A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  “Of course you can,” she said, dropping her gaze to meet his, “but first you must understand and believe in the power of memory. Close your eyes, Brother Girard. Recall a touch that settled you, calmed your nerves or made you feel loved.”

  Girard closed his eyes and struggled to do what she asked. But the truth was, except for Moriuht’s bear hug, he could not remember the last time anyone besides Petronilla had touched him.

  “Think back to childhood,” she said. “Think back to a time that was, perhaps, less complicated.”

  With his eyes closed, Girard’s other senses were heightened. Distant sounds—the slurred notes and short trills of a sparrow’s call, the rustle of wind through high grass—seemed amplified. He inhaled the earthy scent of damp brush and conifers. But try as he might, he could not retrieve a single childhood memory, not one. He was about to explain his failure to Petronilla, when there it was—his mother giving him a back rub, a memory so vivid that he could feel the warmth of her trailing fingers easing him into sleep. If he thought anything at all it was yes, simply, yes, so happy was he to have arrived at this comfortable place.

  Petronilla’s voice came from a great distance. “There, you’ve found it, haven’t you?”

  He nodded, not wanting to let go of the moment, knowing that he already had. When he opened his eyes the world was as it had always been, and Girard felt naked and cold. “Sister, I still don’t know if I can do what you’re asking, for I am a weak and sinful man.”

  “Your uncertainty only confirms my belief that you are the right person for the job, for the person who works in the service of the Lord even as he entertains doubts is a true man of faith,” Petronilla said, indicating with a wave of her hand that they should continue their journey toward Saint Lazare. “I have no concerns regarding the strength of your character. I do, however, think it presumptuous to assume you are the only one to wrestle daily with a troubled conscience. We must all learn to bear the pain of our past transgressions without dwelling on the bleak knowledge of our failures. Self-reflection is the nature of man. It is both our sorrow and our greatest gift, for while it makes us aware of our defects, it also allows for the transformation of our characters. The ability to recognize and address our faults is what separates man from beast.”

  Petronilla stopped before the main door of Saint Lazare, an imposing building constructed of the same white brick and blue tiled roof as the rest of Fontevraud. In addition to a chapter house, lavatorium, cloister, and chapel, the building also housed an infirmary for the lepers.

  “I hope that someday you will achieve a measure of peace in your life,” she said, “but that is not something I can control. And, quite frankly, neither is it the point. What you can do, what you are doing, is to act on your beliefs, to work tirelessly in the service of the Lord. Beyond that, Brother Girard, what is there?”

  Children played marbles in a clearing near the lavatorium. They spotted Petronilla and abandoned their game, squealing with delight, as they ran towards her. Laughing, Petronilla reached into her robe for the sack of ginger snaps she always carried, dispensing them with much laughter.

  Girard took a deep breath and considered Petronilla’s words. When had he ever acted on his beliefs or worked tirelessly in the service of the Lord? His decision to enter the Benedictine seminary had been as much a retreat from life as a spiritual calling. Fear as much as faith had prompted him to pursue a contemplative life. But perhaps he was being too hard on himself, for it was also true that having found holy purpose in the timbre and pitch of the Master’s words, Girard had willingly abandoned his comfortable life at Holy Trinity for the hardships of the road.

  The children, having finished their treats, ran to the clearing to gather up their marbles. When Petronilla turned to Girard, she was still smiling.

  “And now, my friend,” she said, “I must leave you, but Moriuht is inside and he’s expecting you.” Resting her hand on Girard’s shoulder, she looked into his eyes. “You are a good man,” she said, “and I know you will open your heart to the men and women of Saint Lazare. Ministering to the sick and dying is not only your penance, it is your salvation.”

  Girard looked at the stone façade of the building before him and felt a hardening of resolve. “I shall try my best,” he said.

  “And that, my friend, is all the Lord asks of anyone.”

