Josefa began to undress herself and drape her heavy garments on a rock. When she reached her undershift, she hesitated, and then cast that also and ran naked to the water’s edge. The shock of the cold stopped her knee-deep, but a great wave broke over her and wet her to her chin, whereupon she waded three more heavy paces and swam, skin glowing, delectable coolness caressing her.
She did not hear Amara whimpering on the beach behind her, and looked round only when her companion, head thrown back, emitted a loud animal howling. Amara was down on all fours, pacing frantically at the water’s edge, pawing the waves and backing away again. Full of remorse at her panic, Josefa swam in. Amara stood up and tried to walk into the tumbling water, calling, ‘Yossefa! Yossefa!’
‘It’s all right; look, see – I am safe – it’s fun . . .’ said Josefa, ‘Try it – won’t you?’ and she reached for Amara’s hand and led her a step or two in. Amara seemed uncertain; but a large wave pulled her over, and at once she was swimming, afloat, paddling like a dog, head held high. They swam round each other in circles, and then Josefa waded ashore and lay on the warm stones to dry off. In a little while Amara came too, lay down beside her and began to lick the backs of her hands, seeming to relish the taste of salt. She paused now and then to scan her companion, with her odd sideways darting glance, and then suddenly put an arm over Josefa’s waist, and began to lick at her naked breast, the tongue curling round the stiff contracted nipple. Burning with shame and awareness, Josefa pushed her off, rolled over, moved hastily to reach her clothes. Unperturbed, Amara resumed licking salt from her own arms. Looking down as she drew her undershift over her head, Josefa saw that one of her nipples was still tight with cold, the other slack and soft. She remembered that even where no boat, no gull, no nun could see her, God could see.
The thought of God came to her like a memory, like a thought from long ago or far away. Though she was supposed to be one of the sisterhood, though the whole life of Sant Clara revolved around prayer and made no sense without it, though every prayer named God repeatedly, yet Josefa, spending her days with Amara and forbidden to name God, had ceased to think of him. His presence, which had once followed her everywhere, an unseen element in every moment of life, as necessary, as palpable as the air she breathed, had retreated now and belonged only to the chapel hours when she was on her knees, deliberately praying. She named him then without fervour, without paying much attention. And she did not miss him much. The days did not seem empty without thought of God. Even now, when the recollection of his all-seeing eye had struck her with shame like Eve in the garden, it had quickly occurred to her that it was not as bad to be seen naked by her God as it would have been to have been caught out in her immodesty by Sor Agnete.
She forgave herself and forgot all about it as they ascended the path. Josefa was carrying both the heavy baskets, and Amara bounded ahead, walking again only as the windows of the cloister came in view. Her shift had dried out long before then; Josefa’s habit was still damp, drying slowly, and leaving a salty watermark halfway up the skirt.
In the depths of the night Beneditx struggled with panic and anger. The anger reminded him of his mother, a poor hard-working woman who had kept body and soul together by plying her needle round the lonely farms. His father had been a fisherman who was lost one day without reason, his boat sinking far out in a flat calm. Left to support her son, Beneditx’s mother led a wandering life. In return for food and shelter for them both, she would stay for a week or more, mending linen and making clothes. It was a hard existence; but Beneditx remembered her angry only at two things in life – blunt needles and poor thread that snapped as she worked. Untimely death, poor harvests, sickness, poverty – about all these the people of the island were fatalists; bad tools provoked them to rage. As, now, Beneditx’s failed arguments, his blunted points and broken threads left him angry.
Of course he was angry with Palinor. And he knew the name of his own sin – the sin of pride. Since the day his mother found him writing, scratching with a stick, copying the inscription over the church door at Santanya in the dust of the little square, Beneditx had always excelled. His mother had taken him at once to the Galilea and presented him to the oblate master, saying simply that she could not cope with a child who could write. He had always known that being the cleverest man on Grandinsula was not the same as being the cleverest in the world – that somewhere there was a man who could match him in argument; in that sense he was well prepared for Palinor.
