Capcir Spring

by Jean de Beurre

  Mary remained silent for a while wondering if there was anything that she could say to be helpful or even appropriate to follow such a story. Her mind was a blur of whirring images and she felt strangely sorry for the man who thought he had found love but lost his life and called totally into question his vocation. At length she said,

  "I sense that you are really full of guilt about this. You feel that it is your entire fault for what happened and the tragic way that it all turned out. But as the saying goes it takes two to tango. She has gone now and what you have told me indicates that she was a very mixed up youngster. She was seriously disturbed. You cannot blame yourself completely."

  "But I do. I am still here. I am still reasonably healthy for my age. I was older, wiser and should have known better. I killed her. I killed her with my love."

  "She was disturbed. She was irrational and went completely over the top. Its sounds to me that you were just the latest emotional prop that was taken forcibly from her and pushed her over the edge. Don't you find comfort and forgiveness from your religion"

  "If my religious order hadn't taken me away and incarcerated me in that Gothic hell hole that they call a retreat house. If I hadn't let them and could have stayed with her then she might still be alive." John had ignored her interjection and carried on his tirade, "I now realise that she wanted me to be a father. Did she want a real father figure because her real father had raped her? She had very little respect for any man. And I am given the opportunity to be a surrogate father and so what do I do but do the same as her real father."

  "Perhaps it was because of her real father that she looked on you in the same way. Perhaps it was that she could only see relationships developing in one direction with any man. It cannot have all been your fault."

  "What can you know of the very depths of guilt. The feeling of complete betrayal of all you have stood for. It is a betrayal of your very self. The vow of celibacy, though not taken seriously by some, was something that I relied on to allow me to do things that others couldn't. People trusted me. They believed in me. They knew what I stood for behind that collar. I had my sexuality hidden away neatly behind the façade of priesthood and now that façade has collapsed under the power of my emotions. It is as if the whole central plank of my being has been taken away and I don't know what to do. Don't get me wrong. I'm not crying to have my lost virginity restored. I loved every moment of loving that I experienced. But without my vows I am nothing. You can't imagine what an impact such can have on someone who has been celibate for life. You forget what these organs of your body are for and then suddenly you realise they have a powerful control over your heart and mind and will and all reflection, rules, ethics, training and conditioning go out of the window. We are animals and I have learnt over these past months how strong the base animal instincts are. Celibacy never was a problem for me before but now I don't know. I really don't know. Day and night I am in torment. You asked me about my religion. I find that more depressing rather than illuminating when on the rare occasions it strikes home. I was reading a psalm earlier today in my daily office. It was full of wallowing in anguish and despair. In one sense it suited my mood but I couldn't say it helped me in any way.

  "But there are also many psalms of hope."

  "They seem just empty words. If my religion is going to mean anything to me then God is going to have to jump out of the printed page and grab me by the throat and say to me You have been a naughty boy but I'm still here for you. I still love you despite all that's happened and I want you for me. At the moment though I don't seem to be able to hear anything like that."

  Mary looked thoughtful. "I think you need to reread Psalm no 32 after what you have said tonight". She smiled. He looked puzzled, unable to bring to mind the precise verse she was referring to.

  "In the good early years of my marriage I was a model vicars wife. I attended all the daily offices morning prayer, evensong and often it was just James and myself chanting across the echoing empty nave. You remember many verses from the Psalms when you are chanting them week in and week out. I even believed them then."

  It was late. The coffee was drunk. They were both exhausted from concentrating so deeply on each other's words. They both sensed that they could go no further together until they had both had time to consider all that the other had said. John thanked her and left, taking a big breath of fresh air as he slipped into the cool clear night. On the threshold they agreed the time they would meet so that he could come with her to help her final measurements in the morning.

  Mary went straight to bed. What a strange day it had been. What a story he had to tell. Did that make him safe or dangerous? Does knowing about his past help her to deal with his present? But she was tired. The sleeping pill worked its magic and even though these thoughts were going round and round in her mind she soon was sinking deeply into sleep.

  The beautiful clear night cleared John's head of its late night muzziness as he walked home. He looked up at the clear sky and saw millions of pinpricks of light twinkling. Another verse from a psalm came to his mind "when I look into the heavens, what is man... " What am I he thought. What is this strange existence that I have been living for all my adult life. Am I a priest or am I a man. Can I be a man and think as I know all men think and still be a priest. And what on earth does Psalm thirty-two have to say of relevance. He was more agitated by this than anything else at the present. Why was it that though he read a psalm every day of his life he now couldn't place what was special about this one. What was Mary trying to say to him?

  John entered his chalet quickly and went straight for his Psalter and flicked the thin well-thumbed pages quickly until he came to Psalm thirty-two. Is this what she meant me to read he asked himself.