  By the time the afflicted retreated to the infirmary, the disease had progressed to its final stage. Some, suffering from gangrene, were missing fingers and toes. Others were covered in sores that completely obscured their features. But the sight of the disease was nothing compared to the stench of rotting flesh.

  “Imagine the sweet scent of myrtle,” Moriuht told Girard as they stood poised at the entrance to the men’s ward. “Think of lavender and roses.”

  Girard nodded and followed Moriuht into a long narrow room. A bank of high windows offered little in the way of ventilation or light. Despite the cool breeze outside, inside the air was fetid and close. Girard silently recited the twenty-third Psalm. Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no harm; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.

  Moriuht paused before a trestle table pushed against the west wall. A statue of Saint Lazare, a bearded and mustached man of serious mien, rested in the center.

  “They say he laughed only once in his life,” Moriuht said, nodding in the direction of the statue, “and that was when he witnessed a man stealing a clay pot. Pointing to the man he chuckled, ‘Why, look! Clay stealing clay!’”

  Girard smiled, not because he thought the tale amusing but because Moriuht took such joy in the telling.

  “Here are supplies,” Moriuht said, pointing to either side of the statue where baskets of dried herbs, jars of balm and bottles of infusions crowded the tabletop. In willow baskets beneath the table, linen wraps Girard had boiled and hung to dry were arranged in ordered stacks that he found satisfying.

  “Herbs rich in volatile oils such as ginger and bergamot make wonderful teas which are quite effective in stimulating digestion and eliminating pain,” Moriuht said, repeating word for word what Petronilla had told him.

  The careful recitation unaccountably moved Girard. “Is there a schedule of when the potions should be administered?” he asked, scanning the layout of the ward. A dozen pallets covered in bleached linen lined the white walls. Above each station hung a simple wooden cross.

  Moriuht shook his head. “We give the patients what they want whenever they need it.” Then, patting Girard’s shoulder and smiling, he said, “Come, let’s get started.” But before Girard had a chance to take a step, Moriuht cried out, “Oh, but wait! I almost forgot! I’ve a gift for you!”

  Girard smiled. For even though he fully expected Moriuht to hand him a shard of polished bone or a variegated rock, the gesture brought him enormous pleasure.

  “Oh, where did I put it?” Moriuht muttered, patting his robe. “Ah, here!” he said. Reaching deep into a pocket, he withdrew a silver medallion hung on a leather cord. “Saint Lazarus,” he said, draping the medal around Girard’s neck.

  “No one has ever given me a gift before!” Girard said, as stunned as he was gratified. “Thank you.” He fingered the cord and then the medal itself, turning the disk so he could see the script imprinted on the circumference. “Saint Lazare Pray For Us,” he read aloud.

  Moriuht wrapped his arms around Girard, swaying from side to side before slapping him heartily on the back with both hands. “Ready?” Moriuht asked, and began ministering with an enthusiasm that amazed Girard.

  While changing the bloody, pus-stained wraps of Raymond, an elderly leper whose collapsed nose exposed gristle and bone, Moriuht discussed the latest antics of the camp dogs. Girard knew he did not have it in him to adapt Moriuht’s garrulous manner, but he paid close attention to his matter-of-fact nursing. Lifting a corner of the sheet t
o expose only a small swatch of skin, Moriuht dipped a clean rag into a bowl of scented water and bathed the man’s body in sections, as attentive to his modesty as he was to his lesions.

  “Those camp dogs remind me of a mutt I once owned,” Raymond said, air whistling through the ruins of his nose. The man’s windy words tightened Girard’s throat and made it difficult for him to breath. Moriuht, seemingly oblivious to the grotesque sight and sound before him, leaned forward with a rag and wiped the corner of his patient’s mouth. When Raymond laughed—and how could the man laugh? Girard wondered—spittle flew everywhere, splattering the front of Moriuht’s robe.

  When he had finished applying new wraps, Moriuht patted Raymond’s thigh. “One of the sisters will be along soon with an infusion. You’ve just enough time for morning devotions.” He lifted a rosary from the table and handed it to Raymond who smiled before turning his attention to prayer. “Come, Brother Girard, I’ll introduce you to your patient.” Moriuht said, nodding to a pile of blankets heaped on a pallet in the far corner.

