Two hundred thousand dollars. Which she’d left sitting under the bed all day. Which anyone could have walked away with. I called her stupid; she laughed and replied that against stupidity even the gods struggle in vain. And really, she asked, who would look under a hospital bed on Christmas Day for a briefcase of money?
“You think I can’t afford you.” She stated it as if there were no possibility that she might be wrong. She wasn’t. When I nodded, she said, “I’m ready for my present now.”
Over the previous weeks I’d fashioned dozens of versions of the same little speech, like a high school boy plotting how to ask his favorite girl to a dance, but now that the moment was upon me, I felt only uncertainty. Timidity. Embarrassment. I wanted to be suave but, just like that high school boy, I was struck dumb. It was too late to escape, and I knew that my gifts—there were three—were too personal. Too stupid. My hours of labor had been to no avail: what prideful delusions had convinced me to make these gifts? She’d think them childish; she’d think me too forward, or not forward enough. I wished for lightning bolts to blitz my room, to pierce the bedside table where my silly little offerings were hidden in a drawer.
I had written three poems for her. The spinesnake laughed at the sheer arrogance of my efforts.
All my life, I had written poetry, but I’d never shown it to anyone. I hid my writing, and hid myself within the writing that I kept hidden—only a man unable to handle the actual world would create another one in which to hide. Sometimes when I realize that I couldn’t stop writing even if I wanted, a wave of discomfort shudders down my back, as if another man were standing too close to me at the public urinals.
Sometimes I feel there is something profoundly unmanly about any writing, but poetry is the worst of all. When I was gripped by fits of cocaine paranoia, I would burn my poetry journals and watch the burning pages peel off one another in layers, the flames spitting little gray flakes into the air. As my ashen words swirled into the heavens, it pleased me to know that my inner self was once again safe: a team of the FBI’s best forensic scientists couldn’t put my emotions back together again. The beauty of keeping my truest emotions hidden in my writing was that I could incinerate them at a moment’s notice.
Speaking a woman into bed was safe, because my words disappeared with the vapor of my spoken breath; writing a poem for a woman was fashioning a weapon that she could later use to assault me. Giving away one’s writing meant that it would be out there in the universe forever, ready to come back to wreak vengeance at any moment.
So I’d blown it. It was Christmas Day, I was stuck in the skeleton bed, I owed Marianne Engel a present, and I had no backup gift. I had only the childish scrawls that blackened the pages’ white purity. My words were Egyptian hieroglyphics before the discovery of the Rosetta stone; my words were wounded soldiers limping home, guns spent, from a lost battle; my words were dying fish, flipping hysterically as the net is opened and the pile spreads across the boat deck like a slippery mountain trying to become a prairie.
My words were, and are, unworthy of Marianne Engel.
But I had no choice, so I reached into the desk drawer and—LOSER—screwed my pale imitation of courage to an imaginary sticking place. I pulled out the three single sheets of paper, closed my eyes, and held the poems in Marianne Engel’s direction, hoping they wouldn’t rot in my hands.
“Read them to me,” she said.
I protested that I couldn’t. These were poems, and my voice was a deal at the crossroads gone horribly wrong. A fiery hellhound had broken into my throat and left behind a busted guitar with rusty strings. My voice was—is—majestically unfit for poetry.
“Read them to me.”
Now it is years later. You have this book in your hands, so obviously I’ve overcome my fear about giving away written words. But the three poems I read to Marianne Engel on that Christmas Day will not be included in the pages of this story. You already have enough incriminating evidence against me.
When I finished, she crawled into my bed. “That was lovely. Thank you. Now I’ll tell you how we first met.”
XII.
After I began reading the writings of Meister Eckhart, a change came into my way of thinking. It wasn’t huge but it was enough, and I finally started to understand some of what Mother Christina had meant about losing the creatureliness of my soul in an effort to come closer to the Godhead. But I kept the book secret, because sisters like Gertrud would never even consider his more radical ideas. And while it was Eckhart who acted as the catalyst, it was someone else who accelerated my questioning. When one of our older nuns died, Gertrud assigned me her duties, which included dealing with the tradesman who supplied our parchment.
