The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  Hildegard did not share in Hiltrud’s misgivings. Like Jutta, she felt this was where she should be, especially on such a fortuitous occasion58 as All Saints Day. But her reasons were altogether different. At last she could devote herself completely to the love of God. She craved the separateness and mental independence given to an incluse59. Ironically, in a world where silence and passivity were the highest ideals for women to aspire to, sharing a stone cell with Jutta and Hiltrud would give Hildegard the freedom and a life of contemplation she had been looking for.

  Jutta walked back to a large tub filled with scented hot water. Hiltrud rose from the tub, red-faced and dripping, her eyes still puffy from having seen her own ghastly, hairless appearance in a mirror. Jutta passed Hiltrud the towel as she leaned forward to touch the water. It was still warm. In a small gesture of one used to getting her way, she ordered the room’s servants, “Take all of our clothes and give them to the poor,” before immersing herself into the pool of purification, heavily scented with rosemary60, sage61 and lavender62.

  “Wait,” Hildegard said, rushing over to her long blue cape. She was in the habit of keeping her drawing utensils and books inside its many hidden pockets. “Please, if you will, take these to the Anchorage.” She handed the elder servant a stack of small codices,63 bound parchments, and various writing instruments. A pressed clover and a single leaf of wormwood fell to the floor. She picked them up and carefully placed them back in her journal on herbal remedies that she was compiling. She smiled apologetically as she kept digging further into the myriad of deep pockets in her cloak, finding more and more oddities, such as a string of pearls, some jasper, chalcedony, and an old feather from a cuckoo bird.

  “Please take my wardrobe to the Infirmary. I’d like my clothes to be a gift to a certain young lady named Sophie.” She unfastened the silver filigree brooch and unobtrusively tucked it between the leaves of parchment to be taken to the Anchorage. “Thank you,” she replied before turning away to take her turn on the small stool.

  CHAPTER 4: TIME’S RUDE HAND

  Nave of the Disibodenberg Church

  Feast of All Saints, 1st of November, Friday, the Year of Our Lord 1112

  As Brother Hans rehearsed the psalm to be sung in accordance with church traditions in celebration of All Saints Day, Volmar went about his duties in silence, thinking of Hildegard.

  Volmar had taken many precautions to prepare for this night. He knew it was to be a continual struggle for a monk to exert mastery over his carnal desires and to remain dead to the delights of the world, but he didn’t think it would be so difficult. He’d taken cold baths, refrained from eating meat, which was known to inflame desire, and had even contemplated harming himself, hoping that the wounds of the flesh might heal the wounds of his wayward obsession with Hildegard. And yet no matter what he tried, she kept dancing her way into his mind, caressing his lonely thoughts, and setting aflame his passions. Would he never find peace from these fiery, fitful temptations?

  One by one he replaced the usual yellowing candles with long white ones. He then smoothed out a wrinkle in the altar cloth, before turning to survey the nearly empty sanctuary. The words Brother Hans so plaintively sung a cappella in Latin, shattered the stillness and all hope.

  Who are these like stars appearing?

  These, before God’s throne who stand?

  These, whose robes of purest whiteness . . .

  Still untouched by time’s rude hand . . .

  Following not the sinful throng . . .

  CHAPTER 5: A LIFE OF ANGELS

  Nave of the Disibodenberg Church

  Feast of All Saints, Dusk, 1st of November, Friday, the Year of Our Lord 1112

  An hour later at dusk, the three young women entered the sanctuary. They followed the Bishop, his entourage of lesser priests and monks, and the Abbot from the Sacristy64 into the Chancel65. Volmar stood alongside his fellow brothers in the individual stalls of the choir, witnesses to this most ancient of rituals.

  The young women stood barefoot before the stone altar and the cross, humbly attired in white linen shifts. Their heads were bowed, reciting prayers as they prepared to become brides of Christ. The words of the Psalm hung in the chilly night air: untouched by time’s rude hand. Volmar was close enough to see that the young women were shivering. He was shocked at Hildegard’s transformation. He knew that all three of them had to have their heads shaved as part of the ritual preparations for the ceremony, but nothing really prepared him for how other-worldly this made Hildegard appear to him.

