The Oblate's Confession

by William Peak

  As, of course, did I.

  I can’t really be sure now if it was the first time I saw Abbot Godwin preside over Chapter that he made the announcement or if it only seems that way in retrospect. All I know for sure is that, just as first impressions tend to color all our subsequent knowledge of a person, to this day I associate remembered expressions of Godwin’s (the way his lower lip would droop when he finished speaking, the way his eyebrows could sink disarmingly if you questioned one of his ideas) with what my memory tells me was that first and most awful pronouncement. The production of iron at Redestone was to be increased. The production of iron at Redestone was to be increased significantly. Bishop Wilfrid, it was explained (a small smile here, the good abbot encouraging us to become part of a larger and more important world), required more iron of us if he was to negotiate with his friend and companion the king. Three monks would be removed from Brother Cellarer’s jurisdiction and placed at Victricius’s disposal. They were to work exclusively in the quarry. The more ore, Father Abbot assured us (already an expert), the more iron. “Oh and something else, there was something else, wasn’t there?” Maban bends forward here,

  Godwin’s head turning to catch the whisper, eyes wide open, listening, agreeing. “Yes, yes, that’s it, the boy!” A quick glance around the hall and, failing to find anything that looks like a boy, Godwin shakes his finger at Brother Ninian. “No more of these two-day jaunts up the mountain. From now on you will make yourself useful at the yard. Someone else can take care of that ridiculous old man, someone who can make the trip in a single day.”

  And so, at a stroke, I was separated from all that had seemed to make life bearable at Redestone. I remember wandering out onto the garth that night, gazing out at the village, the little house I believed to be Eanflæd's, and thinking how unfair it all was, how unfair and how unkind. And the worst of it of course was that I would not be able to tell Father myself, that Brother Edgar, a man completely unknown to him, would wander into the hermit’s camp in a couple of days and deliver himself of the news that Father would never see me again. That I would never see him again.

  For a while I stood like that at the edge of the terrace, my mind’s eye picturing Father as he heard the news, the little circle

  his beard would make around his mouth, the disappointment, the sorrow. It was as if Father’s face and the grief it held was, in some way I could not explain, my face, my grief. I stood there and thought about it, recalling other blows, other setbacks, and then slowly the image, if not the sorrow itself, faded from my mind. I found myself staring absently at the river, its moonlit surface, the dark mass of Wilfrid’s bridge, thinking about all the times I had watched Ælfhelm cross that way, how angry it was going to make me to see Brother Edgar do likewise. And at the same time realizing, noticing, how appropriate such a thing was. For just as it was Wilfrid’s bridge that would make it possible for Edgar to pass over the Meolch dry-shod, so it was Wilfrid’s surrogate who had set him on that path in the first place, assigned him this journey that was, by all rights, mine. Just as—the one thought following easily upon the other—Wilfrid had set Godwin in Agatho’s place, Maban in Dagan’s. You can see where this was leading me. It would have been impossible, I think, for a boy my age to have lived through what I lived through, lost what I had just lost, to go unreminded of that first loss, that primal loss which had brought me here, the father to whom I had made a promise, the father who had warned me of all this, warned me that the bishop could not be trusted, was, indeed, treacherous, warned me and had now (How could I have judged otherwise?) been proven right, justified, almost omniscient. What child would not have harkened back to such things? What child, having remembered them, would not have been tempted?

  As if God Himself had taken the bishop’s side and sought now to mock any resistance I might offer, it was as I thought these thoughts that a girl appeared at the edge of the village garden, stepped out into the moonlight before the peas, began to dance. Of course it might not have been Eanflæd. At that distance, it could, I suppose, have been any of the younger women who lived that summer in our village. For that matter I sometimes wonder if the memory itself might be wrong. It does seem unlikely that two such events—Godwin’s announcement and that clandestine dance—should have taken place on the same day. Life at

