A Vision of Light

by Judith Merkle Riley

  “Now watch this,” he said, and escorting Sir William over the slumbering bodies of several of the previous night’s carousers in the main room, he seated himself and his companion in a prominent place near the fire. Within a few minutes a man in a cobbler’s apron had approached their bench.

  “Why, this is lucky indeed!” he said to Brother Gregory. “I didn’t know that this was your day for the Unicorn. Oh, fortunate, fortunately met.” Sir William looked puzzled. “Now, you understand,” the man went on, “I need it right away. Right away. I have to get it to her by tonight. What will you want for it?”

  “A bargain today,” said Brother Gregory. “Ale for two.” He drew the bench closer to the table, put out his inkhorn on its broad surface, and removed the sheet of paper from the bosom of his gown. It was hardly rumpled from the morning’s exploits. He smoothed it out on the table, brushing away the bread crumbs first. His face was grave and serene in the fire’s light. “Now,” he said, in a calm, businesslike tone, “what color eyes?” As the man talked, Brother Gregory wrote carefully in his fine, narrow hand. Then, with a deeply serious look, but eyes glittering with irony, he read his effort to his customer in measured, resonant tones.

  “Perfect, perfect!” said the man, as Sir William stared at the scene with growing bewilderment. By the time they had begun the ale, a stonecutter’s apprentice had arrived, and a loaf of bread was procured. Three poems later Brother Gregory and Sir William were sighing contentedly over the remains of a very large breakfast.

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” said Sir William, gesturing in the direction of the inkhorn and the remains of the sheet of paper. “Wherever did you learn?”

  “Poetry? Oh, it was a hobby. Extemporaneous versification is all the rage at the University of Paris. But of course, I mostly devoted myself to philosophy.”

  “Paris? The very heart of the enemy, Gilbert. It’s bad enough you disobeyed your father—but to disgrace his name in foreign places…”

  “Oh, I didn’t disobey him at all, Sir William. After all, it was Oxford he forbade me to go to. And as for his name, I didn’t use it. They don’t admit the English at Paris just now anyway. But they don’t ask many questions either. Besides, a scholar’s realm is the whole wide world.”

  “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert.” The old knight shook his head. “Just because you obeyed the letter of God’s law doesn’t mean you didn’t break the spirit of it. You know your father wants you to be a soldier.”

  “Sir William,” said Brother Gregory gravely, “I’m not sixteen anymore, and a vocation for the church is higher than a father’s law. You know that.”

  “Just as you know it is your duty to obey him, and will be for the rest of your life. You can’t evade your duty by psalm singing, Gilbert. He has every right to send a half-dozen stout fellows to drag you home and lock you in the cellar on bread and water until your head’s cooled.”

  “So he has often informed me,” said Brother Gregory dryly. “It’s not much of an argument for filial duty.”

  “Neither is this,” said Sir William, sweeping his arm around as if to accuse the entire tavern, “much of an argument for religion. Tell me, is this the most respectable thing you can think of to do to replace the honor of the battlefield? Is this how you live?”

  “Not entirely, not altogether. Why, hardly at all. Most of my work is now copying for a—hmmm—very wealthy merchant. And in between I meditate. Have you heard of Roger Kendall?”

  In mid-speech Brother Gregory had realized that copying for a merchant’s wife would only prove Sir William’s point. And, too, Margaret was going to be very upset if he didn’t come. So he collared a little boy coming in with a vast jug to be filled with ale to take home, and exacted a promise from the little creature to run to Master Kendall’s house on Thames Street and deliver a message to Dame Kendall that Brother Gregory would not be there until the afternoon.

  Observing him, Sir William said bitterly, “Master Kendall, indeed! Another merchant! Even I know about that one! Not content with taking our land, they take our sons as well!” He looked at Brother Gregory with great seriousness. “Gilbert. You are wrong and you know it. Go home to your father. Kneel before him and beg his forgiveness. Submit to his will. A father’s will is the Will of God. You have shamed him and trailed his name in disgrace in low places, with all this book reading and poetry writing and tittle-tattle about God seeking. Consider this: If God wants to see people, He generally lets them know it. It’s not as if He can’t find you if He wants you. And there are serious doubts in my mind that a son who won’t listen to his own father will listen to God either. Go home, Gilbert. It’s your duty to God and man, and I’m telling you this for your own good.”

