Travels Through An Imaginary Landscape

The Sound of Screaming, Part Three

          It was sometime around the second helping of Apple Strudel that I finally stopped to ponder the contradictory nature of the welcome at the Abbey. At the Reverend Mother’s insistence I had already managed to wolf down two large bowls full of a delicious broth (my lanky companion had quite heroically downed three). If hospitality were to be measured solely on the quality and quantity of the food then the Abbey had to rank as one of the best places in the world to stumble upon when lost. Yet, however tasty and plentiful the dishes on offer, there was something about the general atmosphere and the manner of the Reverend Mother in particular that made me just a touch uneasy.

          She’d led us across the courtyard to a spacious dining hall dominated by a vast wooden crucifix hanging from the wall at one end. We were seated at the end of one of the polished dining tables that ran the length of the room and the Reverend Mother served us herself, periodically vanishing through a heavy wooden door at the side to bring forth more food. To be honest, judging from the pallid cast of our hostess’s face I hadn’t been expecting a whole lot from the catering. But after just a few mouthfuls I was prepared to put her pasty complexion down to the fact that nuns probably didn’t get out much. The food was utterly delicious.

          The Reverend Mother didn’t eat herself but sat alongside us, watching eagerly before hurrying off at the first sign of an empty plate to bring back fresh supplies. It was as she was gathering up the empty strudel plates that it finally occurred to me to ask the obvious question. “Where are all the other nuns?”

          It was true we hadn’t seen much of the place but so far the Abbey seemed about as populous as the rest of Salzburg.

          “The sisters are confined to their cells for the moment,” replied the Reverend Mother smoothly. “They are communing with God.”

          “But we couldn’t help noticing that as we passed through the town it was a bit… dead,” added Michael, searching for the appropriate adjective.

          The Reverend Mother busied herself with the plates. “Well, Salzburg has always been a rather quiet town.”

          “But this was more than quiet,” I insisted. “This was, well… deserted.”

          “Had enough strudel?” the Reverend Mother asked abruptly, scooping up dishes and cutlery. “Never mind, I’m sure you have just a bit of room left for one or two of our delicious pastries. The Abbey is renowned all over town for the quality of our pastries.”

          Before Michael or I could protest she had swept out of the hall, the door clanging shut behind her. Michael sighed and leaned back with the air of a man contemplating how much he could safely digest before he was in danger of bursting. But my curiosity had now been aroused. “You’ve got to admit, there’s something very wrong about this place,” I began in a low voice. “It’s like a morgue.”

          Michael shrugged. “You said yourself – it’s an Abbey, it’s not meant to be lively.”

          “No but it’s more than that. It’s like somebody sucked the very life out of the place.” I paused and glanced round at the sparsely decorated hall. “I say we skip the pastries and make our move.”

          Michael considered for a moment. “I’m not sure I could eat another bite anyway,” he ruefully conceded.

          I rose from the bench and walked over to the door by which we had entered. Attempting to turn the handle though soon brought up an immediate obstacle. “It’s locked!” I exclaimed. “When did she lock the door? I don’t remember seeing her lock the door.”