The Hour Before Dawn

by Penelope Wilcock

  “Yes,” he said finally. “Of course I will come with you. I counsel that you should leave not tonight but at first light in the morning—or by the time we’re sorted and saddled, the nuns at Motherwell will be going into silence at the hour we arrive. I can make the arrangements if you wish it.”

  John nodded, but he looked disconnected and remote.

  “Thank you. Thank you, William. I shall be myself again in a minute. Thank you. I just can’t bear…”

  William waited. Then, “I know,” he said. “But if you go back into your chamber and close the door, I doubt anyone will have the temerity to disturb you except maybe Brother Michael with your physic. I will make all arrangements and come back. Father John—” John looked at him, and William met his eyes steadily. “You will get through this. I promise you. You will, with time, come out on the other side.”

  John nodded vaguely. “Of course,” he murmured. He did not sound confident.

  William left him standing there as he stepped out into the courtyard, closing the door behind him. He walked first across the court to the stables near the gatehouse, to ask for their horses to be made ready for the morning, then to the kitchens to ask Brother Conradus to prepare and pack food for the journey. After that he went in search of Father Chad.

  In the abbot’s lodging, John stood without moving a little while longer, and then he began to shake. Drifting like a man in a dream, he withdrew to his chamber again. He collapsed onto his bed, lying there for a few minutes before he found his way under the blankets, where he curled up in a tight ball. Overcome with cold, he shivered, even to the extent of his teeth chattering. He wished he might fall asleep but remained in a state of wide-eyed awareness, conscious of even the tiniest sound, every sensation. The agony of his soul felt as though the whole of him were racked… stretched… stretched… stretched to breaking, to the brink of tearing apart. He felt the ligaments and tendons of his soul snapping and tearing; he groaned and shivered, so very cold.

  In this condition Brother Michael, the infirmarian, found him, having given him more than an hour’s space and solitude, considering that to be quite enough time before intervening.

  John heard the sound of someone open the door from the cloister but did not register the meaning of the sound. He lay acutely alert to everything; yet all of it had lost meaning. Brother Michael entered the inner chamber, moving quietly, clothed in his habitual air of gentleness. He came to John’s bedside, a cup of steaming liquid in his hand, observing John’s trembling and pallor. He stretched out his hand to touch his abbot’s brow, but with a sudden reflexive movement John flinched away. “Please don’t touch me.”

  “Sit up then,” said Michael, quietly withdrawing his hand, “and drink this.”

  “What’s in it?” asked John, his voice dull as he struggled to a sitting position, clinging still to his blankets.

  “Well,” replied Michael, gently coaxing his brother—who had taught him every healing art he knew—back into reality, “what would you have put in it?”

  John tried to find the answer as he took the cup from Brother Michael’s hand but said in a tone of complete hopelessness, “I don’t know. I can’t think.”

  Michael sat on the end of the bed but not too near him. “Lavender, lemon balm, rose petals, chamomile, passion flower, and a handful of oatmeal, in milk.”

  John focused on this soothing litany; the recital of the herbs whose uses he knew so well recalled him in some small measure to himself. “Sounds vile,” he replied in a brave attempt at humour, still shivering violently.

  “Let me help you with that, else you’re going to spill it.” Brother Michael was always kind, but he recognized the moment to be firm. “Ssh, ssh, don’t shy away from me. I won’t intrude upon you. I understand. Let you just take this drink, my friend, and then I’ll leave you in peace. Both hands. There, that’s it. Will you let me rub your feet and your hands a little? You’re very cold.”

  “No.”

  In some remote external place of his being, John felt he might be behaving unreasonably. He also thought that if he could not keep everyone away from him, out of himself completely, he would dissolve into tears. And he thought if that happened, his soul would rupture completely like spilt liquid on sharp rocks. Brother Michael helped his shaking hands with the cup but refrained from touching him otherwise. “I’ll find you some hot stones to warm your bed then; there’ll be a fire lit in the kitchen. Lie down again now. I doubt you’ll be able to sleep until I can get you warm, but rest anyway.”

