So where was he? Brother Bernard said. Saint Christopher saw the Devil, and marched beside him. And your Master told you to beware of demons who look like men and demons who look like women.
I was about to explain to Brother Bernard that a demon is different in kind from the Devil, but I did not, because, instead of looking for the words to do so, I was wondering how he could have known of a conversation that I had had alone with my Master. And so, although fearing their answer, I asked my companions this, to which Brother Bernard answered that he and Brother Andrew had read from my chronicle.
I do not know how they had the opportunity to read it. I would not have thought they had any more desire to read it than it had the desire to be read. These notes have no intended audience, except for my conscience and God, and the half-forgotten eyes of Master Roger.
Brother Andrew said, Why did you not write about the flowers we saw or the kind clerics of Laon? Why did you not write about the swim we had in the river, the touch of the water and the sunshine on our flesh?
And Brother Bernard said, Why did you not write about the men we saw, strapped together, marching to their deaths?
And Brother Andrew said … – but I was not listening.
Nor was I able to answer. It was as if I had been flayed and my bowels exposed, inspected, groped, found wanting. It was not the judgement that had been passed on me, it was the fact of the exposure that disturbed me so. What was internal had been made external. My companions had looked beneath my skin. And, further, they might have read descriptions I had made of them and my words were not always, particularly in the case of Brother Bernard, statements of praise.
They did not draw attention to my descriptions of them. These did not seem to be occasions for offence or dispute. They asked me about the purpose of our journey. And I explained to them that this had not been designed to be an expedition of penance but a journey to deliver something marvellous to the Vicar of Rome, and now that they knew we are not penitents, but messengers, what exercised them were not the various qualities of our burden, but the accounts I had not made, my persistence in seeing the world through different eyes.
When I looked through these shreds, I felt sure that some were missing, but I was unable to ask my companions about this.
We accepted a ride in a peasant’s cart, because now that they are not penitents but messengers my companions are no longer concerned about breaking the Franciscan rule. The ox cart was slow, it might even have made slower progress than we could achieve on foot, but it was welcome to be sitting in a cart, legs swinging in the air, relieved of the burden of walking.
Franciscans do not carry. Franciscans do not ride in ox carts. This maybe was why we were greeted with such suspicion in the peasant’s village. A mother crossed herself. Children ran from our approach. None of this assisted Brother Bernard in his preaching. No one heeded his words, which halted and stopped and the life and glorious martyrdom of Saint Boniface went unsaid. I heard a clinking in the distance, but I think it was the sound from a blacksmith’s shop.
• • •
In addition to our customary fasts, we observe the Ember Day fasts, four times a year, following the four fallacious seasons.
There are many reasons for this practice. The first is that spring is warm and humid, summer hot and dry, autumn cool and dry, winter cold and wet. Therefore we fast in the spring to control the harmful liquor of voluptuousness in us; in summer, to allay the noxious heat of avarice; in autumn, to temper the aridity of pride; in winter, to overcome the coldness of malice and lack of faith.
We fast because the body of man consists of four elements, earth and water and air and fire; and the soul consists of three powers, the rational, the concupiscible, and the irascible. In order to control the elements and powers within us, we fast for three days four times a year.
We fast to atone each season for our faults in that season. Furthermore, we fast for three days to atone for the faults committed in each month; we fast on Wednesday because Judas betrayed Our Lord on that day, and on Friday because that is the day Christ was crucified.
Furthermore, we fast in spring to wither the seeds of the vices and protect the innocence of the child; we fast in autumn to offer to God the fruits of good works and to mature by righteousness. In winter when the grass dies, we fast because we die in this world but hope to grow in prudence and virtue. And in summer, as the sun beats upon us, as our feet swell and bleed, admonishing us of the ordeal of Our Lord and how we strive to emulate His last journey and will always fail, but in our failure reach closer to Him, as the branches that cross our path seem to love Brother Andrew the greatest, as all natural things do, and cut into his face and arms with a bloody kiss, we fast in Pentecost week, because the Holy Spirit comes in that time and we ought to be fervent in the Spirit.
We fast, and the people feast and dance. We preach, not for alms, but to share the joy of our teaching. Sore from our journey, we gathered to preach at the side of a market square. Brother Bernard affected reasons why he could not preach. His throat was sore, his mind confused. His tongue lay heavy and was unable to twist into the strange shapes of the French language. So he became the helper and respondent. Relieved that the burden of office was lifted from him, he was vigorous in his work. He ingratiated himself with those listening, making jokes, praising the beauty of children held in their mothers’ arms.
Later, in the woods, trying to make our beds in the discomfort under the trees, we discussed why we had been driven out from the village. They had thrown stones at us, and we had suffered bruises and cuts and it was a miracle of God’s grace that we escaped heavier injury. Brother Andrew said that the villagers were enemies of God, inspired by the Devil. Brother Bernard said that it was because they thought we were monks, like the Cistercians who preach chastity and practise incontinent concupiscence, but those were not the actual words he spoke: the epithets he used were borrowed from the tavern rather than church and he would not answer where he had found the words.