The parchmenter was rougher than the men I was used to, so it surprised me that we got along so well. The first thing he asked me to do was pray for him. He explained that the previous nun had done so, and it was my first lesson in how one hand washes the other. If I did, he’d give the monastery a discount. He admitted that he had sinned, but added with a sly smile that he “hadn’t sinned in such a way as to afford indulgences.”
He loved to talk about everything and I was impressed with his grasp of politics, but perhaps only because I didn’t realize his complaints were standard in any tavern at the end of the day. During our monthly dealings, I learned much about the Germany that existed outside the monastery walls. Pope John was engaged in a feud with Louis the Bavarian. Wars were breaking out, and local lords had taken to hiring mercenary troops known as condotta; the linguist in me recognized that the word was borrowed from the Italian. Death was being sold for profit, completely without ideology or belief, and this turned my stomach. I couldn’t understand how men could do such things, and yet the parchmenter only shrugged and assured me it was happening everywhere.
In the scriptorium, Gertrud kept us working late into the night on Die Gertrud Bibel, and the efforts were paying off. Even with her passionate attention to detail, and even with all our other chores, I could see that only a few more years of work remained. She was old, but I knew that she would force herself to hold on. As pious as she claimed to be, she would have argued with Christ Himself if He had had the gall to try to take her away before her task was completed.
It was late one night, just like any other, when one of the nuns arrived at the scriptorium and whispered of the arrival of two men, one covered in such severe burns that he looked as though “he might have battled the Enemy!” It all sounded interesting enough, but I had work to do.
The following morning, Sister Mathildis, one of the monastery’s nurses, woke me in my cell and said that my presence was requested in the infirmary, on Mother Christina’s orders. I threw on my cloak and we crossed the cloister garden together while she informed me that she and the other infirmary nuns—Sisters Elisabeth and Constantia—had been up all night treating the burn victim. Everyone was surprised he’d held on as long as he had.
Mother Christina met us at the infirmary door. Across the room, Father Sunder and the nun-nurses were attending to a man under a white sheet. An exhausted soldier, still in the ripped clothes of battle, was slumped in a corner. When he saw me, he jumped up and asked, “Can you help him?”
“Sister Marianne, this is Brandeis, who brought the burnt man to us. We have consulted all our medical texts”—Mother Christina nodded at the open books on a counter—“but there is no information sufficient for dealing with this type of injury.”
I was at a loss as to what was expected of me. “Have you considered the Hospital of the Holy Spirit in Mainz? I am told it is one of the best.”
Father Sunder now came forward. “We’ve considered it, of course, but his condition is too fragile to risk the journey. Whatever is done must be done here.”
“If anyone knows the entire contents of the scriptorium, it is you,” Mother Christina said. As a political afterthought, she added, “And Sister Gertrud, of course. But she has many pressing tasks, as befits her position, so I will ask you to sc
our the library for any information that might be of use.”
Two things were immediately clear. First, this measure was being undertaken primarily to appease Brandeis: there was little chance that any of our books would actually contain useful information. Second, Mother Christina did not believe Gertrud would devote the necessary concentration to the search. While there was small hope that I’d find anything, small hope is better than none, and Mother Christina had apparently decided a man’s life was more important than Gertrud’s pride. Which, I admit, delighted me. But it would have been improper to show it, so I only bowed humbly and said that I was pleased to serve my prioress before God. My sole request was that I might check the soldier’s wounds, so that I might know what remedy I was looking for.
As I approached the table, I saw your face for the first time. It was burned then, as it is now, although less severely, and there was a great puddle of blood at your chest, seeping through the white sheet. I couldn’t help but think of a rose breaking through the snow. Even in the moment, I knew it was an inappropriate thought. Father Sunder looked to Mother Christina, who nodded her consent, and he gently peeled back the sheet. I could hear a slight tearing sound as the bloody fabric untacked itself from your body.