  He tucked the blankets in around him, noting that John did not even look at him.

  “Our abbot is not well,” he said to Father Chad, finding him in the outer room as he left John’s chamber. “I’m so sorry, Father, but you must not intrude upon him. If he has a sleep, he may be more accessible, but for the time being, he is not. Please let him be.”

  He placated Father Chad with the friendliness of his smile. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for your concern for him. When he is better, he will appreciate it,” he added.

  “But Father William is making arrangements for him to travel down to Motherwell in the morning!” Father Chad focused hopefully on another possible source of offense than himself. “It sounds as if such plans are premature and inconsiderately precipitate. Father William should not have pushed himself in!”

  “Perhaps Father John asked him to.” Brother Michael spoke kindly. “I think it is likely that an hour ago he will have been more together than he is now; and if he can sleep this evening and tonight, he may well be up to travelling in the morning. I am sure he will feel it a priority to go to his sister. But if the morning comes and he cannot go, we can always think again.”

  Brother Michael stood respectfully while the prior pondered this. Michael remained positioned between Father Chad and the door to John’s chamber. He thought he would stay there while they talked.

  William appeared in the entrance from the cloister. “Father Chad!” He made just the suggestion of a deferential bow. “I have made the arrangements as you recommended.”

  Father Chad’s eyebrows rose. He had no recollection of recommending anything. Then seeing the obvious advantage if he had, he decided to grasp the proffered opportunity to appear in command.

  “Ah! Thank you! Well done! We shall see how he goes on then. He may, of course, not be well enough to travel in the morning, but you can stay on hand, in case he is.”

  “Brother Ambrose has some bills he cannot pay without the abbot’s permission.” William spoke in a low, respectful voice. Brother Michael continued to stand quietly, holding the empty cup.

  “What should we do, Father?” William’s innocently troubled eyes sought and held the prior’s. “Must we wait for Father John to recover to approve the payments himself, or would you have the authority to do that?”

  “Oh, certainly I have! Yes, you don’t need Father John for that!” The prior looked genially at William’s submissive demeanour and respectful countenance. “I’ll go right along and get those dealt with at once. Thank you, Brother Michael, for your help with the medicine. I presume that was medicine you had in that cup?”

  Michael nodded, smiling. “It was.”

  “Right then!” William stepped back from the doorway into the cloister, and Brother Michael took one step forward. Father Chad took this to mean they were all departing and set off for the checker as Michael followed slowly out of the abbot’s lodge and William latched the door behind them.

  “There better had be some bills needing the abbot’s approval or you’ll be in trouble!” Brother Michael observed as Father Chad moved out of earshot.

  “I don’t know how you can say that,” William replied. “Do you think there has ever been a day in any abbey in England when there were no bills waiting to be paid? How is he? Not good?”

  “We should not be talking here in the cloister. Still, there’s no one here to disturb. He is in deep shock. I’m going now to find some hot stones to warm his bed because he
is shivering with cold. The best thing for him would be the release of tears. But you know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen John weep.”

  William nodded. “Stick around then,” he said, “because I’ve a feeling we very shortly will see exactly that. He is but human.”

  “Indeed, poor lad. Is it right that he asked you to prepare for him to travel down to Motherwell?”

  “It is. He asked me to go with him.”

  “You have helped him a great deal, I think, in this short time. You seem to have become very close to him.”

  William’s appearance of impassivity gave no hint of his apprehension lest John’s acceptance of his company caused jealousy and antagonism, but he saw that Brother Michael felt at peace about this; he had no sense of friendship usurped. Even so, he thought it better not to allow any suggestion that he might have acquiesced to the notion of a bond of friendship developing between himself and the abbot. “I’m not close to anyone,” he replied imperturbably. “Some find that repellent; some find it intimidating. Every now and then comes a day like today when it’s just what someone needs. I have no warmth. I don’t attach. I’m just here.”

