The Oblate's Confession

by William Peak

  Oftfor nodded as if impatient now with any and all instruction. “Why’s it called that?” he asked.

  “Why’s it called that?”

  “The door place. Why’s it called that?”

  “Because that’s what dortoir means. It’s the building where you sleep.”

  “But I mean, why? If it’s where you sleep, why don’t they call it the bedchamber? I mean, that’s what it is, isn’t it? There’re beds in there, aren’t there?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then it’s the bedchamber, right?”

  “Look, you want to see something else?”

  And so it was that Oftfor and I, grown tired of playing pupil and pedant, became again what in fact of course we had been all along, just two little boys trying hard to entertain themselves in a world entirely not of their making. Naturally enough, I showed him all my secret places straightaway: the spot by the refectory door that had been damaged when they carried the table in, the stain on the base of the lavabo which looked, if you stood in just the right place, rather like a cow, the treasures to be found in Brother Kitchens’ rubbish heap, and, of course, the place along the church’s south wall where, in the early spring, it was nice to sit in the sun and feel the stones warm at your back.

  As I remember it, Oftfor enjoyed our little tour. Though it seems hard to believe now, he was in those days a boy like any other, small for his age and a little timid, but otherwise perfectly willing to accept and even enjoy whatever circumstances the world presented. I remember he particularly liked the west walk. To this day I can see the look of delight that spread over his face as he stood on its flags and, for the first time, realized what he was feeling through the soles of his feet. Later I showed him a place

  where, if you put your eye close to an opening between two of the stones, you could see, as well as feel and hear, the dark rush of the water beneath you. It was as we knelt at this spot, the fresh smell of the race scenting the air around us, that Oftfor, in all seriousness, asked if someday we might catch fish there; and, child that I was, for a moment I remember I allowed myself to think we might.

  There is of course, or at least there was, another story told from that day. Funny I should remember it after all these years. I didn’t care for the thing at the time, didn’t care for the way it made us look, Oftfor and me. The brothers who repeated the story were known to chuckle among themselves as they made the signs. Truth be told, I can’t even promise it is true; certainly I have no memory of the exchange it pretends to describe. But I write under obedience, so let me record here, simply and without qualification, what was said. The postulant Dudda (who—it should be pointed out—was young himself then and therefore quite possibly prone to exaggeration) claimed afterwards to have overheard a portion of the instructions I gave Oftfor that day. According to this Dudda, I was saying something like “Father Dagan is Father Prior, Father Agatho is Father Abbot, Brother Baldwin is Brother Sacristan, Father Cuthwine is Father Cellarer...” when, supposedly, Oftfor interrupted me. “Are there any mothers?” he asked.

  III

  I have other memories from those first years. I could, I suppose, fill an entire book with such childish remembrances. But so could many others, and I write under obedience: Father Abbot has ordered me to give an account of the events that led up to my sin. And so I move now to a day, perhaps a year or two later, when I received my first inkling of the role I would someday be called to fill, the mission I would so basely abuse. By that time there were four of us. I came first. No one, not even Waldhere, would deny that. When we oblates marched into church, I stood at the head of our little line. But in truth, if not in precedence, Waldhere came first. He was the oldest among us and, at least for a while, the tallest as well. Not surprisingly then it was he who led us that day—all eyes and expectation—out onto the garth, pointed us toward the mystery that would, in time, lead to the writing of this account. Which is not to say that it was Waldhere’s fault. No. No of course it wasn’t. The fault was mine. I do not claim otherwise.

  I wonder now what he told us. It can’t have been much. Waldhere would have understood next to nothing of what he had seen. A secret then, a hint, the suggestion of something marvellous, and we would have followed him out to the edge of the terrace, followed him to the edge of the world for that matter, followed him because he was Waldhere and we always followed him, followed him because—though secrets may be common in a community that keeps the silence—few of any consequence are known to oblates.