I thought, but I did not share this with my companions, that I had seen a member of Simeon the Palmer’s band pointing in our direction and whispering to people in the village, and that he had maybe inspired the sudden violence that was hurled our way. I did not say this because I seem to see and hear evidence of Simeon the Palmer wherever we go, and the clinking that I was sure was proof of his impending malice turned out to be the scraping of branches together in the night wind.
Saint Edgar’s Day
And England was sorely troubled by the Danes so that in many kings’ days there could be no peace but a perpetual war. And the Danes prevailed against England and they brought it under their subjection, for their cruelty and tyranny were so great that, without sparing of anything, they burnt and destroyed.
But at the last it pleased Almighty God that this tyranny should cease, and He sent of His grace into the kingdom a peaceable king named Edgar, at whose birth angels sang that peace should be in his time, and so in his days there was no war in England.
We have been given such hospitality in this walled town that nearly all thoughts of the Palmer and his men have been banished.
We have been pampered, further than we merit or require, because a serving girl at a great house is displaying a love for Brother Andrew. He softens the hearts of all who see him. She brings him special fancies from her master’s table and Brother Andrew is too kind to reject them. He did the first time, but her manner was so fallen, her spirit bruised, that he could not bring himself to do it a second time. She spreads a cloth for him in the courtyard, orders his bowl and spoon so daintily, just so.
She brings us food too, because Brother Andrew asks her to do so, but otherwise ignores us entirely. We do not exist for her, there is no room for us in her world, and maybe she is right, Brother Andrew’s beauty is blazing, obliterating all else. And we are silent, we turn to our own bowls and spoons, we hardly dare to look up, and when we do, we look away, to the cathedral spire.
Beauty spe
aks to beauty. She takes him away from the courtyard, leads him up a staircase into an apartment built into the wall. The animals were gathered into the Ark two by two. The swan on the lake mourns the loss of his dame. The friar stands alone, and there seems to be a kind of terrible pride to this, lifting ourselves above nature to mimic the loneliness of Our Lord. How hard it must be to resist the Devil, when, like the beast in the field, he comes in the guise of what seems so natural.
When they return, and find us at prayer, her costume is disturbed. In her modesty or maybe shame, a reddening blooms between her breasts.
• • •
Brother Bernard grunted. He lives in a world where things, for good or ill, happen to other people. I think he would like the opportunity for sin; sometime I think that he hates Brother Andrew for his capacity to arouse the desires of others.
I try to console Brother Andrew. I say,
Blame not him who falls, but who remains fallen. It is man’s lot to sin; it is the Devil’s to remain in sin.
This does not console him. Brother Andrew beats himself as we walk towards Paris. In a kind of ecstasy he scourges himself for his sin.
As the Apostle Paul wrote to the Hebrews,
And almost all things, according to the law, are cleansed with blood: and without shedding of blood there is no remission.
Brother Bernard helps a merchant by lifting his cart out of muddy ruts. He could carry either of us, lift us in the air with one arm, heave us like a sack of apples across his back, walk further up the hill as if unburdened.
But maybe I have eaten some of my Master’s excess dignity along with his knowledge. I should not like to be lifted in the air like a sack of apples. I used to play, I am sure of that, but what is surprising to me is that I have no recollection of it.
And Brother Andrew may not be lifted in the air or otherwise aided on his journey. Brother Andrew is crawling this next stretch of road because Brother Andrew is making penance for having succumbed to temptation. Brother Andrew is crawling on his hands and knees, his brown cloak further browned from the mud of the road, reddened by the blood of his knees, so that it approximates, in a strange correspondence, to the colour of the leather covers of my Master’s Book. Brother Andrew’s face is streaked with mud and tears but his eyes shine, cheerful, pure. Flies murmur around him because all living things admire Brother Andrew.
Brother Andrew is beautiful. Brother Bernard is strong. I am merely clever.
• • •
Saint Ephrem’s Day
Cain built the first city. At the suburbs of Paris, we rested, to prepare for Babylon. I thought I saw an eagle in the sky, like the portent that appeared to Philip of Macedonia on the birth of his son, but it was only a pigeon coming to rest on a rooftop.
Brother Andrew’s feet are wounded from the journey. Brother Bernard was hungry. I shared both conditions, but I felt that I had to simulate perpetual good cheer, which, I was sorry to see, had become an irritation to my companions, even gentle Brother Andrew. Brother Andrew preached in the growing light, Brother Bernard and I collected alms and blessed the alms-givers. Resuming our journey, climbing to the city wall, permitted through the gate on account of our clerical garb, we went in discord.
Cain’s work dazzled us. Cats and caged birds and stars. Towers and bells. All of life is here: lace workers, lepers, boatmen rowing under Le Petit Pont, merchants, scholars, artisans, rag pickers, grammarians, barbers, charcoal bearers.
The city is a labyrinth. We walked in circles, we repeated our steps, stumbling past a stable on our right hand in the afternoon that we had passed on our left hand in the morning. People looked at us with suspicion and doubt, refused to answer our questions, covered their faces, or feigned friendship in the manner of Simeon the Palmer and tried to deliver us into houses of gambling and drinking and sin. Finally we found it, the habitation of a former pupil of my Master, on a blood-spilled street of butchers and slaughterhouses, where students take lodgings above the shops.
