"Mayday! Mayday! We're losing power! Mayday!"

It was tense in the chartered Twin Otter, a reliable aircraft that had flown many similar routes in its life. This flight was taking it over the vast Landes forest on the way from San Marino to the beaches at Mimizan on the Gold Coast of France. But the Atlantic was still a long way off. Here there were only trees out to every horizon.

Along with the frantic pilot two passengers were on board: Steven Muir, a successful middle-aged broker and his companion Silvie Klein, a former in-demand fashion model several years his junior. This was a vacation trip, a chance to unwind in the sun and restore some steam to their love life.

Things were looking grim. The plane was sinking, the engines sputtering from what the pilot figured was watered fuel. They could only glide for so long, maybe 10 minutes given their cruise altitude. But there was nowhere to land, just a sea of pines and hills. The pilot scanned for a clear spot while calling for help and relaying their coordinates to any listening tower.

Then he saw it: a patch of open land where no clearing could be expected. Whatever its condition it had to be better than certain death in the treetops. He lost even more height as he banked to align the plane with the short narrow strip. Fighting his instincts he trimmed the plane for landing and shouted to the couple to brace for a bumpy ride.

The wheels touched but this wasn't just grass, it was untended brush. The gear jolted over ruts and stumps, collapsing the left strut and then the right. The belly thrashed over the rough terrain. Still, they might have made it if the clearing had been longer. A wall of trees loomed ahead and then they were at it, still going about 30 knots. The fuselage found an opening but the wings sheared off as the plane plowed into the woods.

The pilot was unlucky. A low branch punctured the windscreen and his neck. He was dead before the sliding stopped. Muir hadn't fastened his harness properly and the sudden stop threw him against the interior hard enough to scramble his gray matter. Silvie Klein was luckier, though she did take a blow to the head. The awful cacophony of the crash faded from her ears leaving only the ticking of heated metal cooling under the forest canopy. She passed out, for how long she didn't know.

The odor of spilled fuel slowly brought her out of the fog of concussion but left her with a fierce headache. She checked Steven's pulse and found none. The pilot was obviously beyond help. The radio and controls were destroyed.

She released her safety harness and scrambled out the hole left by the sheared-off wing. She struggled painfully to put distance between her and the plane's load of fuel but no explosion came, no fire. She backtracked to the clearing, following the path carved by the plane. One look and she knew no one was going to spot this wreck from the air, buried as it was under the pines, invisible from above.

Silvie's life was one of comfort and privilege, of chartered flights to the surf and the attention of wealthy men like Steven. This was far beyond normal yet she didn't panic. She felt unusually calm as she assessed her situation, knowing help might never arrive at this dense and desolate place. She'd have to be her own rescuer.

She scouted the area around the ruined plane. Bits and parts had scattered, especially where the wings had come off. She couldn't find her handbag but did spot their small suitcases, battered but basically sound, and rummaged through them. They'd packed for a few days at the shore, not for camping or hiking, so there was little of value. Nothing to start a fire, nothing to eat or to use for shelter. Her phone was missing and Steven's was smashed.

Since the clearing was manmade she supposed there was at least one path leading to it. She walked the periphery looking for openings. After half an hour she'd seen only animal trails and it didn't seem prudent, or really very helpful, to follow a track that might end at a bear's den.

Finally she found an overgrown opening hacked out by machetes and scythes. She fought her way through and found what had once been a well-trodden trail. She weighed the merits of staying put and waiting for an uncertain rescue versus forging ahead to possible civilization. She chose ahead. She assumed there were villages scattered in the forest but had no clue if one was nearby. Perhaps if she found a stream she could follow it.

At times the way was clear and carpeted with pine needles but in several places it almost disappeared at a wall of brambles. Each time she pushed through her clothes ripped a little more and scratches multiplied on her arms and legs. She had no idea how far she'd come in her two or three hour foray. The sun wasn't visible but she thought she had another three hours of dim daylight left.

Just when she'd decided to retreat to the airplane for the night she saw something blocking the forest light ahead. She picked up her pace and soon came to another clearing. Facing her was the corner of a building, and not just a cabin. This was a rough stone mass two stories high extending tens of meters in each direction. It seemed almost medieval and while its presence offered hope, its imposing solidity lent it an air of menace. Smoke curling from somewhere above gave evidence of occupancy.