  Brother Michael smiled. “I wouldn’t say you have no warmth. It’s just that you only exercise it on a leash. Where are you headed? I’m going down to the infirmary now to find some stones. I’ll see you later.”

  With the comfort of hot stones at his back and his feet, and the drowsiness of sleep herbs taking his senses under, John collapsed into something like sleep for several hours.

  The hour for Vespers came and went, and suppertime. As evening fell, John found himself suddenly, searingly awake. For a fleeting instant he clung to the illusion that he had woken from a bad dream, that what filled his mind and his memory was no more than some awful story. As the recollection seeped in again that it was all true, his soul shuddered and tried to find a way back into sleep, but that door was shut now. He had no idea what time it might be. After a while he sat up in his bed, then stumbled through from his chamber into the main room of his house. The evenings still came down cold, and Brother Tom had lit a fire and now sat on the stones of the hearth, patiently waiting for his abbot. He had heard John moving in the inner chamber but did not stand up; on reflection he thought it might be more helpful to remain where he was, on hand if wanted. It went against the grain to remain seated when his abbot entered the room; even so, he thought it would suit John’s current needs. John, he had perceived clearly, did not want fuss and in his present state of mind found human interaction intrusive and burdensome. Tom wondered if it was strange that a man whose life had been devoted to healing should find the touch and proximity of others so unwelcome in his own time of distress; or if it somehow was exactly because of the healing vocation.

  John looked down at him. “What time is it, Brother? Thank you for lighting the fire.” His voice sounded so remote, so distant.

  “It’s just a short while until Compline.”

  John nodded. “Did I… did I miss Vespers?”

  “Father Chad saw to Vespers for you, and if you like, he can do the same for Compline.”

  “No. No. I’ll go to Compline. I think I should.”

  “Can I get you some supper?”

  “What?” John frowned, puzzled, as if Tom had suggested something he had never heard of before. “Supper? No. No, I don’t think so. Did you say it was time for Compline?”

  Tom got up. “Father—John! John! Just sit down here by the fire for a minute. Right here; that’s it. Stay there now, be at peace. I’m going to find Brother Michael.”

  Anxiously Tom let himself out into the cloister, casting a glance back at John as he did so. He felt relieved when his abbot sank without question into one of the chairs by the fire. He sat now, staring at the glowing logs, his face preoccupied. He looked far away.

  As he turned from closing the door, with relief Tom saw William, who sat quietly on the ledge of one of the arches that looked into the cloister garth. “Can I help?” He slipped down from his perch and stood ready as soon as he saw Tom emerge.

  “You can indeed. Will you stay with him while I run for Brother Michael? He’s not right. He says he’s going to Compline, but that may not be realistic. Talk to him, maybe. He seems a bit confused at present.”

  William nodded and, as Tom set off with all speed for the infirmary, unobtrusively entered the abbot’s lodge.

  He walked with no sound across the room and sat without speaking on the hearthstone.

  “That’s exactly where Tom was just sitting,” remarked John without taking his eyes from the fire.

  William still said nothing; but he saw his abbot fractionally relax. William’s presence rested John. From as far back as he could remember, Abbot John had been drawn irresistibly toward healing: and he found that, wherever he went, people’s souls touched him, clung onto him. He had come to take this for granted and for the most part welcomed it as what he had come here to do. He found that power went out of him toward other people, in the form of compassion and strength, to restore wholeness. He consciously opened the channels of his heart and soul to allow the love of Christ to pass through him to the places where others seemed needy. At times this made him very tired; on this day it was simply unthinkable. Inside, he shied away in horror from the hungry touch of souls—anybody’s soul, except, for some obscure reason, William’s. Somehow he felt that William asked of him precisely nothing; he merely kept watch. Gratefully John absorbed the sense that with this man he was safe; not only would William desire or demand nothing at all, but he would stand between John and anyone whose need leached out his strength.

