The whole of the monastery was trying to tell her to flee, but she didn't listen. She was too focused on her crawling. Adrenaline rang loud in her ears, deafening every thought of running in the other direction. She had to continue. Yes, indeed—by now she even wanted to continue.

The check throbbed between her teeth. Soon Madeleine would have her revenge. Soon she would show that crazy nun, that money-wanting menace—Pristine was a plague, indeed, a sickness, but most likely not impossible to bribe.