  Girard nodded, bile rising in his throat. Evraud and Girard had not spoken since that day in the chestnut grove, and Girard feared what the man might say to him. While Petronilla insisted that Evraud had mended his ways, Girard knew that reformed sinners behaved in remarkably dissimilar ways. Some became generous in their estimations of humanity while others grew leery and suspicious. Girard had no way of knowing how redemption had affected Evraud.

  Girard could not have been more shocked when the pile of blankets sighed and revealed a face disfigured by disease. The scar that had cleft the robber’s lower lip and slashed his jaw was covered by lesions, and the little hair left on his head was grey not black. When Evraud turned his milky eyes towards the sound of Moriuht’s greeting, Girard saw that they were without lashes or brows. Why, everything about the man is diminished! he thought, a spasm of pity and fear clinching his gut.

  “Ah, Moriuht, you’ve come at last.” When Evraud blinked, his lids closed only partially. “Sit.”

  Moriuht sat on the edge of the pallet and took Evraud’s hand, cupping the stubby fingers in his palm.

  “A red spot, a tiny blemish on my thumb, that’s how it began,” Evraud said. His words had the measured beat of a story told many times. “I thought at first I might have scraped it. We were cutting stone that week and I have always been clumsy with a chisel.”

  Evraud’s fingers were so twisted that his hands appeared half the size of the ones that ravished Madeleine.

  “The spot looked painful, but it wasn’t. That was the odd thing. The numbness. The absence of pain.”

  Moriuht repositioned Evraud’s blanket. “Yes, yes,” he said, nodding vigorously as though greatly fascinated. “So you have told me many times before. But what of last night?” he asked in a coaxing voice intended to distract. “Did you sleep well?”

  Girard shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The movement must have caught Evraud’s eye, although surely he saw little more than shadowy shapes. “Who is there?” he asked, reaching with a gnarled hand. Girard could not speak because he was holding his breath, willing himself not to flinch or turn away.

  “This is Brother Girard come to nurse you,” Moriuht said.

  Evraud’s hands flailed about until, locating the hem of Girard’s robe, he pinched a bit of cloth between two fleshy knobs that had once been a powerful thumb and forefinger.

  On a nearby pallet, a leper moaned and called out for water. “I will get that,” Moriuht said, bounding off without another word.

  Girard’s stomach balled into a knot. Then he remembered Petronilla’s and Moriuht’s faith in him, and he busied himself adjusting his patient’s pillows. “You were there!” Evraud said. Dropping the hem of Girard’s robe, he pulled himself up on wobbly elbows. “You saw!”

  “Yes,” Girard said, feelings of disgrace rendering him nearly breathless.

  “Do you think often of that day, Brother Girard? Does it linger with you as it does with me?”

  A memory flashed before him—Madeleine thrown to the ground, her robe and chemise torn away to reveal her naked form. His underarms were damp and a bead of sweat trickled down his chest. “I try not to,” Girard said simply, honestly.

  “Try not to? Why, what can you mean?” Evraud asked, his blind eyes darting the room, his useless hands moving restlessly against the blanket. “Didn’t you see what I saw? Didn’t you see the Master call forth a thunderbolt that broke open the heavens and split the trunk of a chestnut tree?”

  It was not the dreadful deeds of that day that agitated Evraud so, but his recollection of the Master’s miracle! Momentarily startled, Girard was without words. He felt relief, yes, but also embarrassment.

  Evraud’s sightless gaze bore down on him with such intensity that he grew frightened. Girard had lived a quiet life of solitude and contemplation, and he knew little of people and their emotions. He searched the room for Moriuht, but he was so intent upon his duties that he did not see Girard’s hand lifted in a silent bid for assistance.

