The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  Volmar tucked the missive inside his leather pouch. “Thank you,” he said, closing the clasp on his leather pouch. “You do look lovely, Sophie. I’ll let Hildegard, err, Sister Hildegard know how grateful you are for her gift.”

  “I’ve never witnessed the rituals of an internment,” Sophie went on, her eyes shining from his rare compliment. She gazed over towards the Anchorage.

  Volmar nodded. “It is hard for us mere men to know God’s intentions,” he mumbled, the token answer she expected from monks whenever they faced something they felt was wrong.

  Sophie wisely left it at that, seeing how Volmar wore his look of total concentration that she knew so well and had learned to respect.

  At length, Volmar turned to her and asked as calmly as he could, “Sophie, is there a blind elderly woman in the Infirmary’s care?”

  “No,” she said, putting a finger to his lips, “shush!” She turned to the Anchorage and became very still as the final moments of the ceremony took place.

  The last robed pallbearer exited the Anchorage. Abbot Burchard heaved the massive oak door reinforced with iron plates hard enough to close it. The Bishop took the key from his ring of keys and turned it securely, locking the clasp, saying, “May God protect your entrance and prevent you from coming out.”

  BOOK 4: VOWS

  CHAPTER 1: REMOVED FROM THE WORLD

  Common Room of the Anchorage

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

  Lord 1112, after Enclosure Ceremony

  Hildegard jutted out her lower lip and blew gently, trying to remove the dust Bishop Otto had sprinkled on her and which clung stubbornly to her eyelashes. As she heard the key turn in the lock on the door, Hildegard felt her racing heart slow to a steadier, relaxed pace. She attributed the aching sensation in her stomach to hunger and the unaccustomed chill to the stout stone walls which now enveloped her. In preparation for the ceremony, Jutta had insisted that they fast for three days.

  Hildegard lifted her hand, stiff from the lack of movement over the past few hours. Tentatively, she ran her fingers over her bare head where her hair had once been and thought fleetingly of the superstition of combing one’s hair to comfort one’s brain. Living in the Anchorage would hold few if any of the familiar comforts. In here, the three women were completely removed from the world. Then again, Hildegard thought, as she set aside the stub of the candle which she earlier had to blow out and the cross which was to be hung over the head of her bed, she had always felt set apart from others.

  The waxing moon broke through the clouds and streamed in through the small window, bathing the room with its soft and lingering light. For the first time, Hildegard could survey her surroundings. They were sparse, as she anticipated, but adequate. She was grateful to see in the far corner the massive silhouette of what she recognized to be her glass-fronted bookcase. She was pleased to see the shadowy stack of her writings and drawings, finding comfort in their presence. Here was the room in which she would spend all her waking hours. In the gloom she could just make out a couple of dark objects on a table nearby.

  Hildegard stood and felt her way over to the heavy wood trestle table. On it she found one of the objects to be an oil lamp, its wick trimmed and filled with oil. The second item was a large basket filled with items of food and a small flask of wine. The moon slipped behind the clouds, plunging the room into darkness. Thankfully, though, from where she stood, she could see on the other side of the table a smoldering rustic glow in what appeared to be the remains of a fire in a wide stone fireplace. She went and took a piece of ember, blowing on it coaxingly until a flame darted from it. Using this to light the lantern, she then threw a few more logs onto the fire to warm the room and welcomed its warm glow.

  It was ever so slight but unmistakable; a moan had come from Jutta, whose bier was placed on the stone floor between Hildegard and Hiltrud. Hildegard took the oil lamp and knelt down beside her Anchoress’ side. Carefully, she lifted the now blood-encrusted shift up to Jutta’s thigh so she could survey the extent of the leg iron’s damage. Jutta had insisted on wearing it regardless of the ceremony, much to Hildegard’s chagrin. Suppressing a sigh, Hildegard examined the wound. It was an old familiar wound, deep and jagged like the teeth marks left behind by a raging bear. It had never been given the chance to heal properly. Thankfully, Jutta would not be protesting her ministrations this time. The new Anchoress appeared to be in a self-induced meditative state in which physical pain could not be felt. Softly, Hildegard took the key from around Jutta’s neck and loosened the leg iron, gently releasing the last lock and drawing it away from the woman’s thigh. Hildegard knew she had to work quickly. Otherwise, the wound would get worse if she left it unattended.

