The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  “Ah ha, old man, thought you had me there,” the Italian gleamed.

  Both men, clearly spent, collapsed to the ground. “You’re getting stronger, my friend,” the older man admitted, breathing hard. “It won’t be long before such play will become dangerous for me.”

  The older man turned to Volmar, who had quietly witnessed this unusual admission. “Be careful who you choose as your friend, brother, for there are those who cannot draw a line between an adversary and a friend in competition.” He stood and extended his hand to his opponent and helped him to his feet.

  “So tell me, my young brother, have you ever even held a sword? Or has a stylus been your only weapon?” the older of the two men said with a chuckle as he approached Volmar, handing to him the sword of his younger opponent. He appeared eager to amuse himself further.

  “Words can be as powerful as a sword, if not more so, in my opinion,” Volmar said evenly, taking the younger man’s sword in his hand. The young monk swung it in the air a few times, finding its heft, balance, and its maneuverability more satisfying than the wooden ones he’d been accustomed to when play fighting as a boy with visiting squires and knights. He took a stance that indicated he had more than simple book knowledge of how to spar and readied himself.

  “Be careful, my young brother, you do not want to parry with this man,” the Italian man warned. He had a young face that had seen too much sun, with a light crinkling of skin around his dark, intense eyes. “He is the one who knows no friend in competition. See?” the Italian slipped off his leather glove, revealing that he was missing both his forefinger and half of his middle finger on his right hand. The Italian man bowed graciously to his opponent and left the clearing, whispering as he passed Volmar. “So be it, it is your funeral.”

  “Ha, you answer me with arrogance and nerve! Formidable qualities for a spineless holy brother,” the older man said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me, what is your name, boy?”

  “It is Volmar, Volmar of Bermersheim.”

  At this the older man faltered, briefly betraying a look of agonizing insecurity. However, he recovered briskly. His cajoling demeanor returned, though it had a distinctive, more lethal edge to it. “Son of Katherina of Bermersheim?”

  “Yes. Did you know her?”

  The old man raised an eyebrow. “No one in this region, save those without eyes in their head, would claim not to have known her. She was a beauty and a viper.”

  “How dare you speak of my mother in such a manner!” With that, Volmar sprang forward, catching his opponent by surprise and leveling a loud crack that could be heard from the Infirmary as the older man’s sword met his. The commotion caused a few guests to step outside and congregate around the stone wall to view the sword play firsthand. The swords clanged even louder as the two matched each other’s swings, Volmar clearly on the defensive. The old man laughed as he playfully deflected Volmar’s best efforts. The crowd that had started to gather began to cheer for the obvious winner, encouraging him to put the inexperienced boy in his place.

  “There is more to sword fighting than mere desire to win, my boy,” the old man said, his smirk still in place as he acknowledged the youth’s enthusiastic, yet feeble attempts. “Keep moving. Do not stand still or you will become an easy prey.” He dipped forward, the tip of his sword barely missing Volmar’s neck, as if to emphasize this very point.

  Some who had gathered in the crowd started chanting for blood.

  “So, you are Katherina’s son, eh? Well, well . . .” the older man said over the uproar. His eyes clouded over and, in their gaze, Volmar saw something he’d never seen before: a desire to kill, and to kill without mercy.

  “Volmar!” Brother Paulus shouted. His voice was thick with anger as he hurried into the clearing, “Both of you; stop this nonsense at once!” Paulus crossed his arms in the sleeves of his habit, clearly incensed by this brutal play, and stood immovable between the two. “I’d rather not have to stitch up another injury; one is quite enough!”

  Volmar let his sword drop forward and fall awkwardly to the ground. He was truly spent. He bent over, hands on his knees and heaved a deep sigh of relief, grateful to be able to breathe after realizing he’d been holding his breath through most of the battle. He stared at the ground, imagining himself lying prostrate in the clearing, impaled by this stranger’s sword. His impetuous nature had almost ended his life.

  Sophie had followed Brother Paulus from the infirmary and now stood beside Volmar, glaring up at the older man with an expression of deep hatred and disgust. “He’s the man who stole my bread last year,” she whispered to Volmar between clenched teeth. “You should never have acted so foolishly as to parry with such a beast.”