The clearing covered quite an area and included a lush but compact farm planted with all manner of vines and vegetables. There was an unpainted wooden barn but she could see no animals.

Centered on one stone wall she found a large oaken door hinged in black iron, with a small shuttered viewport. She knocked but she may as well have spit for all the noise her knuckles made. She switched to a fist, pounding out a tattoo that resonated weakly in the interior.

Nothing. A minute, two minutes passed and she tried again. Still nothing. She began to shout and found a rock to increase the volume of her hammering. After another frustrating ten minutes the face of a startled and confused man appeared in the portal.

"Thank god, please help me, our plane crashed and the others are dead."

No reply. She repeated her plea in French, and getting no response she switched despairingly to her limited German. Then the heavy door started to open. As soon as there was enough of a crack the man slid out. Silvie couldn't have been more surprised. The figure before her was as medieval in appearance as the setting: a robed and cowled monk.

As confounded as she was by his appearance she knew she must seem equally odd to him. She was dressed for light travel in shorts and a blouse but her clothes had been shredded by her trek. Her hair, usually carefully tended, was in disarray. Scratches streaked her limbs. Nevertheless the monk eyed her up and down with great interest.

After gazing longer than seemed polite he held up a palm and retreated. Several minutes later the door opened wider and she was greeted by the sight of a dozen or so monks in a large courtyard, all agape. Some were gesturing but none spoke. She was apparently a spectacle beyond their ken, a beautiful if currently disheveled woman whose tattered clothes no longer fully covered her. She towered over them at a statuesque 5 feet 9 inches to their perhaps 5 feet 4. She must have seemed an Amazon goddess.

One monk stepped forward and pointed to a carved plaque worded in an old French dialect: "Ceci est le monastere de Saint-Denis de Mornay..."

Silvie translated: "This is the monastery of St Denis de Mornay. We are a contemplative order and have taken a collective vow of silence. This vow prevents us from conversing with anyone."

"Does this mean you can't help me?" asked Silvie, taking the sign as a cue to speak French here.

The monk shrugged and waved her into the cloister. The interior was a large open hall that occupied about a quarter of the building. The monk led her down a series of branching corridors to a small room. By gestures he indicated a bath was available and left her in privacy with a robe identical to his own. Considering his height it would be somewhat short on her.

It was a scene that might have been unchanged for centuries - unheated water, raw soap and a towel that would serve for ritual excoriation. Yet she welcomed the bath gratefully. Afterward she cleared the leaves and twigs from her hair and worked it into a loose braid. There was no toilet near the bath, something she reminded herself to look for.

Donning the cowled robe, and only the robe, Silvie stepped into the hallway to explore. In spite of her predicament she felt a little naughty being naked under the cloth, especially because of the stimulating rub of harsh wool on her breasts. She briefly wondered if the monks also wore only robes, then chided herself for having such thoughts about holy men.

Along an outer wall ran a set of open cells where apparently the monks prayed and slept. Across a long corridor the parallel inner wall was broken up by doorways into the inner spaces. One led to a kitchen where she found the source of the smoke she'd seen from the trail. A large iron pot hung over a cookfire glowing in an open hearth. The sound and smell of a bubbling stew reminded her she hadn't eaten in many hours. She was suddenly famished.

The cook pot was tended by a monk. She had no idea if she'd seen him before because they'd all looked the same in their monkish garb. And since they were unlikely to speak their names, she'd have to supply them. This one she decided was Cookie.

"So Cookie, can a girl get a bowl of whatever you're making there?"

Cookie seemed uncomfortable with the sound of her voice. She realized this would be foreign to him in several ways and that out of respect for their traditions she should try to speak as little as possible. He'd gotten the message though and shook his head no. She was puzzled by this, expecting more of the hospitality she'd received. But apparently there were limits, and she'd just found one.

She explored further, encountering a few monks engaged in housekeeping but speaking to none of them. Peering out the front portal she saw most of the brothers were working the crops in the last sun of the day. It seemed oddly fitting that their crude tools were made of wood and iron, well matched to their callused hands.

At some unheard signal the monks moved first to the barn to stow their implements and then into the courtyard where Silvie was watching. She joined them when they entered the great hall, sat on long benches at large tables and engaged in a quarter hour of meditation. Others served them with wooden bowls of the stew she'd seen earlier, but no tableware. It was a hearty mix of vegetables and broth with no hint of meat but satisfying for all that. She slurped along with her hosts.