  “Did you say we are going to see my sister tomorrow?” John asked suddenly.

  “I have arranged that,” William replied. “We can go, but we do not have to. If you do not feel well enough, we need not go. Unless you eat something before we set out, we will not go. Unless you look a lot better tomorrow morning than you do at this moment, we won’t go either.”

  “Don’t I look well?”

  “Not well? You look like death. And you sound like someone in a trance.”

  John turned his head to look at William. “I shall be well enough to travel. I can’t eat now, but I will eat in the morning. I feel as though wherever I am is out beyond the stars somewhere. But I must go to Madeleine, there is no question about it. And you are coming with me?”

  William nodded. “Indeed I am.” He considered John’s words and thought that despite the odd vagueness, his abbot was probably functioning at a workable level.

  “I’m all right,” said John as if William had voiced his thoughts. “Truly. It’s only I feel a bit dazed, kind of pushed sideways. As if my soul has been dislocated, shoved aside by this solid enormity of pain. But I’m all right. If we go… if we go at the first lightening of the glory in the east… can we?”

  “Sunrise?” Amusement gleamed in William’s face. “Yes, we can go at sunrise.”

  “Do I sound… am I not making sense? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  William met his abbot’s puzzled gaze with affection. “You sound a little crazy, Father, and more poetic than your regular self, but nothing that is hard to understand. Anyway, here’s Brother Michael now, and Brother Tom.”

  “I’m going to Compline,” said John firmly to Brother Michael. “I am. Don’t tell me I’m not. Unless… we haven’t had Compline, have we?”

  Brother Michael smiled at him. “Drink this up, Father. It’s an eggnog, with some honey and herbs in it. Ssshh, don’t argue; just drink it. You can’t go to Compline, or go to Motherwell in the morning, if you don’t drink this.”

  John looked at him in astonished obduracy. “Yes, I can,” he said with the accurate simplicity of a child. William bent his head to hide his amusement.

  “I’ve made it for you, Father; will you drink it now?” Brother Michael was taking on an indefinably immovable quality. His abbot took the cup from his hand and obediently drank.

  “Now can I go to Compli
ne?”

  “Just wait five minutes,” said Michael, tranquil, waiting. In five minutes John was asleep. Brother Tom and Brother Michael carried him back to bed, William pulling back the blankets and removing the stones, now cold. Michael tucked him in comfortably, and the three of them withdrew from the chamber.

  “It’s only extreme shock, obviously,” said Brother Michael. “Keep the fire alight in here through the night, Tom. He’s more likely to sleep through if he’s warm. If he does awake, it’ll likely be from a nightmare, so if you can put down a sheepskin or something and room in with him, you’ll be here if he wakes. Like old times, eh? Sharing Peregrine’s chamber, I mean—Tom had to be on hand for Father Peregrine, William, to help him with his clothes and shoes and everything. Did he talk to you, William? John, I mean. Was he sounding lucid?”

  “Lucid, yes. Quite clear about what he intends. But he sounds odd. Voice from the realm of Weird or something. Expressing things a bit strangely.”

  Michael smiled. “I think he will be more himself by the morning—I sincerely hope so, and I’ll be worried if he’s not. It’s a way of the soul buffering against what is too much to bear. Sleeping allows the inner being to come to terms enough to take the next step. And I think if he doesn’t get to see his sister, he’ll go out of his mind with anxiety for her. John loved his mother, and loves his sister too, very much. So long as you go with him and take care of him, William, I see no reason why he can’t do this journey. He and Madeleine will be a comfort to each other. Let him sleep for now, and we’ll see in the morning. And there’s the Compline bell. Will you nip across and alert Father Chad to finish off for us tonight, William? Tom, let’s make up this fire, then I think you should stay here with him. Don’t go to chapel. I’ll run to the infirmary for some skins and a blanket so you can bed down here tonight.”