But since he had never before experienced it, he was unprepared for the sharp pain of defeat in argument – for the indignity of it – and repentant in retrospect, he accused himself of insufficient tenderness towards all those he had defeated or instructed in debate. And that the triumphant adversary should be not a wiser doctor, but a disbeliever! How could God, whom he had served so long, so diligently, have allowed this to happen? Why had God given him blunt tools? In a spasm of self-disgust, Beneditx knew shame for not having seen the flaws in the argument. For not seeing, now, the correct answer to Palinor’s objections. That there was an answer – somewhere on the board a winning move – he did not doubt. Or, rather, suppressing panic, he told himself he did not doubt it, and rising, he went early to pray, to ask for help.
Severo went to sleep happy and woke happy. The whitewashed simple vaulted roof of the colonnade above him was suffused with the tender primrose hue of the dawn, the nightingale had fled, and in its place the birds of morning were singing. He had slept on the pavement of the open colonnade, just here, when he and Gaspar were boys, and every summer night in memory had been as warm and scented as this one, every dawn as dewy with promise. Last night he had contrived to leave his dignity behind him, and he had no intention of resuming it with his mantle this morning. Last night he had not been alone but talking freely among his companions, and that sense of the flow of talk, unconstrained by the choking bonds of respect, was as delicious to his soul as the flowing waters of Palinor’s fountain had been to his skin.
He sat up. Rafal, beside him, where long ago Gaspar had slept, did not stir. What sort of life was his? Severo wondered. He knew nothing about him. That for another time; now he rose quietly and went to look for Beneditx.
Beneditx was in the chapel across the courtyard, saying his office. Severo joined him, knelt, and opened his psalter. ‘May God be merciful to us and bless us; may he smile graciously on us and show us his mercy,’ he read, silently. ‘Make known thy will, O God, wide as earth; make known among all nations thy saving power. Honour to thee, O God, from all the nations, alleluia, alleluia. Teach them to fear thee, those nations that have never looked to find thee; let them learn to acknowledge thee the only God, and acclaim thy wonders . . .’
Only when Beneditx rose, did Severo close the book and follow him. The two men bowed deeply to the altar and left the chapel, walking into the brightening light of morning. ‘Severo – Holiness,’ said Beneditx, ‘relieve me of the task you laid upon me; I cannot accomplish it.’
Severo did not answer at once but turned into a quiet leafy alley. Beneditx followed him. ‘If you cannot, who can?’ he asked. And then, ‘Would you have me leave him in the darkness of his error?’ And then, ‘Why then did God send him to us?’
When Beneditx was still silent, he asked, ‘Has he thrown down all your proofs, Magister?’
‘I have one left; the best one. But . . .’
‘Well, then . . .’
‘But I have become afraid of him, Holiness.’
‘Oh, Beneditx!’ said Severo, putting his arm round his friend’s shoulder as they walked. ‘Remember: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?”’
‘Do you think I have not prayed?’ said Beneditx. ‘But I will wrestle with him again if you command it.’
‘I ask it,’ said Severo. ‘Do not refuse me. But let us find breakfast, and be ready for the last best argument! Things always look brighter in the morni
ng,’ he added, cheerfully.
‘St Augustine thought that,’ said Beneditx dolefully. ‘Morning knowledge being different from evening knowledge.’
‘Remind me,’ said Severo.
‘That knowledge is called morning knowledge by which an angel knows the things that are to be created; things as they ought to be – knowledge, for example, of the nature of a straight line; evening knowledge is that by which things are known in their own nature, such as knowing that no line in the world is really straight. There is a problem over the knowledge of angels.’
With a little surge of affection, Severo indulged him. ‘Explain the problem,’ he said.
‘In angels, is there any difference between morning and evening knowledge?’ Beneditx said. ‘There are shadows in the morning and in the evening. In an angelic intellect, however, there are no shadows, for angels are very bright mirrors. It is that which I was working on when you summoned me.’ Beneditx’s tones lightened as he spoke of angels. The familiar delight, the familiar joy in exposition was audible in his voice as clearly as Severo remembered it of old.