  Redestone is not known for its drama. Yet that is the way I remember it, have, I think, always remembered it. I am standing at the edge of the terrace, probably the interval after Compline, thoughts of betrayal, rebellion, running through my mind, and out of the grasses at the far edge of the village steps a dancer. That a dancer did appear to me one night as I stood on the terrace I do not doubt. I remember the image too well, the garment she wore, the light it gathered to itself as the girl turned and moved beneath the moon. Was she really dancing? Or was this just the elaborate playacting of some dreamy-eyed adolescent? Looking back on it now, who can claim to know? But for me, as I stood there that night, the gentle breath of the fields rising to me still warm on the cool evening air, there could be no doubt that what I was seeing was a dance, that I was watching the elaboration of some heartfelt and complicated longing. That I was watching Eanflæd. I remember I stood and I watched that figure move soundlessly back and forth, arms thrown out as in prayer, and everything I had ever hoped for or wanted seemed to go out of me. All was vain, futile, lost. My life stretched out before me like a long and dreary road.

  It can only have been about a week or two later that I began to pray in earnest for the destruction of Bishop Wilfrid.

  XXIX

  Those were hard days, dead days. We quit the abbey in darkness each morning and returned again in darkness each night. After only a few days of this it began to feel as if winter had come early that year, the sun already retreated from the sky. Of course I still tried to pray as Father had taught me but even there (as if Godwin’s hand reached every sphere of my life) I now found difficulties I had not known before. The months leading up to our new abbot’s arrival had been good ones for me, among, I now realize, the best of my life. Since my initial success by the Meolch, prayer had become as natural to me as eating or breathing. I had only to sit and close my eyes to feel the Presence, to know myself unalone. And, as Father had predicted it would, the practice itself had had its effect upon me. Even when I wasn’t praying, a part of me, however

  unconscious, knew myself attended, felt and responded to the Spirit that is, of course, with us always. Everything became easier for me. Issues that had troubled or even defeated me, seemed now minor, unimportant. I found myself praying for Ealhmund again, not because I thought I ought to but naturally, fervently, with a devotion that approached true affection. And wherever I went, whatever I did, God seemed to take pleasure in surprising me with His goodness, His comeliness, the grace of His presence.

  And then Godwin came, and Father Hermit and Modra nect were taken from me, and it was as if I had fallen into a deep dark pit from which even God’s light could not pull me. I went from bed to furnace and back again and the soot and dust of the yard clung to me like the soot and dust of that pit. Morning and night, whenever time allowed, I tried to pray as Father had taught me and all that passed before my eyes were images of Maban and Godwin and the evil Bishop Wilfrid had done me. I would shake my head, close my eyes, try again, and always, within moments, the anger,

  the unhappiness, came floating down my river like flotsam after a storm. Where before my prayers had been bothered by thoughts of food or sunlight or Eanflæd, now it was only Wilfrid, Wilfrid and his minions, that cluttered my waters. I could not believe I would never see Father Hermit again and I could not fool myself into believing I would see him again. Desire and reality had become irreconcilable. And when I prayed for help, asked God for a miracle, begged Him to change Godwin’s mind, I prayed to an empty hall. God had abandoned me. Everything I had ever known, trusted, or loved had abandoned me.

  Everything, that is, except Ceolwulf. For now, as he had not been for many years, my fa
ther was with me again. Ceolwulf and the promise I had made him rose up within me, rose up to fill and conquer the space left vacant by Agatho, Gwynedd, Dagan, God. I stood at the bellows and watched Victricius, the petty anger he gave in to so easily now, and I thought of Ceolwulf, his strength, the strength I had of him by birth, and I despised the furnace master, despised him for his weakness, his failure to run away, chase after Agatho if that was what he wanted, his failure to confront Godwin, confront his enemy, rout him as Ceolwulf would, as my father would. I knelt in church and stole glances at Dagan, still near the front but oh so reduced in stature, the little man down on his hands and knees before his own usurper, before the men who had stolen his title, his rights, our church; and I despised him, despised him for his acquiescence, his easy capitulation to treachery, and again I thought of Ceolwulf, his strength, his anger, and the secret I held deep within me grew warm and full, warming me like a bowl of warm soup on a cold day. And, finally, I sat in Chapter and watched as one monk after another scraped and bowed before Maban’s little puppet, and I swore I would never submit, that, bow as I might, it would mean nothing, that the outward signs of obedience I gave would be like Godwin’s signs of piety, a hide, a camouflage for true intent. Let Wilfrid’s servant beware, a son of Ceolwulf stood in his hall.