  As a child Hildegard remembered Uda commenting once on how the Disibodenberg monks were excellent beekeepers. She said a small prayer, went back to the table, and lifted the food items one by one from the basket. There was bread, cheese, nuts, lentil beans, and . . . “Yes,” she said out loud, “honey. Thank you, Lord.” Placing the honey on the table top, she uncorked the pottery jar and took one of the wooden spoons from a hook to stir it.

  By this time Hiltrud had moved and was now curled up on her bier, her knees to her chin, softly crying. Hildegard had questioned the wisdom of forcing a servant girl to comply with a life of enclosure. No one had listened to her. The consensus was that two young noblewomen could not go without a handmaiden, no matter where they lived. Hildegard crossed the room to her and gave her a wooden spoon dripping with honey.

  “It’s so sweet,” Hiltrud said, putting it to her lips. She handed the spoon back, grateful for the unexpected kindness.

  Hildegard dipped the spoon in the jar once again and gave it back. “Our heavenly Father has given us nature and in it, healing. There’s bread and cheese on the table. Help yourself.”

  Hildegard left Hiltrud licking the spoon and knelt once again beside Jutta with the honey jar. Carefully Hildegard ripped off the edging on her own white shift. Using it as a cloth she dipped it into the jar of honey. Gently she smoothed the honey over the area of the wound, wrapping it within a crystallized protective shield. When she had completed this task, she corked the honey and left the rag nearby to apply another layer in a few hours. She then reached for the oil lamp and motioned for Hiltrud to follow her into the next room. They both nodded with satisfaction when they saw the small adjoining privy with three wash basins. However, the rest of the furnishings were bleak compared to what they were both accustomed to. Three straw pallets sat on sturdy wooden platforms. There was a small bedside table and, on it, another oil lamp which Hildegard lit. The extra glow from the light made the high ceiling and the plastered walls feel less cavernous. On each of the beds were folded thick woolen blankets. The two of them dressed the beds, shaking the mattresses to check for bugs before folding and tucking in the blankets.

  “Much better,” Hildegard remarked after the last bed was made. “Hiltrud, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. Why don’t we take time to rest?”

  “What about Sister Jutta?”

  “Let her sleep. When the bells of Matins sound, we’ll see if she’s strong enough to join us for our devotions and prayers.” Hildegard squeezed Hiltrud’s hand, worried over how cold and clammy it felt. “Don’t worry. We will make a comfortable home for ourselves here, Hiltrud. Rest now; there will be plenty to do in the coming months.”

  Hildegard pulled the coarse wool blanket up under her chin, letting her mind wander back through the day’s momentous events. Beside her, in the next pallet, Hiltrud was soon snoring steadily, having finally given in to sleep’s tyranny.

  Hildegard turned to her side, tucking her arm up under her neck, trying to get comfortable. Often in quiet moments like this, her thoughts strayed to Volmar. She’d sensed his pain during the ceremony and knew a door had closed between them. “Anything worthwhile, child, takes time and sacrifice,” Uda had gently reminded her, as she often did when the doub
ts overwhelmed her. Surely, this was her destiny; not the one young Volmar’s heart yearned for. She needed confirmation, reassurance. In the darkness, Hildegard stretched out and with her mind she tentatively reached across the chasm between this world and the next, searching for the familiar warmth of the Living Light, a comforting presence she’d known since she was three.