  "All the time I kept silent, my bones were wasting away with groans, day in, day out; day and night your hand lay heavy upon me; my heart grew parched as stubble in summer drought. At last I admitted to you that I had sinned; no longer concealing my guilt, I said, `I will go to the Lord and confess my fault.' And you, you have forgiven the wrong I did, have pardoned my sin." He read on and one or two other phrases leapt off the page and into his heart. "I will watch over you." "Grace enfolds the man who trusts in the Lord."

  He sat in silence perched on the arm of his chair where he had squatted as he dashed into the room and thought about the words Mary had pointed him in the direction of. These were verses about God granting absolution and a sense of peace to those that confess honestly and trust God. It contained nothing new or startling and yet tonight, after his conversation with Mary it felt somehow different. It almost felt as if she, a woman, had granted him absolution in some strange and mysterious way. She couldn't of course. Only God could grant absolution and God acted, as he had known from his earliest days through the intermediary of a priest. The very word priest means one who acts between God and humans. Had God used her as a channel, an intermediary. Had she been used perhaps even unknowingly as an intermediary of the almighty to convey a channel of his grace? He listened to the silence of the night and wondered. He certainly felt at peace. He felt more at peace than he had felt since, well since it all began. Was he experiencing forgiveness? But then did feelings really matter. He knew he was guilty and if he felt not guilty had he somehow escaped his responsibilities? He pulled himself up sharp as he realised the implication of the question he had just asked himself. All his professional life as a counsellor he had been involved in helping people to feel better about themselves. Edging people incrementally towards a change in self-image that would have a positive contribution to make to their lives. And now he had some inkling in his life of a changed self-image he doubted its reality. God's forgiveness that he had been pronouncing at absolutions for as long as he had been a priest must have really worked. Why then did he find it so difficult to believe?

  Then a new thought struck him. Could he ever return to an all-male priesthood when he had personally experienced a sense of absolution through the agency of a woman? It wa
s certainly far more than any of the blessed monks could do for him. It is strange yet he could not mistake the sense of inner peace and calm that had descended on him. Perhaps she was a Cathar priestess?

  He slammed the book shut, shrugged his shoulders and decided that it was too late to be thinking clearly. Perhaps things would seem clearer in the morning. And he went to bed with very mixed emotions. He felt in many ways better than he had felt for a long time. It was as if a fever had passed and he was savouring good health for the first time in ever so long. But he was also troubled with a deep underlying sense of unease that nothing would ever be the same again. And the thought of that scared him like nothing had ever scared him before.

  *****

  Mary's untroubled sleep lasted only a while for she soon felt herself being roughly manhandled. It was all dark and strong hands grabbed my upper arms and half carried half dragged me out a doorway and across rough stone ground and then I am lifted and thrown onto the back of an ox cart. My hands are tied tightly behind my back. The roughly hewn planks of wood were covered thinly with straw. But it was hard, very hard. And it is still very dark. There are small torches, naked flames, bobbing around me, but mostly they were out of vision. The cart started to move. It rocked and swayed rhythmically with the strides of the oxen. The wheels crunched over stones and gravel and then moved more quietly, as if travelling over grass or leaves. But it wasn't quite so dark now. Against the night sky I could begin to make out the shapes of overhanging trees. And as I looked up towards the sky there was a definite lightening. It would soon be dawn.

  We were going up a track and we were now some way out of the village. From the slope of the cart we were definitely moving uphill. I had been pushed into the cart so that I was lying on my side. I wondered if I struggled and wriggled I could perhaps manoeuvre myself around into a sort of sitting position. The ropes round my wrists were very tight and as I moved the rope seemed to cut into my flesh. But if I were more upright I might be able to see something of where I was. As I moved my foot touched something soft and there was a squawk. I pushed with my foot again, more gently this time and twisted my body around to look down in that direction. In the pre-dawn twilight I could make out the shape of a pile of rags on the other side of the cart.

  Almost immediately I seemed to realise that it was the poor helpless mute creature that had spent the night with me in the cell.

  The woods were thicker than I remembered and there were no chalets or indeed any buildings, which is not how I remembered any of the tracks up out of the village. There were only trees woods and small clearings where I could begin to make out goats grazing in the early morning gloom. The shadowy figures were walking ahead and behind me, but none were near enough for me to make out anything on them but shadows. Slowly very slowly we all made progress up the track and all the while the light was getting slightly brighter.

  Eventually the cart came to a halt and we are in a clearing. I looked up and recognise the familiar rock formations of a cliff high above us and realise we are somewhere very close to the old chapel. From the slightly higher position I had managed to drag myself up to I can see all round and there indeed is the chapel, or at least the remains of it. The roof has been burned off and the wooden buildings around it are all smouldering ruins. The shadowy figures near to me are now clearly village people in their rough clothes. The heap of rags alongside me on the cart has not moved and I would not have known it even to be alive let alone a person but for the occasional wails and grunts that it emitted. There are no words exchanged between the peasant folk as they stand around the cart in the glade. All are silent, seemingly fully engaged by the task in hand. The only noise is coming from the increasing numbers of footfalls into the clearing. The stench of the recent fires still hangs heavily over the whole valley.