My reaction surprised me. I was fascinated more than anything else, and certainly not repulsed. While everyone else in the room, even the soldier Brandeis, took a step backward, I took a step forward.
There was scorched skin, of course, and your body was exuding more liquid than the bandages could absorb. I asked for a cloth to wipe away the excess. Black and red and gray all flowed into each other, but as I wiped away the charred residue, I made an amazing discovery. There was actually a rectangle of unburned flesh on your chest. It was on the left, just above your heart, and it stood out starkly in contrast to the destruction of the skin around it. Directly in its center was a single wound, a slit where some sharp instrument had cut into you. I asked Brandeis about this, and he answered that it was the entry point of the arrow that had hit you. He said that the arrow had not cut deeply and it was the fire that had caused the real damage.
I asked to know exactly what had happened. Brandeis’ face dropped, because he had already told this story to the nurses and telling it again was the last thing he wanted to do. But he braced himself and began talking.
You and Brandeis belonged to a condotta, as mercenary archers, and he looked down at the floor as if ashamed to admit his profession in a house of the Lord. There had been a battle the day previous. One moment the two of you were side by side with your crossbows, and the next moment you were struck by a flaming arrow. Brandeis reacted quickly, but the fire was already spreading. Because the shaft was sticking straight out of your chest, you couldn’t roll on the ground to extinguish the flames, so Brandeis broke the arrow near the head. At this point, he paused to hold out his palms and display his own considerable burns. He peeled away your burning clothes, but it was too late. The damage had been done.
He stayed at your side throughout the battle, using his crossbow to take down any attackers who dared to venture too close. Eventually, your troop prevailed and the fighting drew to a close. When your opponents had retreated, your fellow soldiers began to comb the carnage looking for survivors.
There were rules that everyone understood. If a wounded opponent was found, he would be executed. If one of your own was wounded but could be treated, treatment would be given. But if one of your soldiers was alive but injured past help, he too would be killed. This was considered an act of both mercy and economy. It was unbefitting for a good man to die a slow death, and it was not practical to waste resources to keep alive a useless soldier.
When you and Brandeis were discovered by your fellow mercenaries, a general consensus was quickly reached. You were too far gone and would be put out of your misery. And theirs.
A young warrior named Kuonrat stepped forward to offer his arm as the one to bring down the fatal sword, but do not think for a moment that this was a task he would regret. Kuonrat was an ambitious and bloodthirsty man with little in the way of conscience; he already had fixed his eye on the highest position, and your death would simply remove another of the old guard who was hindering his ascent to the position of condottiere, the troop’s leader.
But it was Herwald who was still in command that day, and your history with him had been long. In fact, it was he who had brought you into the troop when you were still just a teenager. You were one of his longest-serving soldiers, and over the years he’d come to respect you greatly. He was not looking forward to ordering your execution but, without a choice, he knew that the responsibility could not fall to a man like Kuonrat. So Herwald offered it to Brandeis, your closest friend. If Brandeis declined, Herwald would do it himself.
Brandeis would hear no talk about killing you. He drew himself up to his full height and pulled out his sword. “I will take down any man who dares step forward. My friend will not be cut down like some lame horse.”
Why couldn’t Brandeis just take you somewhere to look after you himself? The reason lies with the motto of the condotta. Once a soldier was in, he was in for life. That’s the way it was, the way it had always been, and the way it always would be. A soldier needed to know that he could count on the man next to him, and there could be no desertion in times of trouble. To enforce this rule, anyone who attempted to leave was hunted down and brutally killed, with no exceptions. If Brandeis were allowed to leave to care for you, who would claim the same privilege next?
So Brandeis was standing over you, his sword raised against the entire troop and against a tradition that could not be broken. It was incredibly brave and incredibly stupid. But, perhaps, the other soldiers felt a grudging respect for someone who would risk his own life for a friend. The stalemate could be resolved only if Brandeis was able to offer a workable solution and, amazingly, he did just that.