  CHAPTER 2: RULE OF ST. BENEDICT

  Volmar’s Cell

  2nd of November, Saturday, the Year of Our Lord 1112, Before Matins

  Volmar tossed and turned on the narrow mattress, finding it impossible to surrender to sleep. Giving up, the young monk sat up and fixed his eyes on the crucifix at the foot of his bed without really seeing it. Volmar wondered whether he was now regretting taking his vows. Had he sworn to follow the Rule of Saint Benedict72 prematurely? The severity of monastic life had never troubled him before: The frugal diet, the lack of sleep, the life of service and contemplation. All of these restrictions had seemed perfectly normal. After all, he’d been blindly abiding by the rule most of his life. Yet now, his vows demanded that he control his thoughts as well as his deeds, and this he knew was impossible. Even the act of saying penance against the desire he felt for Hildegard seemed only to make his suffering stronger and more insistent. Cantilevered between Heaven and Hell, a monastic existence demanded all worldly desires be rebuked, as he was only to lust for spiritual communion with God the Almighty. Illicit feelings and intentions were considered as worthy of censure as misdeeds; a glance, a gesture, or mere touch were strictly forbidden. Deep down, he knew, simple prayers and holy meditations were not going to be enough for him to exert control over his inflamed passions towards Hildegard. Volmar struggled to keep his thoughts pure, and yet the images kept tumbling out from the remotest places in his mind: The turn of Hildegard’s neck, her full, parting lips, her deep sighs . . . so powerful was her hold on him that it could elude his reasoning and his resolve like a dream.

  Silently he reached for the few worldly possessions he kept hidden under his bed in a simple wood box with an iron clasp. Usually, on a sleepless night, it gave him comfort to touch objects that revived memories of long ago. He opened the clasp. Inside was the leather pouch he had with him the night he arrived at the monastery with Anya. He emptied its contents out on his bed. In it were several gold coins, a locket of his dead sister’s hair, a rosary, and the parchment disclosing Hildegard’s secret alphabet. He laid it out carefully and, using it, translated the note she had written to him and left in the pocket of Sophie’s cloak:

  Try as I may, I cannot get Brother Arnoul’s predicament out of my mind. Please come to me, Volmar, when you have a chance, so we can work together to free his tortured spirit. Your sister in Christ, Hildegard.

  Volmar turned it over in his hands and smelled its lingering, heavenly perfume, thinking back over what the old woman had told him earlier about Hildegard’s future. She was right about one thing, he thought, ruefully; he loved Hildegard deeply.

  Attempting to redirect his sinful thoughts, the young monk turned to the rosary. He stared at the eight-pointed star below the head of Christ, the emblem of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John. It was the same eight-pointed star on the rosary he’d seen earlier that fell out of Atif’s traveling cloak. He ran his finger over the scrawled name of his father, Symon, etched in the ebony. A messenger had given this rosary to his mother a year after his father had left for the Holy Land. All he knew of his father was that he had given his allegiance to the Order of Knights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem.

  Volmar had been barely three when his father left. Try as he may, he could not remember the man’s face. Even his own mother’s beloved face was blurred from time’s inevitable passage. The thin straw pallet and single burlap blanket provided little comfort or warmth. Volmar reached for the overweight tabby sleeping at his feet and stroked Samson’s soft gray fur. He thought back to the blind woman’s revelations and remembered how Hildegard had happily declared him her scribe during the storm in the cave. It was like an eerie conspiracy. Everyone seemed to know of his future but him.

  Samson stretched and yawned, knowing full well it was too early to awaken for prayers. He turned over while purring contentedly, his grey belly exposed and his paws extended straight up in the air. “I know, Samson, I know, but I can’t seem to fall asleep,” Volmar explained. He leaned forward and aimlessly scratched under Samson’s chin. “In a way,” Volmar mused, yawning, “those moles you love to hunt travel through a realm of silence and darkness, trusting their paths only to what they hear. Should we not act likewise? Should we not simply let go, listen, and trust God to direct our paths?” Volmar yawned again and curled up next to Samson, the rest of his words dying in his throat as a restless sleep finally overtook the troubled monk.

  CHAPTER 3: NUMBING TOUCH OF COLD

  Courtyard and Common Room of Anchorage

  2nd of November, Saturday, the Year of Our Lord 1112, Before Matins

  Jutta collapsed; her naked body had finally given in to the numbing touch of the cold air. The courtyard of the Anchorage had but one tree, and there she lay, crumpled like a leaf in a stupor of painless sleep. The moon still hung overhead, lending its ghostly light to the small courtyard, a time closer to midnight than morning.

  Hildegard heard the noise and awoke in their sleeping chamber. Instinctively she rolled over and saw to her dismay that Jutta was no longer in her bed. This was worrisome, for Hildegard knew quite well what had likely happened. Rising quickly, Hildegard wrapped several blankets around her and went to investigate.

