The Testing

It was night, and the snow was falling, when there was a knocking at the front door of the house.

The elderly couple had just sat down in the cosiness of the kitchen to have dinner. It was their wedding anniversary and there was a bottle of wine on the table. But before they had a chance to take as much as a sip of it, they heard the knocking.

It startled the woman. ‘Who’s at the door on a freezing night like this?’ she said. ‘You stay here - your hip is sore today. I’ll go.’

When she opened the door, she saw a tall man standing on the pathway. He was wearing a long cloak coated in snow. He peeled the hood back from his head so that the woman could see his face.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he said politely. ‘I’m a pilgrim, walking to the monastery at Pluscarden. I need shelter and a place to stay for the night. Are you able to help me? Or perhaps you could recommend a guest-house nearby?’

The woman said nothing for a moment. She was looking at the pilgrim’s face. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘We have a room for you here. Come into the warmth. I’m sure you must be cold.’

Her husband had heard the voices and he appeared behind her. His eyes were fixed on the pilgrim’s feet, naked in his leather sandals.

‘We were just beginning to eat,’ said the woman. ‘Please come and join us. But first, I’ll show you where your bedroom is.’

Back in the kitchen, the man of the house was furious. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing inviting a complete stranger to stay in our house?’

‘He’s a pilgrim and he needs shelter. Why can’t we offer him hospitality? We have a room, and plenty food.’

‘But where did he come from? Who is he? We don’t know the first thing about him!’ the man said, trying not to shout. ‘What if he murders us in our bed and makes off with the television?’

‘But he’s a pilgrim, and he’s on foot. He isn’t going to steal our television! Anyway, I looked at his face and made a decision. So there it is.’

‘Have you taken leave of your senses? He said that he’s a pilgrim. Do you still believe every word you hear?’

‘But didn’t we learn, when we were young, that we should show hospitality to strangers? What was that again … that we might be entertaining angels unawares?’

‘I remember. But in those days, we didn’t know there were characters like Hannibal Lecter going around. We’re in a mess!’ he said with disgust. ‘Thanks to you!’

The woman’s facial expression fell. 

The man turned on his heel. ‘I’ll go and speak to him. I’ll explain.’ 

The light was on in the pilgrim’s bedroom and the door was open. The man of the house took a look inside. There was no sign of the pilgrim, but he noticed a fragrant smell in the air. He couldn’t have named it, but it reminded him of the summer garden in full flower. In his mind’s eye, he had a flash of the lilac tree covered in butterflies. He smiled.

In the kitchen, it was his wife who was now distraught. ‘Where has he gone? Is he hiding in the house somewhere? Did he hear us talking? Has his bag gone?’

‘Did he have a bag? Can you remember?’ The man asked, his voice gentle. ‘I didn’t see a bag.’

She shook her head. Tears were running down her face. 

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll go and look at the path,’ said the man calmly. ‘I expect I’ll see footprints in the new snow, coming and going.’

He put on his coat and hat, picked up a torch and opened the front door. Outside, he saw the pristine snow. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. He looked up into the great firmament, at the stars beyond number twinkling in the heavens. He went out into the glittering night.

‘Head’ (1960) by Cecil Collins.