‘My poor friend,’ said Severo, smiling. ‘I must let you get back to those angels as soon as possible. But now, this morning . . .’
‘A bout with Palinor,’ said Beneditx. ‘Will you stay to hear this?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything! Come; aren’t you hungry? Bring me to some bread and olives.’
‘Consider the governance of the world,’ said Beneditx. The table had been cleared, and he sat with Severo and Palinor in conference. ‘We see that things which lack intelligence, such as natural bodies like stones, winds, flames, streams, act for some purpose, which in fact is evident from their acting always, or nearly always, in the same way so as to produce the best result. Hence it is plain that not by chance but by design they achieve their purpose. Whatever lacks intelligence cannot fulfil some purpose unless it be directed by some being endowed with intelligence and knowledge, as the arrow is shot by the archer. Therefore, some intelligent being exists by whom all natural things are ordained towards a definite purpose, and this being we call God.’
‘It is true that the world is full of pattern,’ said Palinor. ‘Fascinating, recurring pattern. This is a great mystery or perhaps, more probably, it is many mysteries. Perhaps some part of the reason for recurrence might be that someone unseen, unknown, has planned what occurs – has designed an aspect of the world and given it purpose as the archer gives a target to his arrow. Perhaps. But only partly.’
‘Why do you say only partly, my friend?’ asked Severo.
‘I have a natural reason and a moral reason,’ Palinor answered. ‘The natural reason is that I observe how explanations recede. For example, if you ask a bell-founder, as I once asked, why he makes the rim of the bell curve outwards in just such a way, he replies that he does so in order to obtain a particular note from the bell. Now ask him why bell metal gives forth a certain note when it is shaped in just that way, and see what he says. “It just does,” more than likely.’
‘In the propensities of bell metal for our use, we may observe the magnanimous and marvellous designer of the world, who made creation fit for our purposes,’ said Beneditx.
‘But in saying that, you are imagining God entertaining a human kind of purpose – fabricating metals and secreting them in rocks for reasons which we can guess at, as we can guess why the bell-founder makes bells. Whereas I would say it makes sense to ask “Why?” only of another human being, whose answer we can understand. Look at my fountain over there. Why does the water rise to a great height and then fall back to earth? I have no idea why; but I know exactly at what height it will falter and fall – it will do that when it reaches the height of the surface of the lake from which it is fed. I do not need to know why to make a fountain, only that it does what it does.’
‘You said a moment ago, I think,’ said Beneditx, ‘that explanations recede. But they cannot recede to infinity’.
‘Well, but suppose there is a designer behind the universe,’ said Palinor. ‘How can he be what you would call God? Look at the chaos, the disorder, the preference one would have to admit that things have for falling into confusion. Look how hard it is to keep a roof on a house, to keep weeds from choking crops. More incriminating by far than even this anarchy, this endless rupture of order: consider the pain, the fear, the hardship and suffering in the world, and how it is inflicted on the innocent, on the lamb in the wolf’s maw, on the babe, on the harmless worm under the spade. Is the great designer then a botcher and incompetent? Is his power limited, so that it would make sense to say he did the best he could? Does he not care about our sufferings? If we project from the nature of his works to the nature of the divinity, would we not find him indifferent or cruel? Are you sure you would not be better to think, as I do, that the suffering in the world “just is” and does not represent any intended plan at all?’
‘God would not permit evil if he could not bring out of it some greater countervailing good,’ said Beneditx.
‘A good beyond our understanding, no doubt!’ said Palinor, dryly.
‘I thought you would say this!’ said Beneditx. ‘And I have thought of a demonstration for you. But we must ride some distance to see it. Are you willing? Can you come with us, Severo?’ Beneditx had stood up and set back his chair.
‘How far is it?’ Severo asked. ‘I have not time to ride with you to the Galilea; that would keep me from duty in Ciudad too long.’
‘Two hours, perhaps. Just this side of Sant Clara.’
‘I go with you then. Rafal, saddle horses!’