  Brother Gregory bowed his head to the older man, but ground his teeth. Sir William was a good fellow, but he never got anything right. He saw everything in terms of duty, like some book of manners, and never saw people as they really were. Only Brother Gregory understood about Brother Gregory’s father. And Brother Gregory had every intention of seeing God. He had a case to lay against Him for giving him a father like that. It required serious discussion and complaint.

  “I’ve sent father a letter,” he said. “I’ve told him I’m making a Decision—a Decision concerning my Spiritual Life, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  “A decision? You’re entering the priesthood? Or an order?”

  “An order. My mind’s made up. I’ve got the place picked out. I’ve already spent considerable time there and found it completely suitable for my purposes. And father should thank me. Lots of men are grateful to see a second son so well employed. I have every intention of devoting many hours of prayer to the good of my father’s soul. Not only is he in need of it, but it will increase my Humility.”

  “The Austin friars?” said Sir William hopefully.

  “Entirely too lax,” replied Brother Gregory. “They stuff themselves on nine dishes at table and guzzle wine and smuggle in women. And they never see God, as far as I can determine. They talk about Him a lot, but that’s all it amounts to. No, I’ve found a Carthusian house that is entirely devoted to Contemplation at the highest spiritual levels. You’ve probably heard of the abbot there—Godric the Silent. Some say he’s the holiest man in England. He has worked a number of very interesting miracles, as well as casting out scores of demons. He holds high converse with God on a regular basis. In fact, God has given him such immense and unspeakable wisdom that when he chooses to speak to men, which is rarely, it takes several weeks to discover what he meant. So you see, I have every intention of taking permanent vows with the Carthusians and entering a higher realm of spirituality—as soon as I have acquired sufficient Humility.”

  Far from being impressed the older man was horrified. But he hid his emotion as well as he could and said lightly, “Gilbert, please do not think that I do not believe that piety becomes a man well. I can easily imagine you, in some access of enthusiasm, taking vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. I can see you’d do well enough with poverty, and might manage to abide by chastity as well. But when have you ever been obedient? If you pull any of your rebellious tricks on the Carthusians, you’ll wish you were in your father’s cellar.” But Brother Gregory brushed over the old man’s silliness by asking him the gate by which he planned to leave the City, and offering to escort him that far. The older man sighed quietly and arose. Not a word he had said had penetrated Gilbert’s thick head. Exactly like his father, the old man thought.

  They walked in silence up Bishopsgate Street, past St. Helen’s Priory, until they stood in the shadow of the gate itself. Brother Gregory was thinking something over. He turned to Sir William and said, “It’s not fit for a gentleman to return unmounted. Surely—”

  “I’m not about to go begging now, Gilbert. Not now, not ever.”

  “But at least you’ll see the duke?”

  “Of course I’ll see him. When has he ever failed me, or I him? That’s where I’m off to when I’ve r
eturned home. He holds court at Kenilworth for the next fortnight, and he’s never yet refused an old warrior. At the very least he’ll see my girls dowered and offer me a place.—Tell me, Gilbert, can you see me as a gentleman usher?”

  “Not really, Sir William; it’s not at all how I’d imagine you.”

  “Nor can I. I’ve given it all thought. When I’ve got Philip back, I’ll go abroad again—as a mercenary, if I must. I’m not yet too old to try to win everything back with my sword.”

  Sir William surveyed the way ahead, and then turned to Brother Gregory and looked him square in the face.

  “Gilbert, I must warn you. You are on the wrong path. Not wrong for some, but wrong for you. If you persist, you are more likely to see the inside of an ecclesiastical prison for the rest of your days than to see God. I’m telling you this for your own good, as if you were my own son.”

  Brother Gregory bowed his head and pretended to listen. As they shook hands and parted the older man thought, Sir Hubert’s a fool, and when I next see him, I’ll tell him so. If he’d bend just a little—say one gracious word—he’d have his son back. He turned to watch Brother Gregory’s tall, obstinate form progress through the press of tradesmen and apprentices on Bishopsgate Street back into the heart of the City. Then he turned away suddenly and wrapped his cloak tighter against the spring drizzle. Past St. Botolphe’s and Bethlehem Hospital the long road wound between its grassy borders beyond a scattering of cottages and poultry yards and into the green and misty distance. “It would be so easy for them,” he spoke softly to himself. “When I, I have nothing.”

