The door of the chapel is heavy wood, dark and solid and serious. Godly. Les Portes Divines, thinks the nun randomly as she feels against its grain for the handle. Yahweh takes care of the way the virtuous go. She feels the love of Jesus, God's love, deep inside her, burning her up. It stabs through her, tearing her apart, like the sword that pieced the Virgin's heart at the crucifixion. My palate is drier than a potsherd, Lord, and my tongue is stuck to my jaw.

The sweat prickles her forehead under her wimple. Où est la poignée? Pourquoi je la vois pas? The door and its handle, so heavy and godly, seem to swim before her eyes, three or four handles turning slowly anti-clockwise before her as she tries to grasp hold of one. Gates, raise your arches! Rise, you ancient doors...

Finally, she catches one and clings to the handle like someone drowning. Yahweh, make your ways known to me, teach me your path. Set me in the way of your truth and teach me, for you are the God who saves me.

The door is heavy, and for a moment the nun cannot get her trembling fingers to open it. The panic and the anticipation of God's presence churn her insides. The whole door is now slowly revolving in front of her as she holds firm to the handle. As firm as her clammy, trembling hands will allow. But she holds the handle as if her salvation depended upon it – indeed, in that moment, she knows that her salvation does indeed depend upon it. She leans on the wood, her body too weak to move the door, then shakily pushes and finally the handle releases.

She stumbles through into the warm, incense-infused, comfortable darkness.

Beyond the stained glass behind the altar, the evening sky is already fast fading. The red sanctuary candle above the tabernacle, and the flickering white votive lights around the base of the Virgin's statue, off to the left, lend the gloom of the rest of the chapel a tangible, welcoming, enveloping safety. The nun has no need of mere earthly vision in any case, even if her eyes are now failing her so badly. She feels the light of the Lord calling her on.

The flagstone floor hurts her knees where she falls, and she despises the weakness overwhelming her body. The flesh is so weak...aie pitié, Seigneur! Hélas, the weaknesses of the flesh! Take pity on me, Yahweh, raise me up...by this I shall know that I enjoy your favour. One trembling hand gropes for a support, brushes the wood of a pew. The nun gasps as another jolt of pain rips through her, more severe than before, and tries again for the pew. She tastes bile in her throat. Her bladder gives way.

She cannot stand, but the pew serves as enough of a support to allow her to crawl forward. Cold, salty sweat seeps into her habit, making the rough material scratch unpleasantly against her body as she half-drags herself three, four, five rows further in. She tastes the sweat on her lips and retches as it mingles with the acidic tang in her mouth. She stifles a cough, and swallows hard but too late. A thin stream of vomit slides down her chin, clinging to her sweat- and piss-soaked habit.

Shaking bodily now, not just in her hands, she pulls herself into a pew and slumps heavily against the kneeler attached to the back of the pew in front. The flesh is so weak, Lord, but the spirit...the spirit is willing.

She wipes her face with her arm, and for a moment the flickering lights and the darkness stop swimming before her and she sees the blessed face of salvation: long brown hair, kind eyes, a soft voice calling her name: Sister Amata, Amata, Thérèse...on va t'aider...régarde-moi, Thérèse, t'es toujours là?...s'il te plait, ma chère...Thérèse...

Not the face of Jesus, not using that name. Not in the nun's native French. Yahweh, set a guard at my mouth, a watcher at the gate of my lips...ses lèvres, mon Dieu...at the gate of my lips; let me feel no impulse to do wrong...mais, ses lèvres, ah, quel bonheur...no impulse to share the godlessness of evil-doers. No, I will not sample their delights.

The nun retches again and feels the bile of Satan leave her, stream down her habit, drenching her sinful body with its evil. If only she could focus on the Lord, release herself into his arms. Libera me, Domine!

With effort, the nun raises her eyes to the altar and the face of Satan is gone!

As time seems to stand still, the crucifix on the altar swims forward slowly, inviting her to kneel at its foot and embrace the Lord's sacrifice. Embrace his sweet, bruised feet, pierced for her sins and swathed in the purple robes of his glory. From the depths I call to you, Lord, listen to my cry for help!...If you never overlooked our sins, could anyone survive?

She feels the Lord's feet welcome her lips, welcome her kiss...then she can feel his sacred blood fill her mouth, and once again the face of salvation is bending close over her, reassuring, calming...why does it sound so much like the sweet voice of Satan? I lift my eyes...where is help to come from? Help comes to me from the Lord who made heaven and earth.

The nun slowly slumps sideways, exhausted, and has no strength left to fight the darkness.