  Though I loved Waldhere, though I loved and revered and, at times, wanted to be Waldhere, still there was a part of me that resented Waldhere. I was first. I had lived at Redestone longer than any of them, could tell stories of a time before the abbot’s lodge, before the dortoir, before even the reredorter; and so, doubtless, a part of me would have resented that excursion as well, would have resented the ease with which Waldhere had taken command, the impertinence of it, the implied reproof. It would have been like me to have said something. It would have been like me to have—in this if nothing else—taken the lead, been first to break the silence.

  “Such a surprise—here it is morning and, behold, the sun rises

  Waldhere ignored me. Like a grownup, like one of the exalted personages that ruled over our lives, Waldhere ignored me, leaned out over the edge of the terrace, cast a long self-important glance down toward the ditch. But there was nothing there—grassy banks, the abbey path—certainly nothing to warrant my attention.

  I looked back out at the fields, the village beyond. The sun had already reached the wheat, turning its surface into something soft, rosy, a gentle relief of the ground hidden beneath. Among the peas the sparrows had begun their day as well, bickering as they gleaned. But the village still lay in shadow, the sunny tops of the Far Wood rising from the haze of its cook-smoke like something in a dream, something conjured up, hardly real.

  “Look!”

  It was Ealhmund and he was pointing toward the village.

  I shaded my eyes against the sun but at first could see nothing; then the figure of a man detached itself from the shadows, waded out into the wheat. I glanced over at Waldhere but was not surprised to find him uninterested. This was not the secret.

  With little else to do, I watched as the man made his way obliquely across the field. Twice he stopped and knelt down as if looking for something. When he did this, the surface of the wheat seemed to swallow him whole, only the dark line of his progress through the dew remaining to tell you where he had to be. Each time he reemerged, head and shoulders rising suddenly into the light, I found myself pleased, as if I had both predicted, and then personally performed, something of a miracle.

  Presently the man worked his way over to the ditch. With an exaggerated step, he leapt to the other side. I expected him to turn back then toward the village, or maybe walk up toward the abbey, but he ignored the path altogether and continued on into the tall grass beyond. Which told me where he was going. Should someone run to the refectory? Should someone tell the brothers? Should I?

  Two ducks rose squawking from the nearer of the ponds and flew out over the village toward the river. The man seemed only mildly surprised by the ducks. He watched as they turned over the Meolch, flying east into the cover provided by the Far Wood. As if in some obscure way he approved of the course taken by the ducks, the man gave a quick nod in their direction, and then, turning back toward the pond, began a series of elaborate gestures that made him look like a monk talking with his hands. But of course he wasn’t a monk and he wasn’t talking with his hands: he was pulling a net from his blouse. The four of us stood up as tall as we could but it made no difference; the man knew perfectly well where the community was at that time of day, that he need not worry about the abbey. And of course we could not yell.

  “Some secret, a poacher.”

  Waldhere shook his head but I could tell he was beginning to have doubts himself. Which disappointed me. Though I hadn’t wanted him to succeed, I also didn’t w
ant him to fail. I wanted to see something I hadn’t seen before; I wanted to learn a secret.

  I looked back toward the village. There were mothers in those houses. Mothers and fathers and their children. And somewhere south of here there was a house like these, a house that held my family. Or at least my father. I was Winwæd, son of Ceolwulf, and Waldhere couldn’t say that. Ealhmund and Oftfor couldn’t say that. No matter how many aunts and uncles they had, everyone knew they were really only orphans. Aunts and uncles didn’t count: I was the only real oblate.

  “There he is!” said Waldhere, and even as he said it we saw him, saw the monk emerge from behind the terrace wall, continue on his way down the abbey path. Though he shaded his eyes against the sun, the man made no attempt to disguise his walk.

  “Brother Ælfhelm,” said Oftfor gravely; then, apparently unsure of the importance of this, added, “He’s probably just going to work in the peas.”

  “During Chapter?”

