THE LAST MONK, 9

At the police station and being interviewed by an Inspector who found understanding Betty very difficult.

THE LAST MONK

9

“I think you’ve had enough surprises for one day,” said Inspector Appleby when it must have been clear that I was at a loss as to what to say about anything he wanted to discuss with me. It was as if we were using the same words but making them work for two different languages.

“I rather thought you’d be a bit more, let me see, what am I trying to say, a bit more worldly than you seem to be.” he added thoughtfully.

I couldn’t think of a single reply because I had no idea what he meant by worldly. Instead I just stared at him. It was another case of words I knew arranged into a language that I didn’t understand. All except for worldly, of course.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a brief pause, “I had no idea that you knew nothing about your parents, and particularly your father. You do know that we all need two parents in order to be conceived, don’t you?”

“Conceived…?” I asked. I was beginning to come to a real understanding that there was a lot I didn’t know but ought to. As far as I was concerned it was ideas that were conceived, not people. And at the same time as I was feeling ignorant I could tell that the Inspector was feeling uncomfortable.

“What we’ll do is take a break,” he said after an unnaturally lengthy pause, “and I’ll get an expert in tomorrow, to help us. But what you will learn, Betty, is the actual way of things, of the world, of men and women, and not what three rather odd characters in the guise of monks taught you The truth is that a lot of what you believe to be natural law, or immutable fact if you like, is wrong. But don’t worry, you’re not alone in that!”

“I’m not?” That was a relief anyway.

“Let me tell you something that half of the population today wouldn’t accept if I told them,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table and looking directly at me, “there have long been fables, that is, if you don’t know the word fable, stories created in order to promote understanding at a time when real knowledge was very limited. Stories about the world we live on stories about how we came to be here, stories about just about everything, and these days they’re generally lumped together as religions with a powerful deity at the head of the saga. A story might say that a god, a powerful being living in the skies, made the Earth. Now, it’s taken a long time but gradually most of those stories have been shown to be so much rubbish because what they describe is impossible. But they’re still taught to young children in some schools, and quite a lot of the children take them as the truth and believe them. They become what I call perceived truth even though they had their origins in very old stories devised so long ago that nobody alive today can really understand what knowledge of the world was like, but some people have them so firmly in their minds that they can’t disbelieve them.

“You know, Betty, soon I’ll show you around the town here, and point out the churches. They’re mostly the tallest buildings because it was thought that they ought to reach into the skies, to be close to God, who’s somewhere in the sky. And if a new church has to be built for some reason or other it’ll probably seem to reach into the skies even though other more reasonable theories have shown that God can’t exist and that everything is part of a natural process. But belief in a powerful creating being is in a lot of minds and can’t be moved. I think you’re like those people. You’ve got things in your mind, from your education if you like, and you don’t want anyone to say things against them because the knowledge you have gives you comfort. I’m right there, aren’t I? For instance, I know that you are a really beautiful young woman with a pretty face and lovely eyes, but you’ve been told so many times that you’re a man that you can’t believe me.”

I thought for a moment. I did understand what he was trying to tell me, but something iinside me couldn’t accept it. Then,

“It’s just words, isn’t it?” I said, “whatever you call me, a man or a woman, I’m still the same me, aren’t I?”

And I could tell that I had him there. Or her. I had her there. Or is it a he? Have I been confused into not knowing there are two genders? I was a boy and now I’m a man, an elderly man I was told… maybe the truth lay in that.

“Am I an old man?” I asked him, “one ready for the tomb?”

“Goodness me, no, of course not,” he replied, and I could see he understood what I was getting at. “Betty, you’re, what, 22 years old? You didn’t exist longer than 22 years ago because that’s when you were born. I know that‘s a fact. So if you were a man you’d be a young man. But when I look at you I can’t see a young man, but, and here I’m going to repeat it, a very beautiful young woman.”

I closed my eyes for a moment or two, then looked up at him.

“What’s beautiful?” I asked him.

“What you see when you look in a mirror,” he told me after a moment or two of thought.

“Then I need a mirror,” I said.

He smiled. “You need a lot of things,” he said, “and tomorrow we’ll go about sorting things out for you. But as for today, there’s a place with a room for you to sleep in and hopefully not have too many bad or confusing dreams. Can you remember sergeant Lovelace?”

“Amy?” I said.

“That’s her. She can take you, and stay with you for the night. Try to sleep well because you may find yourself having to unlearn quite a lot tomorrow. Like you’re not n old man but one of the prettiest ladies in town! And to get the image right, Amy’s about your size. She’ll pop into a clothing shop and help you pick out a pretty frock to complete the picture! We can’t take a lovely woman around if she looks like a grumpy old man, then. Can we? And don’t worry about the money. She’ll have enough.”

“What’s money?” I asked.

He smiled broadly. “I suspect you’ll find out far too soon,” he said.

© Peter Rogerson 13.08.23

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