Philip was woken once again by the same ruckus that disturbed his sleep every week since he had been sent to the monastery. He pulled his hood over his head to block out the noise coming from outside and glanced enviously at his fellow novice, Mark, who, unlike him, seemed entirely unbothered by the lively nighttime sounds. In fact, Mark’s deep, rhythmic breathing only made it harder for Philip to fall back asleep. Annoyed, he peered out through the small window of their cell and saw several senior monks cheerfully chatting as they crossed the courtyard.

It was always the same on Sunday nights, right after the final prayer. While Philip went straight to bed, the monks—led by the abbot—did not return to their cells from the church. They went somewhere else. But where?

When Philip asked young Brother Matthew about it, the boy had said that even he hadn’t been told anything yet. He simply hadn’t spent enough time in the order, nor had he served the Church long enough to learn the monastery’s secrets or be considered a truly initiated member of the community.

After the monks finally left the courtyard and returned to their cells, a hooded figure appeared as usual, carrying a flickering lantern and a clinking ring of keys. Until now, Philip had never been able to identify him, but this time he was lucky. The limp gave him away—it was clearly Brother Lazarus. A few days earlier, the elderly monk had injured his leg when Mark accidentally knocked over a massive candlestick during church cleaning, landing it right on Lazarus’s foot. Despite the pain, the old monk had kept his vow of silence, though his grimace made it obvious he had quite a few choice words he was swallowing down. Instead, he hopped around the sanctuary, purple-faced, on one leg.

But why was he walking around at night with a ring of keys like the monastery’s librarian? And what was he guarding that earned him such respect? Philip made up his mind—he would uncover the secret of Brother Lazarus and the others.

The next day, luck was on his side. He was assigned to garden duty with Brother John.

“Perfect,” he thought to himself. “I’ve seen him with the others. Maybe I can squeeze something out of him—he talks more than enough.” Many had already told John he should follow Lazarus’s example and take a vow of silence. Luckily, he hadn’t, and Philip hoped to finally learn something.

While hoeing the ground, John rambled on about everything: how he used to chase chickens as a child, the time he put a hat on a cat, and how he used to smack moving molehills. During one rare moment when John paused to take a breath—lungs a brass player would envy—Philip cautiously worked up the courage.

“Last night, I heard some of you gathering in the courtyard again. I’ve noticed it before—after evening prayer, you don’t return to your cells. What are you doing?”

John was caught off guard. That breath he’d taken was clearly intended for another story, and now he exhaled like a deflating balloon. Scratching his neck, he hesitated to respond.

“Well, my son… I swore before God Almighty never to speak of it.”

“But why? Is it something deeply sacred?”

“I’d say it’s more… mystical. And dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Philip asked, shocked.

“Yes. You see, we who’ve already eaten half our bread—so to speak—carry less risk. Age has granted us a certain… resilience.”

“Resilience? To what?”

“To temptation. We’ve learned how to resist it.”

“So this sacred thing… is it some kind of exercise in resisting temptation?”

John scratched his head, clearly wondering how much to reveal.

“Well… something like that. It’s meant to help us fulfill our monastic life more completely. To know evil, so we can stand against it. But you—and the other young ones—you’re not ready yet. Temptation would still master you.”

Philip could get no more out of him.

That evening, Philip paced back and forth in his cell. Mark, who had been watching him, finally snapped.

“I just don’t get it!” Philip exclaimed.

“What’s there to get? They’re doing something sacred, something we’re not ready for.”

“I don’t care. I’m going to find out what it is.”

“And how exactly?”

“I’m going to spy on them.”

“You’re mad. How do you plan to pull that off alone?”

“I’m not doing it alone. You’re coming with me.”

Mark went pale, but Philip gave him no choice. For days they plotted in the evenings, trying to figure out how to outwit the senior monks.

When Sunday night came again, they muttered through the prayers, paying no real attention. When the prayer ended, they shuffled to the back of the group as everyone moved toward the monastery building.

“Look!” Mark nudged Philip. They saw several monks heading off in another direction.

They quietly dropped out of the procession and snuck after the group in the shadows. They overheard some discussing church doctrines, others sharing feudal gossip. Then the group stopped and waited—all standing in front of a cellar door.

Suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, limping Brother Lazarus appeared. He said nothing, just unlocked the heavy padlock. Once the door swung open, he stepped aside and the monks filed down the stairs. When the last one had entered, Lazarus glanced around, then shut the door behind him. A loud click echoed—it was locked from the inside.

Philip and Mark rushed to the door, pressing their ears against it. Nothing.

“Great,” grumbled Mark. “We’re no better off than before.”

“Sure we are,” Philip retorted. “Now we know where they go.”

But with no clue what happened inside, they decided to sneak back to their cell.

That night, Philip woke again when the monks returned. Keep your secrets, he thought, but I will find out what you’re doing down there.

The next day, Philip was assigned to wash the monks’ robes. He grumbled at the chore, annoyed to be stuck doing laundry. But then he noticed one robe was unusually heavy. As he unfolded it, a key fell out.

Could it be? Did Brother Lazarus hide the cellar key in his robe—and forget it?

He shook off the thought. No way he could be that lucky. But a nagging curiosity wouldn’t leave him. He tucked the key beneath his own robe, telling himself he hadn’t stolen it—he was just seeking the truth.

Still, fear gnawed at him. He found Mark in the stables and told him everything.

“Are you sure this is right?” Mark asked.

“Look, it’s something we’ll find out eventually. What’s the harm in finding out now?”

“But… you stole the key.”

“I borrowed it, to get answers.”

Mark finally agreed. That night, he stood guard as Philip tried the key in the lock.

“It’s not working. Let’s just go,” Mark urged. But at that moment, the lock clicked.

The boys exchanged excited looks.

“Well, open it!” Mark said, practically trembling with curiosity.

A lantern sat near the top of the stairs—thankfully—so they lit it, shut the door behind them, and descended into the cellar.

At the bottom, they found a beautiful vaulted hall supported by stone pillars. In the center stood a long table surrounded by chairs. And on the table—tankards. Along the wall, barrels were stacked high.

“What is this place? What happens here on Sunday nights?” Philip whispered.

Mark approached a barrel and opened the tap. Liquid poured out.

“Beer,” he said, watching it splash onto the floor. “Oh, what a waste!”

Philip grabbed a mug and filled it. He took a sip—delicious. Mark hurried to get one for himself.

“This one tastes different,” Philip noted, refilling from a neighboring barrel.

And so it went. They lost track of how much they drank. Only God knows how long they were down there. Eventually, everything began to blur and spin.

The next time Philip was conscious, he was in their cell. The room was spinning, his stomach churned, and his head throbbed. Brother Lazarus sat between the two boys, dipping cloths into cold water and laying them on their foreheads. His face wore its usual calm expression. Mark was still out cold, snoring loudly—each snore like a hammer blow to Philip’s skull.

Philip knew they had sinned—and that he had dragged his friend into it too. He tried to speak, but Lazarus raised a finger to his lips.

And then, for the first time in his life, Philip heard Brother Lazarus’s deep, gravelly voice:

“You see, young Brother Philip… everything is permitted—
…but only in moderation.”