  It was, of course, impossible. And immediately I loved Waldhere again. How had he found this out? How could anyone have discovered anything so wonderful?

  “Oh he’ll get a beating now,” said Ealhmund, who liked beatings.

  “No he won’t. He goes every week.”

  I looked at Waldhere.

  “He does! Every Sabbath!”

  And for some reason I believed him. Not, I think, because Waldhere was believable or it made sense, but because it wasn’t, because it was impossible, incredible, and therefore in absolute keeping with what I watched. A grown man, one of the brothers, perfectly healthy and, so far as I knew, in complete possession of his faculties, was walking down the abbey path right in the middle of Chapter. And what was more he was doing so without subterfuge. When he crossed over the ditch bridge and turned back toward us, the sun behind him now, eyes raised, he made no attempt to pull his hood up or avert his face. Anyone could have seen him! Anyone could have known!

  But, then again, they couldn’t, could they? They were all in Chapter. And would a villager report such a thing if he saw it? Would a villager even recognize such behavior as wrong? Villagers didn’t come to Faults. Villagers weren’t allowed in Chapter. How would anyone ever know?

  Ælfhelm regained the terrace wall, threw a glance up at the abbot’s lodge, turned and began to walk along the base of the wall toward the river, toward us.

  “It’s all right,” whispered Waldhere. “He doesn’t look up.”

  We all held our breath.

  Ælfhelm passed beneath us.

  Without looking up, Ælfhelm passed beneath us and then, crossing himself absently, passed beneath the church.

  We all breathed again. Then, just as we were beginning to feel comfortable, Ælfhelm did something completely unexpected. Instead of turning back east and following the river down toward the

  village, he stepped out onto Wilfrid’s bridge.

  “He’s going for wood,” whispered Oftfor, and, just as quickly, Waldhere whispered back, “Without a cart?”

  “But I like Brother Ælfhelm, I like his stories.”

  “Too bad,” said Waldhere, “he’s going anyway.”

  And he was. Without even stopping to think about it, Ælfhelm crossed the bridge and walked right into the belly of the great North Wood.

  Of course there was quite a debate after that. The four of us stood at the end of the garth and argued the case like four old farmers arguing over a cow—each of us sure he was right, sure he was the one who knew what Ælfhelm was up to. Not that it really mattered. Apostate or spy, the man had broken the Rule—one of the adults, one of the spotless ones, had a spot, a secret, and we all now knew it.

  For weeks after that I thought about Ælfhelm, pictured him as he made his way down the abbey path, passed beneath the refectory window. I could imagine what it would be like, the sounds that would come from that window, the voices—maybe Prior Dagan asking a question, Father Abbot clearing his throat, saying something you couldn’t quite hear. It was pleasant lying in bed and thinking about that, picturing Brother Ælfhelm, secure in the knowledge that he (and he alone) would suffer the consequences of his actions. Many’s the night I drifted off dreaming of trespass and the great North Wood.

  IV

  I suppose the bad times really began with the furnace master’s speech. I mean, when people think about the bad times—if they allow themselves to think about them at all—that is probably what they think of first, the speech, the fact that it was the furnace master who told them what was going to happen. Indeed, I sometimes wonder if that was the beginning of Victricius’s own personal bad times as well. It makes sense. No one likes to hear such news, and especially not from a foreigner. But I write under obedience. I must record only what I can attest to, and I cannot attest to this. I was still too young for Chapter then; I never heard the famous speech. No, when I remember the bad times, I think not of the furnace master but of the little one, of poor little Oftfor. And not for the reasons you think. I remember Oftfor not for what he became but for what he was, the boy I knew, the living breathing child.

  That was a wet year. The rains came early that spring and continued well into the haying. When it rained hard we knelt in church and prayed for better weather, and when it rained less hard, we pulled our hoods up, gave thanks to God, and marched out into the peas, our woolens still weighted with the previous day’s mud. By the end of that summer there were brothers whose feet were so swollen and white from the damp it was said they looked more like fish than feet. Brother Tunbert lost some toes.

