TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  ‘But this is caused only through the ingestion of sweet things, master?’ I asked.

  ‘No, all foods have a certain measure of sweet potentias, Christian, bread, for example, and wine. The venerable brother drank his share of wine tonight.’ He pulled a sheet over the body.

  ‘And yet we cannot be sure he did not simply die because he was old,’ Setubar said, annoyed.

  ‘You are correct. This unfortunately remains a hypothesis,’ my master assented.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Asa nodded in agreement, ‘whatever it was, we will perhaps never know.’

  ‘And yet there is only one likely cause of death,’ Andre said.

  ‘You mean poisoning?’ asked Asa.

  ‘Nonsense, you fool!’ The old man waved a hand impatiently.

  ‘I believe,’ my master ignored him, ‘that if our brother had died of this disease, he would have died peacefully, as many do, perhaps after a seizure or two, but he would not have experienced the violent spasms and other symptoms we witnessed tonight. And so I’m afraid that we still have a problem, a stubborn one.’

  ‘Yes . . . his condition may have been incidental.’ Asa frowned, washing his hands.

  ‘And chance is incidental cause,’ the old man quoted Aristotle.

  ‘But if he was poisoned, master,’ I said and was thrown a sharp look by Setubar, ‘it is not likely that it was by chance, is it? The disease, as you have said, could have been incidental, but not the poison.’

  ‘Christian,’ my master answered me more patiently than was his custom, ‘it could also be that the poison was incidental, or accidental, but we must take care not to suppose that purpose is not present because we do not observe the agent deliberating it.’

  The old man stood, but he may as well have remained seated, for his back was so bent that he only gained a few inches. ‘Stop all this absurdity, and let the body of our dear old friend rest in peace!’ he cried, raising the stick he used to steady himself. ‘He is the happy one now. Resting in the bosom of our Lord, in the arms of the mother whose milk will nourish him for all eternity. He prayed each day that it might be his last, and his prayers have been answered. You are young.’ He looked at us with malice. ‘You know nothing of the suffering of the old whose bones are brittle and whose teeth are gone, who piss all night and who cannot keep awake all day! The old smell death in their nostrils as young men smell flowers, their youthful form withers before the eyes, and the mind! The mind, once a joyous manifestation of erudition and wisdom, becomes a playground for delusions and deceptions. The old forget what they should know, instead of knowing what they should forget, and because of this they see the things that God reveals only per speculum et in aenigmate, that is to say, through a glass darkly, and call it wisdom. No . . .’ he shook his head. ‘Physicians want to cure every illness, bestowing long life to their patients. I know. I was once filled with such delusions, but now I understand this is merely the wiles of a vanity that cloaks its true intentions with the artifice of charity. The body is evil and so it must be endured until it can be shunned. To be rid of it is a blessing. Concern yourselves with the living. Our dead brother was old, and so he died, that is all!’

  ‘On two points I am at variance with you, venerable Setubar,’ my master replied, to the old man’s surprise. ‘Firstly I do not believe that the body is sinful, for it is only an instrument by which we make manifest the will that resides within and without it. Corinthians tells us, ‘Know ye not that your bodies are the members of Christ?’ And further, ‘Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you?’ and lastly, ‘Therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit’. And secondly, that it is our holy duty as physicians to preserve this temple, this vehicle of higher truths, and to keep it healthy.’

  ‘But you are wrong!’ Setubar exclaimed in a shrill voice. ‘The body is evil, evil! And easily seduced by sin, compelled by desires whose captains are the infernal legions of hell! Matthew tells us that it would have been good for man if he had not been born into the body, for only in his soul is he truly God-like. Only in death can man find the fulfilment of his true nature, preceptor. When he is alive, and particularly when he has become old and useless, he is nothing more than an animal, driven by hunger, cold and pain, like a child dribbling the food from his lips that others, who are young, deign to serve him!’

  ‘I prefer to look at it as a return to a state of innocence, for Matthew also tells us that we must become like little children if we wish to enter the kingdom of Heaven.’

  The old man gave a grunt, his bitter face stone-like. Only his melancholy eyes betrayed the intensity of his feeling, and these he directed menacingly at my master. ‘Because I am old and too am nearing my own ultimate and blissful end, I can say with authority, ‘Oh wretched man that I am!’’

  A heavy silence descended over us. The infirmarian dared to break it, though I sensed a quiver in his voice.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, preceptor.’

  ‘It was a most enlightening discussion,’ my master replied, and turning to the older man said, ‘I hope I have not offended you, venerable brother, for this was not my intention. I am merely a seeker of truth, as we all must be.’

  He pointed a twisted finger at my master. ‘Beware of the truth, preceptor, for it wears many faces, as you may already know, but you have not come by it this evening. There is no conclusion to be drawn here, only suppositions and speculations that may lead us all into the pit of inquisition!’

  ‘Perhaps you are correct,’ my master said humbly. ‘If you will pardon us, we will retire. It has been a very long day.’