  The older man chuckled as he left the clearing. “The little wench is right, son. Keep to your words; for you will surely die by the sword.” He paused suddenly, locking eyes with Atif, who, in the midst of the gathering crowd, stood silent in front of him.

  “Well, well,” the older man chuckled, “it is barely noon and the day is already full of many surprises. Tell me, Atif, are you still the water boy for kings?”

  “No. But I can see you still haven’t lost your delightful sense of humor.”

  “How can I,” he queried in jest, “when life can be so deliciously ironic?” The older man laughed heartily as he pushed Atif aside and made his way towards the Infirmary.

  Brother Paulus stooped over Volmar. He took the boy’s shoulder and asked more gently, “Are you all right, son?”

  Volmar hung his head in shame. “Nothing a good dose of common sense couldn’t amend . . . I am sorry, Brother Paulus. Sophie’s right, I feel so foolish.”

  “Good,” Paulus said, his gruff attitude returning, “and very well you should. You were way out of your league. Those two men are professional warriors; they have seen and caused more death and destruction than you could possibly imagine. Now be off with you before you get another mite-brain idea.”

  Paulus glared at the few onlookers remaining. His white mane of long hair and his flowing beard made him appear in the sunlight like a fierce territorial lion protecting his pride. His voiced roared. “And all of you should be ashamed of yourselves as well, cheering on such preposterous fighting! Surely such savagery will put an end to us all.” As the crowd meekly dissipated, Paulus marched past Atif back to his Infirmary. Sophie followed, scowling first at Volmar and then at every face daring to meet her gaze.

  CHAPTER 2: SMOLDERING PRIDE

  Clearing Behind Guest Quarters, Disibodenberg Monastery 2nd of November, Saturday, Mid-Morning

  Volmar closed his eyes and prayed in earnest as the crowd dispersed. Soon, everyone had left, with the exception of Atif. “You forgot the most important thing, my young friend,” Atif said as he picked up the sword, his voice heavy with an Arabic accent. “Rhythm. All things in nature move in harmony. By working with the rhythm of a situation you can turn it to your advantage with little effort.”

  “Rhythm?” Volmar said, searching Atif’s dark, impenetrable eyes.

  “That, and you must learn to parry.”

  “I thought that’s what I was doing,” Volmar said, letting out a deep sigh as he sat down gingerly on the wall.

  “Yes, but with little consistency. You must practice a rhythmic attack like step-parry-thrust-parry. Furthermore, it is a good idea to parry after lunging, since your enemy is likely to counter your attack with one of his own.”

  “Are you, sir, willing to show me what you mean by this?” Volmar decided what discomfort he felt was less important than salvaging his smoldering pride.

  “Only if we use wooden sticks,” Atif grinned, offering Volmar a hand.

  Rummaging through the wood pile behind the kitchens, the two found a couple of sturdy sticks and sought privacy in a small clearing behind the bread ovens.

  “Were you once a water boy for a king?” Volmar asked, taking his position on the other side of the rocky clearing. “I couldn’t help but overhear the gen
tleman’s pronouncement.”

  “First of all, that man is no gentleman.” Atif spat onto the ground with disdain. “I had the misfortune of knowing him in Jerusalem a long time ago, after the invasion.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair, trying to untangle the past with more clarity.

  As the sun went behind several gathering clouds, the air suddenly became chilly. “You perceive the war with the infidels as an invasion?” Volmar asked, surprise in his voice.

  Atif sighed deeply. “History will not be kind to such brutal occupiers. It did not matter that my family was Christian or a part of the Arab aristocracy, our lives and properties in Samaria were seized nevertheless. I became a slave, the property of the court and of the European kings Godfrey of Bouillon and his merciless brother Baldwin.”

  “I did not know. What needless tragedy.” Volmar was bothered by how insincere and shallow his own words sounded. “War never leads to peace, only more wars.”