  One wonders how many such homunculi our cloister nurtured in those days. Pride begs me believe there would have been several but, many or few, I have only myself to answer for. Looking back on it now, and considering the state of my soul at the time, it can only have been thanks to the force of Father Gwynedd’s warnings that it took as long as it did for me to act.

  It was a day like any other as I remember it, late afternoon, warm, overcast, Vespers still a little way off. Probably everyone else was asleep, or in church, as it was the Sabbath. I remember that well, the fact that I had picked the Sabbath, my sense of the occasion demanding a little drama, the opportunity for withdrawal afforded by a day of rest, the holy day, the day set aside for communion. Though a part of me doubted anything would happen, doubted all prayer now, I had taken no chances. Father Beorhtfrith had heard my confession and, except for the Host, I had received no food since the night before. It was easy to slip away. If anyone had seen me entering the furnace path they would have thought nothing of it—I was, after all, Victricius’s boy—but no one saw me. The garth was empty, the church door closed.

  I will admit to having been a little uneasy when I got to the spot itself. Despite all my unhappiness, the place still held meaning for me. I could not look at it, or the slabs of rock along the opposite bank, without remembering what I had experienced there, the certainty I had felt. I glanced back down the way I had come, fearful lest anyone should have followed me, and a sudden chill ran down my back, made my flesh crawl. But there was no one there; I had not been followed. And I told myself I was a fool if I thought this place was different from any other. It was just a rather uninteresting bend in the path I walked every day to and from my work at the yard. The hill people thought the rocks on the far bank were part of the skeleton of a great giant, but everyone knew the hill people were nothing more than superstitious fools.

  I sat down. Though I had not intended to, the place evoked such a strong desire in me to pray as Father Hermit prayed that, almost despite myself, I closed my eyes, crossed myself, tried to become calm, tried to replace the river that flowed before me with the one I hoped as yet flowed through me. For a moment, a certain expectancy came over me. Could it really work? Was the power of this place, its associations, so strong that God would visit me again, come to me as once He had, come to me as I so needed Him to now, to hold and comfort me, to set my worries aside, hold them at bay, protect and love me as only He could?

  But of course there was nothing. Within moments the urgency of my need, coupled with the clamoring of the problems that occasioned it, swept down my river in wave upon wave of self-pity and disgust. Maban looked down his nose at me, called me a “little idiot,” and Father Abbot and the entire chapter laughed and laughed, pointing at the little fool where he sat upon his river bank, eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to keep out the light, ignore the obvious, his impotence, his lack of cunning, the utter absurdity of his plight.

  When I opened my eyes I almost laughed. To think that I had expected it to work! Such prayers were a delusion, a delusion created by the needs of men like Father Dagan, Father Gwynedd, men obsequious and retiring, men incapable of action, of doing anything. I was no such man. I was Winwæd, son of Ceolwulf. The river I was named for, the river that ran through me, rolled over its enemies, rolled over its enemies and sucked them in, pulled them down. I closed my eyes, thought about the wrath of God, thought about its dwelling place high up on the mountain, the great lake of wrath glowing with heat, seething, and I thought about the wall that holds it there, the flimsy barrier erected by God Himself to keep us safe, safe from His fury, the legitimate fury that caused the bush to burn, blinded the Aramaeans, struck the pagans deaf and dumb. And I pulled it free. With my prayer I reached up, took hold of that flimsiest of barriers and, with all my might, I pulled it free, the barrier coming apart in my hands as easily as an old and derelict wall, God’s wrath spilling out, pouring down the mountain in a white-hot flow, like the flow that sometimes poured from Victricius’s furnace, like iron, like steel. And the molten steel of God’s wrath poured down the valley and through my gate and, like a great and burning sword, it pierced Wilfrid’s bridge, pierced his bridge and everything—bridge, boards, stones, bishop—burst into flame, burst into flame and as quickly burned away, burned

  away like grass cast into a hot and fiery oven.