  Thus we left the infirmary and hurried to our lodgings. The weather once again turned disagreeable, with a cold wind sweeping up the gorges. My master retired to his cell, and I to mine, so tired that I did not light my lamp, falling onto my pallet fully clothed, as was our custom, but I found that I was unable to sleep, tossing and turning until a late hour. The old monk’s death and Setubar’s words coursing through my troubled mind, it was only after I drank a small draft of wine that peace finally overtook me, and consequently it was the sound of the night bell announcing matins, and the gentle intonation of the choir wafting through the compound, that finally woke me from an uneasy sleep. I thanked God once again for the wisdom of a rule that allows for the opening psalm to be recited somewhat slowly! I was able to join my master in the stalls at the saying of the words, ‘Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will declare what he hath done for my soul,’ before the closing of the great doors, and the reciting of the Gloria.

  Thus this remarkable day would have come to an end in blissful contemplation of those dark hours just before dawn, if I did not first need to narrate something that occurred between the hour of my troubled sleep and the hour of the Holy Office. The first of many such experiences that, to this day, remains as vivid as it did that cold night in my cell at the monastery of St Lazarus.

  IGNIS

  THE FIRST TRIAL

  ‘. . . and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions.

  Joel ii 28

  5

  Capitulum

  Awoke flushed with perspiration, a strange feeling, not exactly fear and yet quite close to it, radiating to my every limb. It was cold, but from my cell window I could see that it had not snowed, higher in the night sky it was clear, and across to the east a starry script written indelibly in God’s hand promised an answer to all my questions . . . but alas I did not, in my ignorance, understand its mysterious language. By the position of the moon I guessed that it must be sometime before midnight. Soon, the bell would toll matins. Down below, a light burnt and I wondered if the pilgrim was awake gazing up at the moon as I was. He had been in my dream, the pilgrim. I should go down, I told myself, and make his acquaintance.

  I lay back on my pallet, pulling the sheepskin very high against my face, and told myself that I must sleep. I imagined the bitter cold outside. I
would shortly have to rise and attend the services. What kind of scribe would I be if I were seen to fall asleep during the proceedings tomorrow? And yet, I felt an impulse to rise, and threw myself out of bed, annoyed – for it is never pleasant to lose an argument with oneself – and opened the door to my cell, venturing out into the cold.

  Outside the moon offered me a little solace, illuminating the compound. I walked with quick steps past the graveyard, pulling the cowl over my head against the wind, hiding from the eerie light that made the gleam of the white crosses unearthly. I was relieved to see the circa’s light making another round high up in the dormitorium, but I pressed on, not wishing to be seen. As I rounded the east face of the church I was taken by an unknown force and suddenly, without explanation, I found myself facing the great gate just as the doors opened before me. Outside, there was the scent of pine, and the ground was icy against my bare feet, but I found that it did not disturb me. How strange this all seemed! I followed the road through the battlements, and out into the forest, moving with the agility of a goat down a narrow path, which led through coarse vegetation. Then I was standing at the entrance to that little shelter I had seen on the day of our arrival. Inside I saw a man, a little short of thirty springs and of stocky build, and also another a little younger, though thin and tall, sitting beside him. They appeared to be in deep contemplation, little noticing my presence until I spoke.

  ‘Happy night,’ I ventured.

  The younger man looked up from his dreamy world with the eyes of a doe assailed by a wolf. ‘Who comes hither?’

  ‘I come in peace,’ I soothed, ‘from yonder abbey.’ I pointed upwards in the direction of the monastery bathed in moonlight.

  The older of the two glanced up and fixed me with wisdom-filled eyes. ‘You may sit with us for a moment, and share a little warmth before the bells.’

  I felt large and awkward – and I was only of a slight build – entering their modest shelter. In the centre, sheepskins covered the earth encircling a little fire that provided only adequate warmth. It smelt of animals and smoke and incense.

  ‘May we know the name of he who disturbs our pater noster, and our credo?’ the man asked presently.

  ‘My name is Christian de St Armand and I am a Templar squire visiting the abbey with my master in the name of the king,’ I answered, finding that I was boasting.

  ‘I see,’ he nodded his head. ‘Miserable sinners we may be, but we follow the canonical hours, as should a Templar squire!’

  ‘Yes, at any moment we will hear the bell,’ I found myself saying. ‘I would have already left for the great gates, but . . .’

  ‘Do not let us keep you from your duty, but you have some moments. Sit,’ he said, making room for me. He had a broad sanguine face with thick eyebrows and tufts of brown hair framing his tonsure. His eyes were a honey-brown, the same as those of a young calf, and as they fell upon me they bestowed instant calmness. The younger monk was paler, and his face had the quality of chiselled stone, though he spoke animatedly, blinking very often. He appeared as excitable as the other was calm.

  After an awkward moment in which the two sat in silence watching me and nodding, I ventured to speak. ‘Would you like me to ask the abbot if he will admit you as pilgrims? Certainly you must be suffering the cold.’

  The younger man smiled, fluttering his eyelids. ‘One cannot feel cold whose heart has been enkindled with the fire of the spirit, but we thank you for your charity.’

  ‘Are you on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela? Jerusalem, as you must know, has been taken long ago.’

  The older smiled, nodding his head as though I had said something mildly amusing. ‘The Jerusalem we seek is not physical, but spiritual. I have come with my devout companion Reginald to find peace!’