  “I was fortunate though. An old monk took pity on me and brought me to Rome.” Atif patted the small bulk of what Volmar knew to be the codex given to him the night before by a messenger. “Now I will be able to return to the ruins of my homeland and start over.”

  Volmar recalled Atif’s rosary. “What do you know of the Knights Hospitaller?”

  “You are a curious lad,” Atif said, eyeing the boy suspiciously. “What makes you ask me such a question? I am a mere Aramaic scholar.”

  Volmar said quietly, “Sir, I do not believe you are who you say you are.”

  Atif paused, balancing his answer and his voice carefully to a neutral tone before answering. “And what, pray tell, do you base this on?”

  “Few scholars ever touch a sword, and when they do, they are like me, pitiful warriors.”

  “Is that all?” Amusement danced in Atif’s eyes as he paced back and forth in front of Volmar.

  “All right then,” Volmar said, “a test. Was Paul’s letter to Rome, what we know as the Book of Romans, written in Aramaic before it was translated into Greek?”

  Atif shook his head. “I do not know,” he answered, seemingly unperturbed at having been caught posing as someone he was not. “My turn. Tell me, my young interrogator—such accusations do not explain why you think I am of the Knights Hospitaller?”

  “A rosary fell from your pocket last night when I was hanging up your cloak. I couldn’t help but notice the distinctive eight-pointed star of the secret brotherhood.”

  “Ah, of course. The rosary was a gift from the monk who brought me to Rome. I owe him a great debt. He was kind to me when no one else cared.” He paused and changed the subject abruptly. “Now, my friend, you must learn to parry with your sword just as well as you wield your words. Your back is not straight.” He went and physically straightened Volmar’s posture. “When you lean forward, you are compressing your backbone. Here and here,” he said, patting the space below Volmar’s neck and the small of his back. “It weakens each swing you make.”

  Volmar lowered his stick and laughed bitterly. “Maybe the old man was right. I should keep to my letters.”

  “Trust me. That old man speaks only in half-truths and lies,” Atif said curtly before swinging his stick and knocking it against Volmar’s. “Come now, don’t give up. Sword fighting takes practice and patience. Do not take this the wrong way, Volmar, but,” Atif smiled, his teeth remarkably white, “you seem to have little of both.”

  CHAPTER 3: POOR SOULS

  Behind the Bread Ovens of the Kitchen Gardens, Disibodenberg Monastery

  Sunday, 3rd of November, the Next Morning

  Bloodied rags were thrown onto the refuse heap. Volmar watched mesmerized as the flames eagerly consumed the bandages, helplessly spitting and sputtering in protest.

  “Those all came from the Anchorage?” he asked in disbelief, as Brother Johannes, a heavy-set man with a disfiguring harelip, hastened the rags’ demise with his poker.

  “Yep, it seems our new Anchoress wears one of those nasty leg irons that bite into yore flesh and causes yore wound to always fester and burn. Not exactly what I’d do ta get closer ta our Lord, if I do say so myself.”

  “I’m of the same mind . . . and what about the other two young women? Do they have ascetic habits, too?”

  “Not that I can tell, little brother. They don’t seem to be starving themselves . . . at least not that servant girl, Hiltrud. She has a figure, that one, if you know what I mean.” He grinned rather sheepishly. Volmar wasn’t sure if he was blushing or if the warmth from the fire was turning his face red.

  “What about the other one?” Volmar pressed on, more concerned over what Brother Johannes thought of Hildegard than Hiltrud’s curves.

  “That Hildegard girl seems to be the most sensible of the three. Yesterday mornin’ right away, she requested some seeds to grow a few herbs and vegetables in their own garden. She told me ’erself that she’s developing some sort of a calendar ta let ’er know when ta harvest certain herbs. In all, I’ve spoken with her twice and on both occasions she’d request practical items like blankets and linen strips and candles, and, strangely enough, a psaltery,73 so she can sing Mass with us, she said.”

  “A psaltery . . .” Volmar repeated, bemused, remembering her lilting voice in the clearing a year ago.