  Still, when I think of that year, the end of that summer, I think first not of bad weather but of good, of a day that dawned so bright and clear it seems now to mock all that came after. I remember colors—turf, lichen, moss—I remember a high blue almost winter sky. I remember Oftfor. Oftfor stands in the angle created by sanctuary and apse, russet walls steaming at his back, sunlight everywhere, sparkling. The boy raises an arm. He must have been wearing woolens too big for him for, in my memory, as he raises his arm, the opposite shoulder (frail, bony, white) always slips incongruously from the neck of his garment. He smiles. As if embarrassed, as if unsure of the importance of what he has to show me, Oftfor smiles. It’s a squirrel. A dead squirrel. Oftfor is standing in the angle created by sanctuary and apse and he is holding a dead squirrel up by its tail. The thing hangs in the air by Oftfor’s left ear, its eyes caked, useless, perfect little feet clutching at nothing.

  And then, always, whether I like it or not, a second memory intrudes upon the first. This time we are in the reredorter and I am feeling disappointed. Despite myself, despite conscience, the horror of what Oftfor has shown me, I am thinking of myself, realizing that I’ve been tricked, betrayed, that this had nothing to do with food, that I shall not be gorging myself anytime soon on illicit food.

  Not that it began in the reredorter. No. No, of course it didn’t. It began in the dortoir.

  Which probably explains Waldhere and Ealhmund’s absence. I mean we must have left them in the dortoir. Doubtless I didn’t want to share, doubtless this too reflects an essential poverty of spirit. Still, if that is true, if they were there—convenient, handy— why choose me? Given Waldhere’s natural gifts, the obduracy that made Ealhmund as trustworthy a receptacle for secrets as a wooden box, why did Oftfor turn to me? Why burden me with this memory? I do not know. It makes no sense. Yet that is what happened. Even now I can see him standing there, back to the wall, hands behind him as if hiding something. I think I must have given him a look or signed something derisive because I remember his forehead crumpling—and that does make sense, does fit with my memory of the boy, Oftfor’s forehead having been, in its way, as supple an organ of expression as most people’s eyes or mouth. And on this occasion it crumpled uncertainly. He looked at me. Forehead crumpled, Oftfor looked at me, raised a hand, walked two fingers quickly through the air.

  I shook my head, No. Dudda had already explained that. The dead animals were a sign, he’d told us, an omen. They’d
said so in Chapter. All the little corpses meant Death was coming, that Death was coming and it rode on the air like a horse. The part about the horse hadn’t made sense to me, but Dudda said he was just repeating what the furnace master had said. Dudda said the furnace master told them there were different kinds of airs, just as there are different kinds of horses, and that bad airs, like the one Death rode, were heavier than good airs. He said this was why Oftfor had found so many dead squirrels and mice, and why all the village dogs were dying. He said that, being smaller than people, living closer to the ground, these animals were more susceptible to heavy lowlying airs. But now that Death had killed all the little animals, it was going to rise. According to Dudda, the whole valley was filling up with Death like a bowl filling up with water. He said the bad air was at our knees now but soon would rise to our necks and then our heads. Waldhere had made a joke about this. He’d said that Oftfor would die first and then me and then Ealhmund. He said he would last the longest because he was the tallest. He laughed when he said it but you could tell he didn’t really think it was funny. Which was why I didn’t want to go to the reredorter.

  No! I shook my head, No!

  Oftfor closed his eyes, opened them again. He turned his head, looked down the length of the wall at his back. I looked down that way but there was nothing to see, just beds, a few windows, the gray and rainy light. Oftfor looked back at me, his expression different now, changed, a decision of some sort apparently made. He brought his hands from behind his back. He was holding a piece of bread.

  I glanced over at the door, made sure it was closed, then stood up, walked to the nearest window. The garth was reassuringly empty. I looked back at Oftfor, smiled. He entered the reredorter ahead of me.