  Volmar stirred himself, realizing suddenly that he was not the only one suffering because of this spectacle. He searched the people standing in the nave watching the ceremony and was arrested by the pained expression etched on Reginald’s face. He wondered how deep Reginald’s affections had been for Jutta. Rumor had it that the Archbishop’s son had courted Jutta for over five years, since she was fifteen.

  Taking turns, Jutta, Hildegard, and Hiltrud knelt and made their professions of faith, followed by the Bishop repeating, “Confirma hoc Deus.66” After each affirmation, five collects67 were said. Three times, Bishop Otto invited them “to come,” and three times they replied, “and now we follow with all our heart.”

  Volmar recognized excerpts from the Book of Job and bore witness to the solemn kiss of peace given to each on their foreheads during the Mass68. The Bishop then administered communion. There was a hush over the gathering crowd. It was the most sacred and mystical part of the ceremony where the three women entered into a supernatural union with God through the Eucharist69. By eating His body and drinking His blood, they became one with the heavenly Father.

  Following the communion were more prayers and blessings; these, though, were associated with the last rites and the Office of the Dead. The Bishop gave to each woman a cross, placing it in their arms as he spoke. “Receive this image of the crucified one, taking care to always keep His passion and death in your heart.” The Abbot followed behind the Bishop and pressed the candle of death into their hands. All of these rituals symbolized their vow to live out the rest of their lives on the threshold that stretches between life and death.

  Three funeral biers70 were then lowered. One by one, the young women stretched out on the biers. Over each of their bodies, the bishop genuflected, motioning the cross and intoning more Latin prayers. His censer71 swayed forward on its long golden chain as the smoke from the sweet-smelling incense rose in unity with his prayers up to God.

  Over Jutta, the Bishop spoke aloud into the hazy, thickening silence. “Grant, O Heavenly Father, that the Devil, our adversary, may never find Disibodenberg’s Anchoress, Jutta of Sponheim, off her guard, or out from under Thy protection. Make her mindful of her weakness and fortify her soul against all temptations of the world, the flesh, and the Devil.”

  Bishop Otto paused, clearly in command of the people’s attentions, before posing his question. “Jutta of Sponheim, do you wish to live in seclusion as Disibodenberg’s Anchoress until you die?”

  Jutta of Sponheim responded in a confident voice. “I do indeed.”

  Volmar watched as Reginald hung his head, acknowledging what the young monk suspected was final defeat.

  The Bishop passed the censer to the Abbot and clasped his hands in prayer. His loud yet tremulous voice echoed through the stone cavern and rose up as if it were knocking triumphantly on heaven’s golden doors. “Our Father, we deliver unto Thee Jutta of Sponheim, Hildegard of Bermersheim, and Hiltrud of Rupertsberg.”

  Volmar felt the hot tears welling behind his eyes and held back a cry of anguish. He had also prepared for this moment. He reached into his pocket for a small peppercorn and popped it in his mouth, while pretending to cough. His teeth went to work, grinding down the beastly hot and bitter seed, hoping to deceive his own spirit from what he knew it could not swallow.

  “In their hearts,” the Bishop continued, his voice sealing Volmar’s heart forever, “they have promised to live apart, separated from the errors a
nd vices of the age we live in, choosing to dwell in Your house and for Your glory apart from worldly infidelities, wicked principles, profanities, heresies, and the faithlessness of this Godless age.” The Bishop’s voice grew more passionate as he continued. “O Christ, our Refuge and Strength, in this hour of their deaths, grant the beginning of eternity, of true faith, sure hope, ardent love, unshaken fortitude, deep humility, unconquered patience, and whatsoever other virtues they will need to reside at heaven’s doorstep.”