  “What is this wasting disease, this agonizing death compared to the miraculous events of that day?” Evraud continued, the words spewing from his mouth with a power that recalled the manner in which he had shouted orders to his brigands. “I have lived and worked beside a saint, and I am grateful for that blessing. Robert of Arbrissel changed my life, brought me to a place of grace. Everything else is meaningless.”

  Girard felt a dreamy realization. I understand my role here! What Evraud wanted, what he needed was what we all need—reassurance that his life has not been lived in vain. Girard dropped to his knees and took the dying man’s hand in his own. His skin felt dry and fragile, but also warm, and that warmth traveled the length of Girard’s arm and settled somewhere in his chest.

  “Yes,” Girard said, “We two were part of something meaningful and great.”

  Evraud nodded. A calm settled over both men.

  Girard continued holding his patient’s hand even after he fell asleep. Having found a point of connection, a bridge between his heart and Evraud’s, Girard was hesitant to let go.

  Across the room Moriuht fed a young man whose arms had been amputated just above the elbows while another brother read psalms in a low, sonorous voice.

  Girard closed his eyes and remembered his first glimpse of Fontevraud. He recalled that when their party of five (seven, if he counted Evraud and Thomas) reached the ridge, Robert thanked Jesus, Mary and Joseph and then, pointing to a valley lush with golden scrub, reedy hemlock and a cool spattering of grass, proclaimed, “Here we will build our monastery.” And except for completion of the main Cathedral, they had done just that. How far we have come since that day, Girard thought, cradling Evraud’s hand in his palm. In a few short winters the brush has been cleared and replaced by a stone monument to God, a double monastery that housed Robert’s vision and his dream. And how appropriate that it should be named for a reformed sinner and a true believer. Girard did not know if Robert was a saint, perhaps he would never know. He did know that the Master, a holy man of courage, had achieved great things.

  When Girard’s shift ended shortly before compline, he set out to walk in the fresh air and, although he had not planned it, he was not surprised when he found himself at the spring. Squatting beside the blessed waters, he cupped his hands and drank, barely pausing for a breath between gulps. His thirst satisfied, he eased back onto his haunches. The setting sun tossed a waning beam across the surface of the pond producing a glassy wink that prompted Girard to take off his sandals and step into the water.

  Algae tickled the soles of his feet and sent a shiver down his spine, a surprisingly pleasant sensation. Without a thought to modesty or decorum, he removed his heavy robe and tossed it onto the branching willows that lined the shore. For one brief moment Girard considered checking his body for red spots, but just as quickly he thought, either I will di
e in pieces or I will not, in any case there is nothing I can do about it. He took another step. The cool water tightened his scrotum and lifted the hair on the back of his neck. Girard wriggled his toes in mud and listened to the sharp kew-wit and tremulous hoo-hoo-hoooo of a tawny owl. And though he could not see the bird, he had no trouble imagining its swooping flight across the evening sky, a flight that filled Girard with awe and gave him the courage to take another step and then another. The water rose past his calves, splashed his shins and sloshed against his waist. Spreading his arms and legs, Girard took a deep breath, and leaned back. As soon as his body met the surface of the pond he was floating.

  Enthralled by this new feeling of buoyancy, he closed his eyes and, listening to the hollow lap against his ears, marveled at the Lord’s mysterious ways. For in the end, it was not the Master who transformed his life but, rather, a tiny, passionate nun and a garrulous, vermin-infested gatherer of bones and feathers, modest people of compassion who simply understood the heart’s compulsion to know joy.

  I must replace remorse with action, Girard thought, and immediately began developing a plan. Nothing too grand, for he knew he did not possess Petronilla’s insight or Robert’s courage. Some simple task that he could set his mind to and accomplish in a day.

  A light breeze rustled through willow branches, whispered against his chest and filled the air with a clean, grassy scent. Tomorrow he would tuck sprigs of mint and dried lavender beneath Evraud’s pillow and massage his limbs with warm oils. It was a simple plan, a tentative step in a new direction. But it was the right direction, of this Girard felt certain.