  WHEN BROTHER GREGORY ARRIVED at the Kendall household that afternoon, he had a contented air that was most unlike him. Margaret noticed it at once but didn’t say anything.

  He’s just told someone off, she surmised to herself. He’s always like that when he’s insulted someone. Of course, he wouldn’t see it as insulting. He thinks he’s helping people improve themselves by telling them truths they were too dense to notice. I wonder who it was? Some fellow who sold him a bad sausage, or perhaps a priest who didn’t quote St. Paul right.

  Actually, it hadn’t quite happened like that, although Margaret’s guess had been close. Brother Gregory was thinking about his father. In the intervening hours since his chance meeting with Sir William, he had come to realize it was all for the best. At this very moment he was imagining how Sir William, being an old friend of his father’s, would go straight to his father and tell him all about Brother Gregory’s Humility. That would infuriate his father, of course, because the old man was especially incapable of seeing that he himself was in need of a good bit more Humility. Then father would exhaust himself shouting and throwing the furniture about the hall in a fit of rage. But in the end it would be good for him. Eventually he could only be improved by his knowledge of his son’s higher spiritual example and his worthy filial desire to spend a life in prayer for his soul, even though he was entirely undeserving of such a selfless spiritual act. Brother Gregory felt lovely all over thinking about it.

  Margaret was shocked to hear Brother Gregory humming under his breath as he laid out his pen case and inkhorn. He had even managed to get into the house without growling at anyone and had failed to cast a single dour, thunderous look in her direction. She knew it couldn’t last, however. Whatever he had said to the sausage vendor, Margaret was very high on his list of people who needed improvement, and something was bound to set him off.

  THE FIRST THING I remember after I had been left under the tree was hearing a heavy sound weaving in and out of a dream. It was perhaps something tearing, or dragging—I couldn’t quite make it out. Sometimes it stopped, and sometimes it began again.

  “Horses, I hear horses. Is my husband returning?”

  “Ssst, ssst, now,” answered a woman’s voice. “You are not well yet; go back to sleep.”

  “I hear something. Is it in my head?”

  “It’s just a meal cake being made,” answered the voice. And I could vaguely distinguish, in a smoke-blackened room, the figure of an old woman grinding grain in a quern.

  The heavy sound of the upper stone resumed, as the woman pushed the handle around with a steady motion.

  “I don’t have to hide my quern from the bailiff anymore—that’s for certain.” There was a sort of odd, silent chuckle. “I suppose there’s something positive to be said of everything, even the pestilence. At last flour is free.” The grinding sound went on. Perhaps I had died, and this was the gate to purgatory. So black, so smoky, and so small—purgatory must be dark and painful like this. I could not move, and soon reentered the darkness.

  Another time I opened my eyes and saw moonlight entering a darkened room. A banked fire under layers of sod smoldered at the center of the room. Was it a room? Or a house? My hand reached out and felt, from where I lay, a hard-packed dirt floor and a section of wall—wattle and daub, I could feel the sticks and rough clay. I heard the sound of deep breathing. Where was this place? Was it a dream? A heavy thump on my chest, and I felt the four paws of a great cat who had leapt upon me as I lay there. I felt his breath on my face and looked up to see two huge eyes, glowing like orange coals, inspecting me. A great striped ruff, long white whiskers…

  I must be alive, I thought, for there are no cats in the afterlife. But where is this place, and why am I alive?

  Puss completed his examination and departed as he had come, continuing his midnight patrol of the darkened cottage.

  Life or a dream, what does it matter? I thought drowsily, and soon slept again.

  One morning I awoke to hear the song of birds and smell the boiling of a kettle. I tried to lift my head.

  “Finally awake?” asked the woman’s voice. “I told you you would live. I knew it for sure when I saw that the great black swellings had burst. Then I knew that my dream was true prophecy.”

  I felt under my arm and behind my neck, where it was very painful. Beneath loosely wrapped cloths I could feel open wounds draining.