  The Bishop dramatically raised his hands towards the heavens. “And into Thy Hands, O Lord, I commend their spirits; and whatsoever sins they may have committed through the frailty of their mortal natures, in Thy merciful loving kindness blot out forever; through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Volmar watched as the biers were carried aloft in a solemn processional by twelve hooded brothers all dressed in black robes. From the church it was only twenty-odd paces to the Anchorage, the young women’s earthly tomb. As each of the three young women made their way down the aisle through the fog of incense and extinguishing candles, they began chanting in turn: “This is my resting place forever, here shall I dwell for I have chosen it.” The psalm was shortly followed by another. “I shall go up into the place of the wonderful tabernacle.” And another: “Let us enter the house of the Lord with rejoicing.”

  Volmar winced as he heard Hildegard’s voice rise above the others, its lyrical tone resounding strong and true as she recited the mantras of denial and death. So final, he thought, bearing in silence the guilt of his sinful affection for her. From now on Hildegard and the other women would live isolated from the outside world, the door of their cell bolted tight, and the windows covered with black leather curtains and shutters. Tradition dictated that they live as if at the gates of heaven, praying day and night while in the seclusion of their cell. A Vita Angelica, a Life of Angels. The Bishop sprinkled dust on them as they passed under the entrance of the church.

  CHAPTER 6: A RIVER OF MANY WATERS

  Forecourt of Disibodenberg Church

  Feast of All Saints, 1st of November, Friday, the Year of Our Lord 1112, Evening

  Volmar had observed many religious rituals, but this was his first enclosure ceremony. As the villagers filed out in an orderly fashion following the processional, Volmar lingered, observing the rest of the guests. Reginald had backed himself into a corner and was staring ahead with a frown, seemingly waiting at the empty altar. It would be his right, Volmar thought, for Reginald to walk away from this ceremony, which should have been his wedding, condemning love and feeling justified in his own self-pity. It was impossible to tell from this distance which direction Reginald’s mind would take.

  Why would God create male and female? Was it simply to complicate our lives, plague us with consuming passions, or distract us from contemplating paradise? This mystery troubled Volmar as he also wondered why Reginald’s friend Atif was not standing there beside him. Instead, he noticed, the Aramaic scholar was across the room meeting with a messenger of some sort, who looked as if he had just slipped in from the outside road, judging by the red clay still clinging to his muddied boots. Volmar watched as the messenger reached under his cloak and gave Atif a bound set of small papers. Atif took the booklet quickly from the man and flipped to the first page. He read through it, his expression suggesting nothing less than elation. After he had finished, Volmar watched as Atif held the small book up to his lips and kissed it softly before tucking it safely under his heavy cloak. As the messenger quietly took leave, Atif slipped back silently into the throng of people and disappeared. Volmar held back, wondering what would motivate a man to kiss a book, unless it represented something more to him than simple words. Such misplaced passion reminded him of his own guilty passions towards Hildegard.

  Volmar exited into the forecourt, relieved to find that the rain had eased and a quarter moon was valiantly trying to peek through the ominous gathering of clouds. A slight rustle from behind was the only warning Volmar had. He turned with a start the very moment an old woman grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shadows.

  “Hear me out,” the old woman spoke in earnest, placing a papery thin finger to the young monk’s mouth before Volmar could complain. “I have a message from God, meant only for your ears and yours alone. Her life, I’ve been told, is intricately woven into your own.”

  The old woman’s strange words at first did not sink in. “Whose life, dear lady . . . the Anchoress?”

  “No, brother; not the pretty one named Jutta nor the servant girl Hiltrud.” The old woman’s breath smelled of rotten plants and decay. “I saw it all in a vision. The frail child with the gray eyes, the one they call Hildegard.”

  Volmar blanched. How could this woman know of his sinful obsession?

  “God has poured out His grace into this child like a river of many waters. Someday, she will compose and sing chants to the praise of God and his saints. Through the favor of God, those wise eyes will see through the diabolical fog that oppresses the church and will serve all, both rich and poor, well.”

  Volmar swallowed hard. Often when he was on duty in the Infirmary he would hear the idle ramblings of the elderly and suspected that this old woman was sleepwalking and confused, having awoken and wandered into the middle of the enclosure processional. And yet, she knew of Hildegard and his affection for her. The old woman’s uncanny insights had him stumbling for words. “Please, kind woman, may I help you back to your pallet?”