  It is only then that I realised what an enormous procession of people there are following on behind. Perhaps the occupants of all the villages on the plateau have been roused and commanded to follow on foot. Behind them are riders on horseback carrying lances, with long swords at their sides and dressed in a livery that I was sure that I had seen before. Following the riders was, strangest of all a richly embroidered litter carried by four strong men. The litter is small but the velvet curtains have elaborate patterns embroidered on them of red and blue and gold. The sun must be about to rise and the brightness of the tapestry work contrasts with the dull woodland colours all around. The livery, of course it was what the inquisitors soldiers wore. Was he in the litter. No there he was to the rear, silent and alone, dressed as before in black. The riders dismount and without seeming to give any orders start bidding people to make a great pile of bundles that all the village people had been carrying. They are bundles of sticks and faggots. Other villagers cut branches from the trees and add them to the pile. They are building a huge bonfire. Others are collecting unburned wood from the ruins of the settlement. The pyre reached high into the sky and at the top was hammered a vertical stake. The construction work complete the crowd gathered around the carts, still maintaining an almost dignified yet at the same time eerie silence.

  The inquisitor must have been in charge for he just made the briefest of nods at one of the liveried soldiers and they moved to come to the cart. The crowd of peasants parted silently to let them through. They reached into the cart and grabbed me by the shoulders and legs with a firm grip. Firmly but not roughly I am lifted off my feet and carried through the crowd to the now huge heap of wood.

  There was a sort of ladder on one side of the pyre and they dragged me up this and I was tied tightly with ropes to the upright stake.

  I felt calm. It was strange. Here was the most terrifying thing imaginable happening to me and I really felt at peace.

  The pitiful creature was then lifted and manhandled out of the cart. It made grunts and screams of an uncanny kind and it struggled relentlessly but uselessly against the soldiers. It continued struggling and moaning even after it had been tied, slumped, to the stake and left beside me. I, by contrast stood erect, surveying the crowd at my feet. And what a mighty throng there was to watch. The mute one's face was a picture of sheer terror and its shrieks and grunts became a series of abominable noises, which echoed through the hills.

  There was still no sound from the gathered crowd. It seems as if an air of silent expectancy has fallen on it. And there were no moves to light the fire.

  The rich crimson and gold curtains to the litter twitched and were pulled aside by a hand wearing a heavily bejewelled ring. It is a soft and fleshy hand, pink and chubby in the increasing early morning light. I watched entranced the drama unfold. From the hidden depths of the litter someone unseen looked all about him through a chink before the curtain was pulled completely open from within. A short, dark and rotund figure in a richly embroidered Episcopal robes climbed out, rich maroon satin slippers incongruous on the damp dewy grass. At once a figure dressed in livery ran up to him, bent over and kissed the ring and then after bowing deeply put a mitre on the bishops head. The bishop turned and reached back into the litter and pulled out a gold handled crozier and leaning on it without looking in the direction of the pyre walked in a purposeful and dignified manner away towards the ruins of the settlement. An acolyte carrying a large wooden crucifix led the procession. Priests and others followed him in robes and at last came the bishop, followed by a clerk reverently carrying a large bible. The crowd of villagers watched them pass by obviously in awe of the Bishop's presence.

  They wound their way into the ruins of the chapel and then I caught the sound of Latin chant. The Crucifix was fastened into the ground in an upright position. Prayers are being said. They are prayers of de-consecration, prayers of re-consecration and prayers for the salvation of my immortal soul. I cannot of course make out the words of what is being chanted but in my mind the meaning is very clear.

  And then came a sermon. The bishop had a high tenor voice and his words carried clearly to me and I understood every word he said.

  "
In my brief homily today I will tell you of the evil of these heretics. They claim to be good Christians yet they do not acknowledge their mother the church. They claim that they are persecuted as Jesus Christ was persecuted by the Pharisees. How dare they liken their filthy selves to our blessed Lord? They claim that the priests and bishops of the church are evil and they call us false prophets but with the authority of Rome behind me I ask you what is false? They have rejected all the sacraments of the church, especially the Eucharist which they say cannot possibly contain the body of Christ. Our most holy sacrament has been ignored and rejected. They claim that baptism is useless, as water is corrupt. Do they not recall that this practice also stems from the very pages of Holy Scripture. Our Lord was baptised and the instructed people to follow by baptising others. They claim confession is worthless as the priests are unclean. They refuse to bow before the cross of Christ as they say a gallows should not be exhaulted. So it is to this God forsaken Valley today we bring this crucifix to remind you all of the one who is the Lord of heaven and Earth. Moreover they read from the Gospels and the Epistles in the vulgar tongue, applying and expounding them in their favour and against the Church. Such is the height of blasphemy.