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hospital was not a single modern building, smelling vaguely of Lysol and piss. St. Anselm’s was like a small town of stone castles set amid the woods, a fairy-tale place of giant granite steps, oaken doors, stained glass, and dim, winding corridors that echoed in their emptiness. There was a spot set amid a thicket of poplars where a curved concrete bench lay before a fountain whose statuary was a pelican piercing its own chest with its beak. Water geysered forth from the wound. And the oddest thing of all was that everyone there, save the patients and old, bent Dr. Hasbith of the bushy white sideburns, was a nun.
    I’d never seen so many nuns before, all of them dressed in their flowing black robes and tight headgear. If one of them came toward you from out of the cool shadows and your eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the dark interior, it was like a disembodied face floating in midair. They moved about in utter silence, and only rarely would one smile in passing. The place was haunted by God. I couldn’t help thinking that our aunt was being held prisoner there, enchanted like Sleeping Beauty, and that on some lucky Saturday we would rescue her.
    As usual, we were not allowed to accompany our parents to the place where Aunt Laura was kept. Jim was left in charge, and we were each given a quarter to buy a soda. We knew that if we went down a set of winding steps that led into what I thought of as a dungeon, we would find a small room with a soda machine and two tables with chairs. Our typical routine was to descend, have a drink, and then go and sit on the bench by the fountain to watch the pelican bleed water for two hours. But that day, after we’d finished our sodas, Jim pointed into the shadow at the back wall of the small canteen to a door I’d never noticed before.
    â€œWhat do you think is in there?” he asked as he walked over to it.
    â€œHell,” said Mary.
    Jim turned the knob, flung the door open, and jumped back. Mary and I left our seats and stood behind him. We could see a set of stone steps leading downward, walls close on either side like a brick gullet. There was no light in the stairway itself, but a vague glow shone up from the bottom of the steps. Jim turned to look at us briefly. “I order you to follow me.”
    At the bottom of the long flight of steps, we found a room with a low ceiling, a concrete floor, and a row of pews that disappeared into darkness toward the back. Up front, near the entrance to the stairway, was a small altar and above it a huge painting in a golden frame. The dim light we had seen from above was a single bulb positioned to illuminate the picture, which showed a scene of Jesus and Mary sitting next to a pool in the middle of a forest. The aquamarine of Mary’s gown was radiant, and both her and Christ’s eyes literally shone. The figures were smiling, and their hair, along with the leaves in the background, appeared to be moving.
    â€œLet’s go back,” I said.
    Mary inched away toward the stairs, and I started to follow her.
    â€œOne second,” said Jim. “Look at this, the holy fishing trip.”
    We heard a rustle of material and something clunk against the heavy wood of one of the pews behind us. I jumped, and even Jim spun around with a look of fright on his face.
    â€œIt’s a lovely scene, isn’t it?” said a soft female voice. From out of the dark came a nun, whose face, pushing through the black mantle of her vestments, was so young and beautiful it confused me. She, too, was smiling, and her hands were pale and delicate. She lifted one as she passed by us and climbed onto the altar. “But you mustn’t miss the message of the painting,” she said, pointing.
    â€œDo you see here?” she asked, and turned to look at us.
    We nodded and followed her direction to gaze into the woods behind Mary and Jesus.
    â€œWhat do you see?”
    Jim stepped closer and a few seconds later