We came unto a noble castle’s foot,
Seven times encompassed with lofty walls,
Defended round by a fair rivulet.
Dante, Inferno, 4.106-108
No one spoke as they got the horses on the raft and pulled themselves across the river. It felt good to Dante – the repetitive, monotonous, physical exertion of putting one hand over the other to pull the rope. It wasn’t like the frenzied rush of battle, nor the quiet calm of riding, nor the sedentary thrills of reading and writing, but it was soothing and exhilarating simultaneously. Most of all, such work never made him feel guilty, as fighting, resting, or writing always threatened to, with their confusing and complicating connections to violence, rage, pride, or sloth. This felt more like what one was supposed to be doing – hard work, with a simple goal that didn’t include hurting anyone or anything, or acquiring any substantive object. Even speech would taint the balm of this guiltless, selfless interlude. The silence of the other two seemed to confirm they felt this too. But a glance to the left, where several of the bodies could still be seen drifting, reconnected Dante quickly to the horror they had just witnessed, and in which they had participated. The corpses were far enough downstream they could barely be distinguished from other objects in the water, but it was still enough to make Dante’s stomach contract and his head feel light and useless.
They got off on the other bank and Radovan cut the rope that ran across the river. The ferry slowly eased out into the stream and picked up speed, as the rope slipped into the water. “The army has sections of bridge already built, to put across the river here when they arrive,” he explained. “But they would have sent a boy across on the rope to get the raft, and get troops across that way until the pontoon bridge was built. So perhaps this will slow them down just a bit, at least the forward scouts who would have caught up with us first.”
They mounted their horses and followed the road into the forest. It was late afternoon. This time of year it stayed light fairly late, but they would need to stop before too long.
“Is there another town on this side of the river?” Dante asked. “Is there any place safe to stop tonight?”
“I don’t know if anywhere is safe,” Radovan said. “There are more villages further up the valley. And there are individual houses and logging camps scattered all over. But up ahead there is another road that leads to a monastery. Perhaps we should try asking for shelter there. I have only heard of it. The brothers there are hermits and are seldom seen out among the people.”
“Perhaps they would be more likely to help us – more helpful than the villagers were,” Bogdana said.
“Or the army,” Radovan said.
“Or the clergy,” Dante added.
The sun was poised above the mountains ahead of them, as they turned down a road that forked slightly to the right. Since he had no better plan, Dante did not object to going to the monastery, but he was not completely confident they would receive sympathy and hospitality from men who had retreated from human society. It would probably come as no surprise to the brothers that their neighbors were now physically as well as spiritually diseased. Dante looked at Radovan, then down at his own arms. They’d washed their hands in the river, but their sleeves and shirts still looked like they had just come from slaughtering cattle, and the monks would surely guess the truth was much worse. And as reassuring as Bogdana’s large, taut belly felt to Dante, he knew that men who had devoted themselves to the perfect, pristine God, and withdrawn from the presence of their sinful, polluted neighbors – especially those neighbors who were female – might find it much more disconcerting than comforting. Dante remembered the story of the Good Samaritan, of how a priest and a Levite had left the man to die, because they believed him less clean than themselves. But he also remembered how years ago he had heard a sermon preached on this same gospel story, about how the Samaritan had done something especially virtuous and admirable, because he had helped someone so unlike himself, someone from a different, hostile tribe. The story started to give Dante hope on that spring afternoon, as the shadows lengthened and they rode on into the deepening darkness.
He knew he had been unable to commit to the monastic vows because of his own weakness, together with the ambition of his father for a socially advantageous marriage, and he tried to hope these men were better monks than he would have been.
The road ascended for some time, switching back on itself to make the slope climbable, until they came to a break in the trees and emerged into a large, open area. It was a striking vista, with the sun just touching the tops of the mountains to the west. Spreading out before them was a bowl-like indentation in the land, with a lake in the middle of it. In the lake was an island, at the far end of which was a stone building, several stories tall. The water of the lake was an especially brilliant blue, and the pine trees on the island were a particularly deep green. All the colors in this part of the valley seemed to take on a special vibrancy and vitality. The air seemed completely clear and fresh for the first time since Dante had entered this land.
They followed the road down through the field that stretched from the edge of the forest to the shore of the lake. As they got closer, they could see that a narrow, wooden bridge ran from the large island to a much smaller one that was only about thirty feet from the shore. On the smaller island was a mechanism for raising and lowering a drawbridge that connected it to the mainland. The bridge was in the up position, and there were two robed figures on the small island.
Before they got all the way to the shore, Radovan turned to Dante and Bogdana. “I don’t know who should address them,” he said quietly. He looked at Dante. “Your strange accent might put them off, but they would probably suspect I’m in the army, and I don’t know how they feel about the army coming here, or how they feel about deserters.” He looked at Bogdana. “They might have more sympathy for a woman, or they might have rules about not letting you anywhere near the place. I don’t know what to do.”
“You, go ahead,” Bogdana said to Dante. “The accent might make them less suspicious than the sword and armor, I think, and less suspicious than they would be of a woman.”