  When she finally found Jutta at the base of the tree, the Anchoress was lying face down on the stone pavement, unable to be awoken. Hildegard sighed and wasted no time in wrapping the unconscious woman in several layers of blankets before going back in to enlist Hiltrud’s help in moving her in from the cold.

  Hildegard leaned over Hiltrud, whose eyes were still puffy and swollen even in sleep. She hated having to stir the young girl from her peaceful slumber.

  “Hiltrud, wake up. I need your help.”

  ‘What’s wrong?” Hiltrud sputtered, moistening her dry lips.

  “Could you please start the fire and boil some water? It will be a long night, I’m afraid. Sister Jutta has wandered into the cold of the courtyard and has stayed out all night meditating in this dreadful weather.”

  Once the fire was burning brightly, the two young women carefully carried Jutta in and laid her in front of its warmth, her body cocooned in multiple blankets.

  “It’s below freezing out there. Why would she do such a foolish thing?” Hiltrud asked, fumbling for the nearest jug in the fire’s light, still bleary-eyed and half asleep.

  Hildegard shrugged. “It is her way of coming humbly before our Lord and Savior.” She unlocked the leg iron and began to slowly clean the widening lesion with a soft pad of linen before adding more honey and applying a new dressing.

  “If she keeps this up, she’ll be standing in front of the Holy Throne before her time,” Hiltrud said resentfully as she set a jug of water on the grate above the flames.

  Hildegard inclined her head, cognizant of the folk wisdom of Hiltrud’s simple ways. Rolling the bandage over the wound and finishing it off neatly, Hildegard then felt Jutta’s forehead and the back of her neck. Her temperature was dangerously high even in the cold. Her condition was becoming worse. Hildegard knew if she didn’t get some proper herbs to bring down her temperature soon, Jutta would not make it through the night.

  BOOK 5: ON THE DEFENSIVE

  CHAPTER 1: A FORMIDABLE DANCE

  Clearing Behind Guest Quarters, Disibodenberg Monastery 2nd of November, Saturday, the Year of Our Lord 1112, Mid-Morning

  Sunlight caught the blades as they twirled and sang in the air. Two men sparred without the protection of heavy armor in a small clearing behind the Hospice. Effortlessly they moved from one dangerous moment to another without fear or concern, their sparring looking so ingrained and natural that it seemed a
lmost reflexive in nature. The sharp stinging noise they made was so regular and timed in such a way that it was obvious the two knew of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Back and forth they parried and returned strikes, acting like young wolves at play. It was a formidable dance that Volmar had witnessed only a few times at the monastery, and each opportunity fed in him a desire to learn to move with such grace, purpose, and agility.

  To establish such a bond would have taken years to master, Volmar reasoned, as he sat down on the stone wall to watch. He studied the strangers’ fighting movements, delighted by this unexpected diversion. He deserved a rest, having been back and forth three times since Terce delivering messages from the Abbot to Brother Andres concerning the winter’s food supply for the poor. The younger of the two men suddenly took a scrape on his sleeve. Blood darkened the ripped shirt. Raising his free arm in a signal to stop the fight, he peered closely at the wound. The older of the two men started shuffling his feet, his sword down to the left side of his body. He moved from side to side, circling his opponent as if he were his prey.

  “Tired, my friend?” the older man asked. His breathing was barely apparent as he kept his feet and wits agile in case it was a ruse. He had broad square shoulders and a slightly dappled gray beard. He would have been considered a handsome man had his expression not seemed so sinister and somehow familiar. Volmar couldn’t place him in his memory.

  “No, it is but a scratch,” the younger man said with a grin, a thick Italian accent coating his words. Without any further delay, the Italian brought his sword well above the level of his head and swung down at the older man with considerable force, and the two were at it again. They each continued to parry every strike comfortably away from their bodies, allowing for the easy movements of their blades. Finally, the older man rotated his arm at the elbow to the left and brought his entire arm, sword in hand, pointed straight out onto his opponent’s shoulder, making abrupt contact with the other’s sword. At the other’s quick block the older man’s sword was knocked out of its line of attack and away from his opponent’s torso.