The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  Sophie, clearly shaken by the ordeal, reached for several rags and started wiping up the mess the woman had made with the porridge all over the floor. Volmar bent down to help her retrieve all the broken shards and listened sympathetically as she filled him in on the strange woman’s condition. “She came to us last night. Her neighbors brought her in, saying that she’d lost her entire family to a fever, four of her babies and her husband. She herself, though, seemed healthy enough, except when Brother Paulus examined her. On the side of her right arm, there’s an unusual growth that ended up being a home of sorts for worms.”

  “Worms?” Volmar repeated, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  Sophie continued, “Yes. However, she is quite fond of these worms. She treats them as her children and she refuses to let Brother Paulus clean out the wound. She has given the worms names and she talks to them as if they were her own brood.”

  “She lives in the shadow of the Devil.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sophie added, mopping up the last of the sticky porridge.

  Paulus approached Sophie and Volmar, shaking his head. “It is a perilous condition. If her madness is not arrested soon, she will surely become divorced from our reality for the rest of her life . . . poor soul.”

  “How did this happen, Brother Paulus? I mean, worms to my knowledge only feast on dead flesh.”

  “The wound is self-inflicted, my boy. I’ve seen this sort of transference before, but never to this degree.” Brother Paulus selected one of his bound reference books and handed it over to Volmar. “I’d like you to record this case for me and accompany me to her side.”

  “Maybe, Brother Paulus, we can convince her that the worms need a new home, in this empty flask.” Volmar picked up one of the few empty flasks from the shelf.

  “Yes, it is worth a try. Go along with me when we approach her. Perhaps, this will save her arm. Otherwise, I will have to amputate her arm in order to save her life from the infection which is spreading.”

  Brother Paulus approached the young woman, bowing slightly. “Milady, I have one of the greatest scribes in this region with me. His writing is flawless and authoritative for he is the Abbot’s own personal assistant. Would you allow me to extract your family from your arm, if he recorded each of their names? We will give your children this fine new home, where they will have more room to mature.” Brother Paulus gave her the jar to assess.

  “Oh no, they are not ready to be weaned. It is too soon,” she protested, giving the glass flask back to him.

  Sophie went to the other side of her cot and spoke gently. “You really should listen to these two men. They are very learned, Isabella, and want to help.”

  Volmar met both Paulus and Sophie’s questioning eyes and decided it was his turn to try. “Greetings, milady, my name’s Brother Volmar. I have vowed to be a faithful chronicler. I am taking a census of all who are in our Infirmary this day. What is your name and date of birth?”

  The young woman stopped humming and smiled up at him. “My name is Isabella of Staudernheim. I was born the 13th of April in the year of our Lord 1088.”

  Quietly, Volmar wrote her name and the date of her birth into his book and then went on, “Isabella of Staudernheim, I understand that you have a large family. Help me with their names, please?”

  “Is that the church registry?” she asked, suspiciously eyeing the big book he held open and expectantly in his hands.

  “It is where we write what needs to be remembered,” Volmar replied.

  “The names of my children, if written down in that book, could still be read even when their little bodies have turned to dust?”

  “Yes. Written records such as this outlive all of us. They are more truthful than memories.”

  “Can angels read?”

  Her question was spoken so softly that Volmar had to drop to his knees beside her to hear. “Yes, Isabella, angels have powers that far surpass our own. I’m sure they already know that you’ve cared deeply for your children and will not be careless with their young souls.”

  “Very well. Write their names down as I say them.”

  One by one Isabella lifted out a worm from the wound in her arm and announced its name and date of birth. Dutifully Brother Paulus took the worm from her and put it in the glass flask Sophie held, while Volmar recorded the information.

  “Their precious souls are not lost, are they?” Isabella asked suddenly.

  “God is a loving Father. He doesn’t condemn those too young to know him.”

  Isabella then abruptly untied the red ribbon from her own hair, ran her fingers through Sophie’s long straight blond hair as if she were combing it, then tied it into a lovely small bow at the nape of the young girl’s neck. Sophie touched the bow lightly, unsure how to react. She had never had any feminine adornments in her hair before, and clearly felt touched by this mad woman’s gesture.

  “There,” Isabella said with an air of satisfaction, “You look beautiful, child.” Her face suddenly softened and the need for sleep overwhelmed her. “Take good care of them, will you?” she murmured, curling up awkwardly at the head of the cot. “I will rest now.”