  “A second-hand one would do nicely, she said. She made it clear that she appreciated old things and could fix the psaltery if it was broken. She also was a wondering if she could have a wax writing tablet and stylus to write down the words of the Holy Scripture.” Johannes grinned. “Imagine that, little brother, a girl knows more letters than I!”

  “Sounds to me like you have found a new friend,” Volmar said.

  “Maybe she’s attracted to old deformed men, who knows?” Brother Johannes chuckled. He wiped his sweaty brow, and threw the last shovelful of garbage onto the fire before remarking more seriously. “No woman ever looked at me with longing, I can tell you that, little brother. But, no matter, she’s a smart one.”

  “And with good taste,” Volmar added, holding the handles of the wheelbarrow as Brother Johannes scraped clean the insides with a rag before tossing it into the fire. “I suppose, if I had to live in an enclosure, I would want to use the time to learn all I could, too. Only an active mind can avoid the trap of boredom.”

  “That and active hands, Brother Volmar. They’ll need to find suitable work for those three. Otherwise, they’ll all slip into madness, and Lucifer will find three open doors, mark my words. I myself need a reason to rise up each day; otherwise, I’ll fall victim to the hordes of airy spirits looking for weaknesses such as pride and arrogance. If you ask me, we were put on this earth to do good works however humble and however mundane in His name, not our own.”

  Johannes took the poker back in his hand and started turning over the rubbish, letting the air whip up the flames, sending sparks of light into the foggy grey morning air. “You would be surprised by the number of our own who are not abiding by the Rule, trying to seek their personal fortunes here on earth.”

  “How could there be such greed among us?” Volmar said gravely, shielding his face as the pile of burning garbage threw off more heat.

  “Well, it’s not my place to spread rumor, but let’s just say that I’ve witnessed a certain brother who takes to disguising himself and spending an unholy amount of time down in the village. Never gotten a good look at his face, mind ye, but I know it was one of us anyways.”

  “Do you know what he does in the village?”

  Johannes paused and scratched his chin. “All I know is that he comes back in the dead of night.”

  Volmar thought of the clearing and Brother Arnoul’s unfortunate death after accusing a fellow brother of sneaking out at night. “Brother Johannes, you grew up in the monastery, right?”

  “I certainly did, for nigh over half a century! I was a foundling, and was dropped off in a basket at the Porter’s74 hut. Poor soul, this face of mine must’ve scared me own mother.”

  “Perh
aps you remember a holy brother by the name of Judas who lived here at the monastery over eleven years ago.”

  “Judas,” Johannes repeated with a frown. “I don’t recall someone by that name. Me distant memory has never been clear. There were many novices who came and went, finding our strict observances of the Offices difficult to bear. They also didn’t want to work none, spoiled they were since most of them were the second sons of aristocratic families or such like that . . . used to servants doing everything for them, even dressing them.”

  From the far end of the burning garbage heap a small voice called out, “Brother Johannes . . .”

  Johannes listened for the familiar rustle in the bushes nearby. “I hear ye. Hold on, boys, I’ve a few scraps saved for yore family.” Johannes motioned for Volmar to keep quiet. Reaching around, he retrieved a heavy burlap bag, lifted it to his strong shoulders with ease, and flung it into the woods.

  “God bless thee,” the same small mysterious voice answered.

  “God bless ye both,” Johannes added, wiping his coarse hands together. The brothers watched in silence as two young boys, dressed in what appeared to be oversized cassocks, scurried off like field mice through a small gap in the wall, disappearing with the bag of food scraps.

  “Those two were as thin as broomsticks last spring. Poor little ’uns, caught them drinking from the streams. Didn’t know better, it could kill you I says to them, so I sneak a few bottles of ale into a sack, with blankets and anything else that’s thrown away around here.”

  “To them, our garbage is a feast of plenty,” Volmar muttered, moved by what he’d witnessed.

  “Well, they haven’t any money, and as far as I can tell, there’re about five or six of them. Their mum and dad both died of the fever last winter. Those two are the eldest and are good scavengers, they are.” Brother Johannes wiped his forehead, the sweat soaking his hair and the neckline of his habit. “Wish I could do more to help them,” he said, returning to his work.