They had reached the point where the road ended by the lake. As Dante waved to the two figures, he felt a sick dread at the thought they might be dead like the people on the ferry. But they weren’t moving about in frenzied hunger, the way the dead always seemed to. They just stood there. One finally waved back. “The plague is abroad,” he shouted to Dante. “Are any of you bitten?”
“No,” Dante replied. “We can come across one at a time and you can inspect us, if you like.”
“We shall. But what do you want here? We are hermits and we don’t usually accept visitors, except in extreme situations, and they are never allowed to stay long.”
“We are traveling west. The army is coming this way and we fear they will kill us. The undead are in the woods. We need shelter for the night. We will move on in the morning.”
The two figures conferred, then they turned the wheel to lower the drawbridge across the water. When it was in the down position, the one who had spoken before did so again. “Dismount, all of you. You, the one we spoke to, lead your horse across. You other two, stay on the shore.”
Dante did as he was told. When he was on the other side of the drawbridge with the two figures, he was shocked to see that the one who had not spoken was in fact a woman. A young one at that, about Bogdana’s age, though her hair was cut short, nearly bald, as was the hair of the young man with her. She noticed his surprise. “I will turn around if you like,” she said. “And my brother monk will do the same when your woman comes across.”
“He can turn around for her if she likes, but no, you needn’t do anything special for me. I just didn’t expect to see women here,” Dante said.
The man had been looking Dante over and poking him with a staff. “Lift up your frock,” he said, “all the way to your armpits.” Dante reconsidered having the woman turn around, but everything w
as so weird and outside of normal decency here, he just went ahead and lifted his frock. “Roll your pants up past the knees.”
He followed the directions, then he was waved on to cross the narrow bridge to the island and wait there. Bogdana was the second across, and although he didn’t see her ask the male monk to turn around, Dante did look away when she was inspected. She joined him on the island, and a few moments later the man and the woman in robes came over with Radovan, after they had raised the drawbridge.
“Please, follow the trail,” the man said. “Our monastery is on the other side of the island.”
They did so, leading their tired horses. It was twilight, but nothing here seemed as threatening and unnatural as everything else they had encountered. In a short while, they heard clacking sounds and shouts. Even these, though unexpected, did not have the sound of panic and alarm, but seemed orderly and normal. The three travelers and their escorts emerged from among the trees into an open area in front of the monastery building. Here there were a couple dozen people in grey robes, practicing at fighting each other with wooden staves. They were all ages, from teens to the elderly, and like the pair who had met them at the bridge, there were both men and women among them. They stopped their practicing when they saw the newcomers, and one of the older men approached them.
The young man who had accompanied them from the bridge explained who they were to the older man, who was bald, with a closely-trimmed beard, and an exceptionally short and wiry build. “Thank you, Brother Jonas and Sister Genya. Please return to the bridge and keep watch there and do not let anyone else across. But you were right to let these in, I think.” He turned to Dante, Bogdana, and Radovan. “Welcome. I am Brother Adam. We are just finishing our evening’s exercises, before dinner and our final prayers. You may make our home your sanctuary for tonight, if you wish it.”
Dante still did not know if these people were better monks than he would have been, but he could definitely tell they were very different from the Franciscans.
Chapter 11
Thus we went on as far as to the light,
Things saying ’tis becoming to keep silent,
As was the saying of them where I was.
Dante, Inferno, 4.103-105
After washing at a fountain in front of the stone building, and giving their horses to attendants, they were led inside. The main doors opened into a large central room, under a domed ceiling. The vault of the dome was decorated with constellations of the night sky. The paint used must have had metal flecks in it, or else the pictures were inlaid with bits of glass, because the stars on the ceiling sparkled in the torchlight, and final rays of the sun coming through thin windows in the dome. The capstone at the very top of the dome was decorated with a golden, stylized star, like a compass rose.
Painted around the bottom edge of the dome were mythological creatures: centaurs, harpies, and minotaurs, as well as stranger ones Dante did not have names for. One looked like a giant snake with wings, another like a plume of smoke with a woman’s face. The artist who had painted these had done them in such a way one could imagine they were supporting the vault above them. At the same time, they looked like they were assailing it, either to ascend or destroy it. As beautiful a room as it was, Dante wondered about its appropriateness as the central hall of a monastery, nearly as much as he wondered about the presence of women in their group. The capstone should have been a depiction of God on His throne, the stars should have been accompanied or replaced by angels, and the mythological creatures should haven been angels. Or demons, so long as the painting made it clear they were being cast down and imprisoned by God and the angels. Nothing about these people quite made sense. Yet here in the monastery the feeling given by such incongruity was a sense of wonder and bemusement, rather than one of dread and confusion.
Under the dome, the room was full of round, wooden tables with chairs set around them. Dante, Bogdana, and Radovan were directed to sit at one with Adam. Although there were two other chairs at the table, these remained empty.
