Chartreuse - a Sci-Fi Short Story



  Chartreuse

  A

  Sci-Fi

  Short Story

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lisa Shea

  Book design by Lisa Shea

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at https://www.LisaShea.com

  ~ v6 ~

  As the rain-streaked landscape of bustling Paris suburbs streamed past the rental car’s windows, I pressed the accelerator down with even more force, anxious to get to my destination. I’d suffered long, stifling hours on a cross-Atlantic flight and the dense throngs at the airport, followed by the insane traffic of downtown Paris and its urban sprawl. At last I was finally nearing the end of my journey. Beside me, on the blue cloth seat, a battered canvas knapsack held what remained of my worldly possessions.

  There was a change of clothes, some toiletries, a dog-eared prayer book, and my prize possession - a grimy encyclopedia of herbs and plants. That small bundle was all I was bringing with me into my new life.

  The car’s GPS display was easy to follow in the dawn light, its large arrow pointing me to the next turn in the maze of streets. The distance-to-target numbers clicked off the miles with metronomic calm. With the contraptions of the year 2103 bright on my dashboard, and the throngs of cars and buildings around me, I was still able to imagine myself as one of the travelers of millennium past, nearing the destination of my pilgrimage.

  This was a journey that few in my life had agreed with. My parents had argued with me ceaselessly about my chosen path. They reminded me that I was only thirty, hardly an age to be entering a monastery in these pressing times. My skills in botany might help nourish the hungry of the world, to find a solution to the near-insolvable problems of feeding so many. My father pointed out, repeatedly, that while there were indeed Carthusian nuns, the monastery I was interested in was solely comprised of men. How would they deal with a woman in their midst? Both of my parents also desperately wanted me to bear them grandchildren, despite the overabundance of humans already straining our planet to the limits.

  I sighed, thinking of those arguments. Having children was the last thing that I wanted. I needed to get away from it all – away from the hectic news flashes about starvation; away from the press of humanity that bombarded me when I left my tiny apartment.

  The GPS pointed left, and I waited at the red light, watching the heavy traffic around me. The teeming mass of civilization was lessening slightly now that I was nearing the protected zone around Vauvert. I knew that zoning laws did not apply within the monastery’s acreage. Then I saw the break ahead - a sharp demarcation across the landscape. One side had tight row-houses and cars ... the other was open meadow. It was startling to see the fields and the openness. I neared the chain-link fence that marked the edge of the protected area and showed my ID to the guard who manned the gate. He looked it over and then waved me through. The packed houses faded abruptly, replaced with carpets of May poppies. My breathing deepened, and I rolled down the passenger window a crack to let in the fresh aromas of field and flower. The cares of the outer world seeped away; the stresses in my shoulders released and relaxed.

  The miles rolled by, the quiet wrapping itself around me in a gentle embrace. Ahead, growing closer with every mile, was La Grande Chartreuse itself. It was early yet for tourists to be arriving, and again I thought of myself as a medieval traveler, perhaps on donkey-back, making this final stage of my journey. I was joining an order whose history traced back to 1084. With change an ever-present demon in the 2100s, this truly was a group whose way of life had remained practically the same for centuries upon centuries.

  I pulled around to a side entrance, parking next to a set of worn stone steps. A brother ambled out from an archway to greet me, welcoming me in a low, melodious voice. I handed him the keys, and he took the rental around to the garage area. It was to be returned by one of the brothers in a few days, when they went in to town for supplies. My possessions now could be carried in one hand. I took a deep breath and entered the ancient halls, looking around me in wonder.

  I had found that many religious buildings had a sense of being a museum. St. Peter’s Cathedral in Rome had always struck me in that way - somewhere to visit, to admire artwork, but not necessarily somewhere to find a personal connection with God. La Grande Chartreuse was different. You could see the worn impressions where thousands of feet over the years had trod the steps, going to their prayers. The wood benches were smooth from the bodies of countless monks and nuns. The structure had an encompassing feeling of comfort, and I felt as if I had finally come home. It seemed that I could slide into a bench and that it would receive me; that it would be shaped to fit me.

  A voice broke through the ease of my thoughts, and I realized that an early tourist group was indeed in the building. I bristled with irritation; they were disturbing my first moments in my new home! Then, shaking myself, I let the tension pass over me and through me. This was a fact of life in the way I had chosen, and to be annoyed with it was senseless. I turned and listened with amusement as the party - elderly Americans, judging by their dress and quiet chatter - were lectured on the history of this building.

  “The French nationalized the monastery in 1904,” the young female guide explained in a cheerful voice. Her blonde ponytail bobbed as she led the group down the stone hallway. “The government was hoping to learn the secret of the famous drink Chartreuse, which only three monks hold the key to. While the monks fled to Spain, the government brought in scientists, hoping to determine the secret recipe. With all of the technology at hand, and with the actual distillery in their possession, they were still unable to unravel the secrets of this drink. Eventually the monastery was returned to the monks, where they make the ‘Elixir of Long Life’ to this day.”

  One of the grey-haired men raised his hand and repeated back to the guide, “Elixir of Long Life? Does it work?”

  Amidst quiet laughter, the guide shook her head in mock sadness. “I’m afraid not. The recipe was given to these monks in 1605, and apparently even at that point the manuscript was quite old. All we outsiders know is that it starts with seventy percent wine alcohol and adds in one hundred and thirty herbs and spices. The result is fresh, herbal, delicious, and is famous around the globe.” She smiled, and the ponytail swished as she turned. “Come, let me show you the cellars - the largest liqueur cellars in the entire world.”

  The group moved off, and I noticed a sign on one wall indicating the administrative offices were down a hallway to the left. I knew the layout of the church by heart - I had pored over the website countless times as I awaited the results of the required background check and psychological profile. Very few applicants chose to isolate themselves with the Carthusian order in these modern times, and the monks wanted to make sure that any new “family members” would fit in smoothly with the existing brotherhood. I had passed the initial tests and had been invited out to the church to begin an orientation process. The monks would review my progress for first few years to ensure that I was truly appropriate for this calling. Only then would I be accepted as a full member of the order.

  I was surprised, walk
ing along the stone corridor, to hear an angry murmur coming from the stout wooden door before me. The brothers could talk, certainly. This was not a silent monastery. Still, the order was famous for its quiet contemplation and gentle ways. What could this argument be about?

  The voices grew more strident as I approached. An elderly man’s voice cried out in exasperation, “But she’s a woman. We’ve never had to work with a woman. It’s simply not heard of.”

  A second, raspy voice chimed in. “Exactly. We refuse.”

  There was a long pause, and then a younger voice spoke up, speaking smoothly. “Honored Fathers, I understand your concerns. This is an order with a long and venerated history. Still, the Carthusian Nuns are a part of that history, and you must admit that women of that order have proved invaluable over the centuries.”

  Another pause. I was standing by the door now, and could hear his inhale before he continued. “You will not live forever, fathers, and we need a botanist to carry on the great work of creating Chartreuse. We need someone who can faithfully create what was given to us so many centuries ago. We simply do not have any male applicants who fit our needs. Leslie is exactly what we have been praying for during these