Brandeis knew the proximity of Engelthal to the battle, and he knew of the monastery’s reputation as a place where miracles occurred routinely. Brandeis swore, on his honor, that he would rejoin the troop before their next battle if he were allowed to bring you to the monastery. He put forward that—since everyone was convinced you would die anyway—you should at least be allowed to die under the protection of the Lord.
Herwald accepted the proposition, a rare concession on his part. Personally and politically, this was an astute decision. It illustrated that loyal soldiers would be rewarded, while at the same time it saved him from ordering the execution of an old friend. And no one could charge that he would be letting an able soldier leave the ranks, as Brandeis had promised to return.
Kuonrat the Ambitious knew better than to attack Herwald publicly when goodwill was high, but he did whisper to anyone who would listen that this was actually the second time that the condotta’s supposedly unbreakable rule had been disregarded. “Does no one remember the Italian bowman Benedetto? We let him escape without sending soldiers to track him. Again Herwald has betrayed us with his weakness. How long can we allow this to continue?”
Only a few listened. Most agreed that after your years of service you should be allowed to die close to God, under the care of the sisters at Engelthal.
When Brandeis finished the story, he rubbed his exhausted face. It’s possible that I saw a tear, but it might just have been sweat. And that’s how you came to the monastery. How you came to me.
Brandeis’ story had entranced everyone in the room, even those who’d heard it before. Father Sunder finally broke the silence, commending him for his most proper actions. Mother Christina said that she did not approve of mercenaries but recognized true brotherly love when she saw it. She assured Brandeis once more that we would do everything we could, and the nurse-nuns nodded their agreement. These were all good words, of course, but every face in the room was written with the same expression of pity. Everyone thought you would die.
I did not. I wanted to run my fingers over your wounds; I wanted your blood on me. Where everyone els
e saw a dying man, I saw a man awaiting resurrection. I thought of Christ’s wounds in His finest hour.
Brandeis straightened his spine, the way men do when they think it’ll give them greater strength than they actually possess. He bowed stiffly and said that he had to honor his promise to return to his troop. He had confidence in our abilities, he said, and in the goodness of the Lord. At the door he looked over his shoulder at you, one final time.
After Brandeis’ departure, I spent the day poring through the scriptorium’s volumes looking for anything that might be of service in your treatment. But as urgent as my task was, I had trouble keeping my focus. I tried to imagine the two of you in battle, but I couldn’t. Brandeis seemed too concerned with your life to also be a killer, and the calm expression on your face as you lay on the table haunted me. I didn’t realize it then, but you were in shock. At the time, it seemed to me as if your spirit had slipped out of the casing of your body. As a nun, I found this deeply disconcerting. It did not help my concentration to realize that I hadn’t asked Brandeis why the rectangular area above your heart was not burned, in the midst of such damage to the rest of your torso.
Our books presented no remedies for your terrible burns. No shaft of light through a window illuminated a relevant passage, nor did the wind flow through an opened casement to flip a book to the correct page. In the evening, I felt obligated to return to the infirmary, if only to inform the nun-nurses that I’d made absolutely no progress.
The scene was markedly different from what I had seen earlier. You were screaming with a fury that I’d never heard in my life. My years of monastic silence had rendered me unable to imagine that a human body could produce such noises. The nuns were trying to hold you still, but it was a losing battle. Sister Elisabeth was more than happy to yield her place to me. You were drenched in your body’s escaping fluids, and your eyes darted from side to side as if following a demon that only you could see. I placed my hands around your head, but you wouldn’t stop thrashing. I stroked your hair and spoke soothing words as the others poured water over you. Each cool splash induced another jerk of your body. I grabbed a jug also, and tried my best to force liquid down your throat. When you finally opened your mouth to accept it, your eyes fluttered for a moment before going completely still.
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