“I’m sorry,” Adam explained. “Although we do not have the same rules as other monasteries regarding proximity to the opposite sex, we do keep our members away from strangers in general. I will be your host tonight, while my brothers and sisters will keep their distance. I hope you understand it is not disrespect.”
“Of course,” Dante said, though he was still baffled and curious about their arrangements here.
“I’ve lived just outside the valley all my life,” Bogdana said, “and I never knew this monastery was here. And I certainly wouldn’t have thought there were women here. I don’t think I understand your group.”
Adam smiled. “Our female members seldom leave the island openly, except in emergencies, as during a plague.”
“But what order are you that allows this?” Dante asked. “This is not done, where I come from.”
“I have never heard of this, either,” Radovan said.
The food arrived. As to diet, these strange recluses followed the norms Dante was used to, at least. The food was hearty and abundant, but there was nothing unnecessary or extra beyond the minimum to nourish the body. They were each presented with a large bowl of vegetable soup, and in the middle of the table was a loaf of black bread. Dante saw Bogdana could barely keep herself from it, she was so hungry, but manners dictated they wait. Dante could only imagine how ravenous she was in her condition, with only a few berries since the morning.
“Please,” Adam said, “pray as is your custom. There is no need to follow any special prayer of ours.” He and the other monks bowed their heads to silently give whatever blessing it was they were used to giving. Dante could only follow their lead. He saw Radovan and Bogdana were equally surprised by their customs.
The prayer being done, Bogdana immediately began eating, though she was still attentive to what was being said by the men.
“Yes. I’m sure our order does not quite fit your expectations,” Adam continued. “But there is some precedent, from the time of the apostles, of men and women saints living or traveling together in chastity, as they spread the good news and served the Lord. We believe the flesh is not so weak it cannot withstand temptation, and we do not believe it so strong it can lead the soul and mind into temptation against their will.”
“I see. This is not how it is done elsewhere,” Dante said.
“Well, we do have some… reinforcements to strengthen our resolve. All members are raised here in the monastery from childhood. They are taught to look upon one another as brothers and sisters, so any feelings of a more carnal, disorderly sort would seem like incest to them. And if, God forbid, someone were to act on such incestuous urgings, they would be punished according to the harshest laws of the Bible – with public execution.” Dante thought that part of their order sounded more like the kind of harsh, earthly justice he was used to hearing preached, if only selectively practiced. “Thankfully, this has not been necessary for hundreds of years in our monastery.”
To have brutality applied so infrequently was also outside Dante’s experience, and he marveled at it. “But what is your order, exactly?”
Adam pointed back at the main door they had entered. Dante turned and saw there was a large crest on the wall above it. The symbol consisted of angry, orange flames pointing down from the top. They were reaching down to something that looked like an iceberg, within which was encased the outline of a small, blue heart. Like the dome, the crest was strikingly incongruous for a religious order – there was no cross, or crown of thorns, or lamb, or dove, or any other Christian symbol on it.
“We are the Order of the Blessed Death,” Adam explained. “We are neither of the eastern nor western churches, but have existed since long before the two split.” He gestured back at the crest above the door. “Our crest tells much of our beliefs and practices. There is a legend that the next time God grows weary of humanity’s wickedness and madness, and regrets having made us, He will use fire instead of water to destroy the earth.
But we believe that before His fire turns to destruction, it is intended to melt the frozen human heart that seals itself off from God’s love, and that such healing flames rain down on us all the time, if we were but aware.”
“But when was this order founded?” Dante asked.
“Legend has it Cain was the founder of our order. Out of penance for his wickedness and lack of love, he spent all the rest of his life wandering, pleading with others to live a life of love, and to pursue a blessed death.”
Dante exchanged looks with Bogdana and Radovan at this strange revelation. Bogdana’s spoon was poised in midair for a moment, before she gave a shrug, emptied the spoon in her mouth, then set it down to reach over and tear off another hunk of bread.
“That is a most unusual founder, Brother Adam,” Dante said. “And what is this ‘blessed death’ your order is named for?”
“Why, that you must surely know, if you are good and godly people, as you appear to be. It is the opposite of a cursed life, of course. What life could be more cursed than one lived out of selfishness and hate and burning, never-ending desire? And what death is more blessed than that died by Jesus, giving himself to death out of love and selflessness, with no desires for his own needs, but only for the needs and healing of others? Where did you say you were from?”
“Italy.”
“Ah.” Adam nodded. “I think you’ll agree that those who follow the cursed life have put down deep roots of corruption in your land.”
Dante nodded. At least there was something coming closer to orthodoxy in this part of the description, as odd as the rest had been. “Is your order spread far abroad, in Italy and beyond?”
“We believe all men and women of good will are members of our order in their hearts, even if they do not know to call themselves such. But as for actual members who wear the grey robe and follow our life in community – yes, we are all across the world. In lands you don’t even know of yet, lands beyond what you call the Pillars of Hercules, lands to the east of Persia and India, lands where men and women have never heard of Jesus, there are those who follow the blessed death as He did, and spurn the cursed life as He taught.”
Valley of the Dead (The Truth Behind Dante's Inferno) Page 6