It was a pleasant ride. The path ascended through a narrow pass above the hanging lake behind the Saracen’s House and over a bare col through a valley of rocks and rosemary, where eagles hung overhead in rising airs. Descending somewhat on the seaward side, the narrow track wound through the fragrant woods above the glittering plain of the sea, glimpsed far below. They rode through bright air, crisp and cool, and into soft mists and out again, as the breath of the mountains disputed with the breath of the sea. They were always high; the path dipped and rose but did not descend. Its narrowness spaced them out in single file, so each rider was alone and saw the splendour of the prospects in silence.
At last a great crag before them jutted out to sea, making a steep headland, and cresting it was a little domed church with a golden cross at the apex. As the path turned towards the church, Palinor, looking back, saw that a tiny settlement of houses clung to the steeps nearby, which had been terraced with appalling labour and now were shining with olive trees, bleeding between the stones with the blaze of poppies.
The riders reached the church door and dismounted. Rafal bundled the reins and tied them to a ring on the shaded wall of the church. An old woman had begun to hobble towards them from the nearest house with a basket of candles, and they waited.
‘This is Sant Vicente,’ said Beneditx.
Ducking in a stiff genuflection, bowing her head, the old woman gave them candles – dark brown with the detritus of unfiltered wax, smelling of honey and hive, and tacky on their warm palms. Beneditx thanked her with a handful of dineros, and they entered.
At first their eyes were unable to penetrate the gloom. Then gradually to their widening pupils a golden glow emerged and shadowy figures against the gold. In the half dome above the altar of the little church facing them was a great scene done in mosaic. Christ sat enthroned in majesty; on his right the Virgin knelt, haloed; behind her came flocking a great crowd of the just, attended by angels, whose beckoning and guiding hands urged them forwards and upwards; on the other side the damned were driven downwards by angelic spears and received by a seething mass of devils with prongs and torches, and callipers and whips.
‘The judgement is finely done,’ said Beneditx, bowing his head to the altar. ‘But it is this that I have brought you to look at,’ and he led them through an arch into another, parallel nave, with angled light descending from high windows – the church was t
wo churches side by side. On the south wall of this earlier nave, heaven had begun. A mosaic showed a garden under a sky of pure gold. Emerald trees bearing flowers and fruit at once were underspread by a meadow thick with flowers. White-clad virgins with flowing hair danced in a ring, hands linked, sandalled feet arched in delicate steps. A grave-faced angel played for them on a tambour. A little way off, a group of saints sat talking on the grass. Their faces were animated, and birds with coloured feathers sat on the branches near them, their heads cocked to attention, listening. Another angel, smiling, poured a bright stream of wine into a cup held by a bearded saint, while a little angel child with downy wings came running with a dish of cakes. The whole scene was sparkling and glinting with light. The smallest movement of the onlooker’s head caused the highlights to move, caused the scene to shimmer, as though it had been done on a sheet of silk moving in the light.
‘Have you ever seen a scene brighter than this one?’ asked Beneditx. ‘Or anything lighter than that perfect golden sky?’ Nobody claimed him wrong. ‘But look closely now; stand near. Do you see that even to make such a scene of brightness as this, the master artificer needed tessarae of dark glass as well as of bright glass? Look at the petal of this lovely lily, here where I point. See, the pieces below it are nearly black and rough in surface. An ugly fragment, you would think if I showed it to you on the palm of my hand. But without it, the lily could not be portrayed as clearly, standing as though we could reach to heaven and pick it, for standing things cast shadows. Look now at the sparkling sky. See how it is made of fragments tipped this way and that, some of which receive the light, while others are averted from it; if every golden square alike is illuminated, the result will be flat, it will not scintillate with points of light. Thus dullness is in the service of light here; dark pieces are in the service of the whole, just as light pieces are. Now, if we can see how the human craftsman needed dark tesserae, can we not see how God might need the blackness we find in the world, how to the mind of God it might serve a wholeness of transcendent beauty, whereas we, thinking of a tiny fragment of creation by itself, find it ugly, and childishly demand that it should not be part of the picture?’
Knowledge of Angels Page 15