  When, finally, I opened my eyes again, it was with an obscure sense of relief that I saw that everything was as it had been. Nothing had burned away; the river ran as quietly as before, the trees still bending toward it, the rocks on its far side still dipping their lower parts in its shallows, still blushing at its touch. I stood up, feeling a little ashamed of myself, embarrassed by the strength of what I had felt. Lightning had not flashed, thunder did not sound. The sky remained intact, however overcast, the afternoon warm. And doubtless this was how it would always be. I would continue to pray for Wilfrid’s downfall as my father had directed, but nothing would come of it. I would live out my life at Redestone in compliance with the Rule and the vows made for me, and probably nothing would come of that either. I might as well get used to the idea.

  XXX

  The world looks upon us as celibates, doesn’t it? When someone from beyond the wall thinks of a monk (and I don’t fool myself that they do this often), they think first I believe of chastity, and then, most likely, of poverty, thinking, as all men do, of those things they hold most dear, those they cannot imagine giving up, would least like to lose. But we know better, don’t we? Chastity and poverty are important of course, but what makes a monk a monk, and—more important—a monastery a monastery, are the vows we take of obedience and stability. Sins of the flesh, sins of avarice, these can be easily forgiven, but what can be hoped for from a monastery where open rebellion rules, or, worse, apostasy unrules? Without monasticism’s two great pillars, obedience and stability, the entire edifice comes tumbling down.

  Of course all of this is obvious, a recitation of truisms self-evident to any that could ever possibly read this work. Yet sometimes it is necessary to remind ourselves of such things. For someday some brother, wishing to think himself charitable, may try to make a case for leniency, may argue that, however rebellious my prayer, it was at least a prayer, that, disobedient as I was, the form of rebellion I chose was at least a monastic one. From such reasoning it is but a small step to turn the child I was into a sort of example for today’s youth, the oblate who, as wicked as his disobedience was, didn’t compound his sin by adding to it apostasy, didn’t, in other words, at the first provocation, think of climbing a wall. I too of course would like to think of myself in this way, have, I suppose, up until now, always done just that. But writing out th
is confession (as doubtless Father Abbot intended) serves as a corrective to pride. For remembering is like a contagion, it spreads, memory giving birth to memory, until what had seemed an isolated recollection, unconnected to anything either before or after it, has become the mother of an entire season of memories.

  And such a brood of memories cannot help but produce the occasional monster.

  Of course the thing has surfaced before. But in the past I have always been able to tell myself it was nothing but a dream, that I am remembering not an actual event but something I once imagined or experienced only in sleep. And in this I have been helped by the fact that the recollection itself rises from my memory very much like the memory of a dream, vague and insubstantial, its particulars changing, shifting, even as they are recalled. Yet there are some things I remember well, what Stuf said, what I said, how it felt to hear such things said. Yet even now I find it difficult to let go of the notion (certainly the hope) that it was only a dream. And it may have been, it could have been. Think about dreams, the sort of people you encounter, the sort of places you go. Things are always like but not quite the same as what they seem, so that, when you awaken, your memories of what transpired as you slept are forever evolving, the mountain turning into a hill, Father Dagan into Brother Baldwin, the horse into a cow. And so it is with this memory, for while my waking mind tries to place it, like the memory that gave birth to it, on the upper Meolch where I used to pray, as in a dream remembered the landscape keeps sliding away from me, the river rising, myself falling, so that finally I must admit the obvious: I wasn’t looking down at the water but out at the water, the upper Meolch is the lower.... And I realize that nothing is as it seems, that, however improbable, I must have been sitting down below the terrace, somewhere down among the trees that border our fields.