  She refused his proffered arm. “I’m not dreaming,” she chided, making a disapproving sound with her tongue against her few remaining teeth. “Hear me out, Volmar. Do not trivialize this meeting, for these are the words God spoke to me.”

  “Who told you my name?” he said, facing the old woman directly. Only then did Volmar become aware of the milky clouds floating in her unfocused eyes. He passed his hand over her eyes several times, but she did not blink. The old woman was blind.

  “It is not your name, but Hildegard’s name that will be remembered in centuries to come.”

  Volmar pictured Hildegard, the unconventional, peculiar girl of last year, dancing and singing in the clearing. She’d become his fantasy; a coveted, secret image so intoxicating that he had to say many prayers to beg forgiveness for his errant thoughts. “Our lives have intersected before,” Volmar admitted, finding the woman’s blindness even more distressing. “She was here, a year ago, when they laid the cornerstone for the Anchorage.”

  “Hildegard will become a cornerstone for the faithful, young Scribe. Kings will seek out her wisdom and Popes will ask her advice. She will not give in to the oppression of this corrupt religious order. She will live separately and be a voice for God through her music, her healings, her writings and drawings, and her visions; but first she must learn from your teachings and compassion. You will always love her deeply.”

  “Love her deeply?” Volmar repeated. These were foreign words for one who had promised to forsake the love of a woman for the church.

  Suddenly there was a hush, as if everyone were holding their breath. The Bishop arose from the Anchorage’s entrance, returning after walking through all three rooms with the Abbot, blessing the place with holy water and burning incense, a practice echoing once again the final ritual practice of blessing the corpse before its burial. One by one, the biers were carried under the door’s archway, the Bishop confirming each of the young women as they entered with five prayers of blessings and signs of the cross.

  Volmar turned to challenge the old woman directly, but saw to his surprise that she was gone. One moment she was by his side, the next moment she had mysteriously disappeared.

  Sophie approached and gave Volmar’s wavy black hair a small affectionate tug instead of taking his hand as she once did. “Hmm, what’s troubling you?” she asked. She could always read his mood.

  Volmar turned to Sophie and gasped. She had on the same dark blue cloak and exquisitely embroidered dress worn by Hildegard over a year ago!

  Soph
ie blushed deeply and smiled back. “It was a gift from Sister Hildegard. You do like it, don’t you? She had all her clothes sent over earlier to the Infirmary especially for me.” She twirled around, allowing the heavy brocade skirts to billow out. “Come now, Brother Volmar, don’t you love it! Brother Paulus thought I was one of the esteemed visitors, at first. I feel so spoiled!”

  Volmar was speechless. Although the monastic life demanded austerity and self-denial, he was pleased that Sophie didn’t have to comply. Her nature responded to beautiful things—he knew it to be the artist inside her. Over the past year, he had marveled at how Sophie had given up many of her childish ways. While occasionally he missed the comfort of her small cold hand in his, he admired now how she would use her hands. They were like magnificent drawing instruments, moving through the air to draw for him pictures or busily carving a delicate hollow tube for Brother Paulus, so he could hear with more clarity the sounds a stomach or heart were making. Sophie’s face, though, had matured the most; with a sense of purpose, it had a charm all of its own, at once lively and animated, or solemn and thoughtful, like it was now.

  “I’ve never had anything so warm or soft. And look at all these pockets, Volmar. Wait, there’s something in this one.” She reached in and removed a roll of parchment. It was sealed and addressed to Volmar. “For you,” she said, handing it over to the young monk’s trembling hands and added teasingly. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Brother Volmar?”

  Volmar responded with a pained, guilty expression, which she took to be merely disappointment over her bold accusation.

  “Sorry,” Sophie added hurriedly, “I’m just curious, that’s all. Please let Hildegard know how eternally grateful I am for her beautiful wardrobe. Let her know the clothes fit perfectly. Brother Paulus has kindly offered a cupboard to be moved to my cell, so I can store and care for them properly.”