We slept on the floor of my Master’s former pupil, in the space he cleared for us amidst the clutter of parchment and glass.
When I awoke, I thought for a moment that I was back in my Master’s room. Books and lenses directed at me their familiar species, the shapes and smells of the time before my journey. And at his table was my Master’s former pupil, leaning over instruments, looking through lenses. My Master’s eyes magnified merely reveal a greater sagacity. The eyes of his former pupil looked like two enormous grey fish swimming in a pale sea.
You have brought me something? he asked.
Just the greetings of Master Roger.
No instruments, no lenses, no letter?
No letter, no.
I do not know why it should have given me a satisfaction close to voluptuousness to deny the former pupil even a letter from my Master. His hands were cut with fresh scars. His body was composed of straight lines and angles.
Nothing?
Happily, I could confirm that this was so.
Brother Bernard farted. As if this was the cock crowing to start their morning, he stirred, as did Brother Andrew. Brother Andrew’s eyes opened. He gathered his cloak around his body as if for protection, climbed into a kneeling position and silently prayed. Brother Bernard lay with his arms crossed, behind his head.
The former pupil ignored them both.
I will write to him nonetheless. You will deliver this quickly on your return.
We shall not be returning quite so quickly.
The scholar returned to his desk. He seemed to be jealous of any interruption to his work with lenses, my company; even a letter to my Master was little more than a nuisance separating him from his work of cutting and polishing and ordering. I am familiar with this work from my Master’s room. If he had not spread his mind so far, from stars to blood, the outer world and the inner, his work on optics would have been so much more advanced than this.
What do you desire from me? the scholar said.
We should desire nothing from you, Brother Bernard said.
And the journey has been so long already and we have so much farther yet to go, and when we were walking through the streets last night, a dark suspicion took hold of me, that we were never to reach our destination, there are too many places to fall, my incapacities are too many that I should try to play general of this expedition. We are too imperfect, the world too inhospitable, we are destined to fail, the road is too hard, and all I had wished from the scholar was just a touch of welcome, an answering fellowship, a support and a rest. We share a mutual loyalty, or so I had thought. I had not expected his suspicion.
We will make our way, I said. Thank you for permitting us to stay the night.
So haughty, the scholar said. You are not pilgrims. You may not even be Franciscans. This baggage – did Christ carry so much as a breviary? He preached with the enthusiasm of his heart, unencumbered. What are you? Are you thieves? Have you come to steal from me? Show me what is in your bags.
I told him no. I told him they were not for him.
This is not Christian hospitality, I said. Wherever brothers meet one another, let them act like members of a common family.
You quote from the rules of our Order? Let me quote to you: The brothers should appropriate neither house, nor place, nor anything for themselves; and they should go confidently after alms, serving God in poverty and humility, as pilgrims and strangers in this world. Why do you carry so much? That bag that makes the sound of metal and glass, show it to me.
I was adamant. And, yes, haughtily, not in the true spirit of humility, I told him that we would deliver his letter to Master Roger upon our return, which we did not expect to be soon.
• • •
Not because my companions asked me to, but because my Master tells me to, I shall remember to be instructed by the world, to attend the evidence of my own senses, to remember that nothing is too humble to be the evidence of God’s love.
Having left the scholar’s apartment, feeling the
irritation I was carrying at his rough manners towards us begin to diminish, we made our way towards the Holy Chapel to pay obeisance to and pray at the holy relic of Our Lord’s Crown of Thorns. We had to shove through all manner of people.
Cain built the first city. He also devised weights and measures, those instruments of profit and usury which deny the sharing of God’s abundance. Produce filled the air with its stench. Cathedral bells could hardly be heard above the merchants’ cries making a great unholy song.
Birds, pigeons, fish salted, fish fresh
Good cress from Orleans
I have chestnuts from Lombardy
I have raisins from overseas
I have the good cheese of Brie
The people shoved against us and moved us apart, and Brother Bernard was no longer with us. Near to a stall selling tripe, Brother Andrew stood, weighed down with his own bags as well as those of Brother Bernard.
I asked Brother Andrew where our companion was, and he replied that he had gone down an alley to answer a need. We waited together, giving the last of our food as alms to a passing leper who was tolling his sad little bell, but were driven away from the tripe stall by the press of customers. We went past a copyist who was cutting words into a page of vellum, towards a tavern into which lewd men went in and from which blasphemous song came out. By turns we looked for our missing brother at a water trough, a fruit seller, a dealer in birds, whose cages on high sticks contained creatures of prodigious colour and sound.
Leaving Brother Andrew with all our bags, I looked for the alley that Brother Bernard might have gone down. I returned to Brother Andrew, not having found our missing brother.
In our innocence, we speculated at what may have befallen Brother Bernard. He has the strength of three men, we could not imagine him waylaid, overpowered. And for what? He was carrying nothing. But he was gone.
Brother Andrew said,
Perhaps he has gone on to the Chapel. Maybe he is waiting for us to catch up with him.
John the Pupil Page 6