  “This isn’t purgatory, is it?” I asked anxiously. “I am alive, am I not?”

  “Oh, it may be a kind of purgatory, but you’re certainly alive, though I had my doubts at first.”

  “Why am I still living?”

  “Because,” said the voice, in a self-satisfied way, “I asked it.” The voice continued on, “When I had buried all my own, I cried to God and the Blessed Mother of Our Lord and I said, ‘Now that all are dead, who remains to bury me? Will I die alone and animals eat my bones?’ Then I had a beautiful vision. The Queen of Heaven Herself, in a crimson mantle, gold crown, and nice blue leather shoes, appeared before me. She said to me, ‘Fear not, for I will send you another, and it is she who is destined to bury your bones.’ And so when Peter showed me that he had found someone alive by the high road, we loaded you on Moll, out there, and brought you back, although you didn’t look very well. The flies were walking all over your open sores.” Outside, in the staked yard beside the house, I could hear a donkey bray. That must be Moll.

  “And who is Peter?”

  “Peter is a simpleton. He could bury no one, unless someone else told him to.”

  I pondered for a moment, and despite the desperate nature of my situation, I saw the whimsy in it.

  “Who would bury Peter?”

  “Peter will never die, for he is a fairy changeling. Perhaps they will take him back someday. But there will certainly never be anything left of Peter to bury.”

  That solved the problem, I thought, and the vision of an endless chain of buryings faded from my mind.

  I lifted my head, and the voice acquired a source: an old woman in a shapeless russet gown and surcoat, her head wrapped in a white kerchief. Her face had once been plump, I thought, but sorrows had made it a deep white, and the plumpness had sagged into deep wrinkles and puffy dark bags beneath the eyes. Her hair, from the wisps that escaped the kerchief, must have been gray, with streaks that were as white as snow. The eyes were blue, of the sort that is sometimes
vague and sometimes piercing. With stubby, muscular hands she lifted the ladle out of the kettle and poured its contents into three wooden bowls.

  “If you can sit up now, you can eat this yourself,” she said. I tried hard but could only lift up my head.

  “Peter, help this woman to sit,” she said, and I saw approach me a horrible-looking monster, whose vaguely human form made him all the more frightening. On top of a short, hunched, round body, a thick, nearly nonexistent neck supported a heavy, jowly head that rose to a point covered with scant, fine, limp brown hair. His eyes were tiny, slanted, and piggy. They were somehow set wrong, there not being enough forehead on the face. The piggy appearance was enhanced by a tiny snub nose set in the middle of the face. The mouth was great and fat but not large enough to contain the tongue, which protruded even when the creature was not speaking. I say speaking, however, only as a courtesy, for the old woman seemed to interpret the creature’s grunting, moaning sounds as if they were words.

  “Don’t be frightened,” the old woman said as she saw me start. “Peter is the kindest, lovingest creature that was ever made. He always smiles, and doesn’t know the meaning of sadness. You will soon see that there are many worse companions than a changeling.” She stroked his head as the creature embraced her, smiling as if he understood she was talking about him. “But I did need someone to talk to,” she said with a little smile. “Peter’s conversation is cheerful, but lacking in other ways.”

  Peter smiled his strange, distorted smile again and made little crooning noises, rocking forward and backward with pleasure at this praise. Then he returned to my bedside, put one strong arm behind me, and with his other hand tugged on one of mine until I was sitting up.

  What a strange place I was in! Here was I, seated on a worn-out straw mattress in what I could now clearly see was a peasant’s hut. A strange creature sat and drooled happily beside me, waiting for me to thank him. I smiled, and he nodded happily, looking as if his lumpy head might at any moment roll off his shoulders. Over the central fire, with its kettle and tools, the thatched roof rose and was parted to make a smoke hole through which only a part of the smoke escaped at any one time. A Dutch door stood half open to admit light, and the window, no more than a hole in the wall, through which I had seen the moon, was opposite it. There was a small chest and a wooden bedstead for furniture, and a big straw mattress, evidently for members of the family no longer alive. In one corner was a heap of straw and a ring set in the wall, where the old woman’s she-ass could be tethered for the night. But the unusual thing about the hut was its roof. For from it hung many large bunches of herbs and dried plants, some complete with roots, each bunch on its own individual string.