  ‘Oh, peace.’

  ‘There is no peace in Paris, only disputation,’ he continued, looking a little weary.

  ‘Paris?’ I was intrigued.

  Reginald interjected, ‘Thomas was asked to give lectures in Paris on the Book of Sentences.’

  ‘These two years in Paris have been difficult,’ Thomas continued, sitting forward and gazing clearly into my eyes. ‘There has been strife and discord in the universities. The students and professors protest the powers of the chancellor, and there is a growing antagonism towards us . . . Our good abbot of St Jacques, being the wisest of men, has sent us on a journey away from these disturbances . . .’

  ‘You are monks?’

  He did not answer.

  ‘But you are very far from Paris!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is there a Dominican house in these parts? And what of your habits?

  Once more he did not answer me exactly, ‘Yes, we are a long way from Paris, we have travelled on foot for many days, as did our beloved and sainted founder, called by a spirit voice. We needed no directions, no maps, we simply followed our hearts and the spirit has guided our sinful souls to this very place. Is it not wondrous? And since our arrival, I have had one dream that lasts even as the daystar rises in the sky!’ he looked at me in awe. ‘Even now I am within this dream, as you are within this hut. I see him . . . In this dream he leads me to the waters . . . Sometimes he is an eagle, sometimes he is a man. He says that he will lead me to the Temple, and there I will gain the knowledge that will allow me to proceed with my life’s work, to reconcile Aristotle and Christianity.’ He noted the interest in my eyes. ‘You have heard of the Greek philosophers?’

  ‘I thought everyone knew about them?’ I answered truthfully.

  The man smiled, ‘They will . . . they will. Now I must write my Summa, and yet it is not always possible to say what one must say, you know . . . There is so much to do, and so many forces working contrary to the purposes of God! And yet here, I can be one with the eternal light that rules the world, and I can dream of a time when the minds of men will not be clouded by fear, a time when the mind will be free . . .’ After saying these things Thomas became quite dull, as though he had lost his faculties.

  Reginald moved closer, whispering to me, ‘He has been this way since we arrived some days ago . . . He is in the throes of an ecstatic vision!’ he beamed with deep admiration. ‘On his face one sees sadness alternate with joy (there are moments in which his despair appears to be very deep, and other times he becomes joyful like a little child). He has passed these last days without eating or drinking and I must confess to having despaired that he was suffering from some terrible illness of the mind, for his estimative virtues have been disrupted; he cannot remember the day or the hour, at times he does not even recognise the face of his friend. And yet in moments of lucidity he assures me that he is quite well, and that he will soon return from the worlds which he frequents. Here there is peace for his work,’ he affirmed.

  I was astonished. This man Thomas, whose face was now filled with a saintly fire, had travelled here to find peace? I wondered what he would think if he knew of the events occurring behind the great gates.

  ‘The brother needs to rest, you must leave.’ Reginald stood.

  Feeling very perplexed, I emerged from the hut, and almost immediately I heard the bell toll matins.

  ‘Christian de Saint Armand,’ a voice called out after me, ‘life takes us on many divergent paths, and yet we shall meet one more time! Not in the flesh, but in the sun, man’s home, homo hominem generat et sol! In the sun . . .’

  I awoke as I have said, to the sound of the bells, still in my pallet. I had dreamed that I had dreamt.

  6

  Capitulum

  After Lauds

  The sun had only risen a half-hour before, and as we walked the cloisters in quiet meditation, we could see only a little sky that, through the arches, echoed its brilliance.

  One had to appreciate these moments of rare stillness and beauty, for I was learning that at this altitude the climate was never constant or predictable, but in perpetual transformation. Even now one could see clouds chasing away the indigo blue, stirred by a high impetuous wind that signalled a storm. />
  My master sniffed the air pensively. We had so much to contemplate. Aside from the strange dream that I had not the occasion to mention, there were other considerations. The more we examined the unsettling course of events since our arrival, the more confounding they became. Not only because we were witness to the untimely death of a poor monk, but also because the rose cross, for instance, and the black Madonna in the church, signalled that this was indeed no ordinary abbey.

  We walked, observing the monks engaged in various contemplative pursuits. How could they seem so untouched by events? Like the seasons, that irrespective of human vicissitudes continue to grace the earth with regularity, bringing order to chaos. I wondered what they thought of us. What else could they think of us, I answered myself, but that we were the messengers of their misfortune? I shuddered a little from the cold. Soon they would prepare to leave for the dormitories, to change into day shoes before a wash in the lavatory. And we, too, observing their custom, but for now we continued in silence, respecting the rule, until finally the bell rang and we were alone.

  I determined to tell him of my nocturnal sojourn, though I knew my master gave little importance to such things, but I was interrupted by the good abbot, Bendipur, whose pursed lips and furrowed brows signalled his displeasure.

  ‘I have just spoken to the infirmarian,’ he said as he drew nearer. ‘He tells me that it is your opinion that our brother died in . . . unnatural circumstances, and I must tell you that this is simply not possible.’

  My master nodded his head. ‘I see your point. But the facts remain as they are, abbot.’