  Paulus quietly proceeded to clean and bandage her arm. Volmar left with Sophie and the jar. They returned as Paulus was draping a blanket over her. Inside the flask, Volmar and Sophie had added food for the worms, sprigs of moss and dead leaves. He placed the flask on the small table beside the sleeping woman.

  “Thank you, son, and you as well, Sophie,” Brother Paulus said, nodding towards the girl. “Your simple reassurances gave her the ability to let go. Memory is a gift from God; however, sometimes the ability to forget is also a blessing.”

  CHAPTER 6: UNSUSPECTING TRAVELER

  Countryside Beyond Disibodenberg Monastery

  Sunday, 3rd of November, Late Afternoon

  Sometime during that first day of riding, Atif broke his silence and began confessing his sins to his horse. “Reginald, and for that matter, his father Adalbert, had trusted me and yet I rewarded their trust by coldly betraying them to the Emperor. Tell me this, friend: Is my freedom worth more to me than the freedom of others?” The horse listened with the patience of a true friend and wisely kept its own counsel.

  Atif drew in a deep satisfying breath. The air smelled like snow. He pulled on the reins, as they came to the edge of the cliff. He patted the side of his horse’s face as he pulled out a map and turned to face south, trying to get his bearings. “I know you are tired, boy. It will be slow going down this hill. In nigh under an hour, it’ll be as black as the inside of an iron pot. We won’t make it to Altenbamberg. We may as well make camp at the base of this hill beside the river.”

  Slowly Atif guided his horse down the rocky hillside. When he came to a rise, he suddenly met up with a riderless horse. The horse was oversized, clearly a warhorse. It was fully saddled; its reins hung limp about his neck. As Atif approached cautiously, the jet black horse reared its head and neighed, clawing the air with its hoofs. Atif couldn’t help but wonder if this was a trap. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end in anticipation. He’d heard of elaborate snares gypsies would use to rob an unsuspecting traveler. Instinctively, he felt for his scimitar77 tied securely to his belt. In battle he could take a man’s arm off with one swing of its blade; however, out here, all alone and at dusk, it seemed little protection against an ugly ambush. Atif proceeded with caution, peering both upwards into the trees and downwards into the quiet underbrush, looking for signs of someone hiding. In the distance he could hear the wailing of wild dogs, vicious creatures that when driven by hunger could attack and kill a man with their razor-sharp teeth.

  Not more than ten paces ahead, he saw a man lying face down next to a stream. The stranger was dressed in gentlemen’s clothing and was not moving.

  Atif steered his horse alongside the man and withdrew his scimitar. He waved it into the air and bellowed, “Come out, you scurrilous thieves! Fight as men!” With cold regard he listened, surprised to see no mo
vement in the deepening shadows of the surrounding woods. The fallen man rose up on his elbows and flipped himself over. He gulped for air along with hope as he looked up into Atif’s face. “Atif, is that you?”

  “Matthias,” Atif said in disbelief. Returning his scimitar to its sheath, he dismounted and knelt beside the old man. “After all these years we meet again, my friend.”

  CHAPTER 7: DARK RECESSES OF HIS MIND

  Library at Disibodenberg Monastery

  Sunday, 3rd of November, After Compline

  Cormac held onto the iron banister as he climbed the steps slowly up to his library. With his other hand he tightened his grip on the rag he held up to his nose. It was drenched in blood. He pinched it with growing impatience, breathing heavily through his mouth. “Growing old has so many indignities,” he muttered, remembering the humiliation he now felt, being relegated to the retrochoir78 loft for the sick and infirmed. However, he reminded himself, this arrangement did allow him the privilege of leaving the prayer service earlier than usual to retire for the night. So, as with many things in life, it was a mixed blessing.

  At the top of the landing the elder monk was astonished to find a suspicious glow coming from around the door into his library. Few rules at the monastery were as strict as the ones he observed in his library. He, alone, decided who saw what, when, and where. Access was strictly regulated and controlled. He entered and instinctively armed himself for battle by reaching for his infamous cane formed from a contorted filbert tree branch. For more than a decade, his cane had served him well, striking painfully the careless knuckles of those who dared to touch a manuscript without wearing the proper gloves or face mask. Worldly concerns of theft and vandalism were certainly a real threat. There were travelers who would take advantage if they could of monastic hospitality. For this very reason Cormac was grateful that all of his manuscripts were chained to their small cubicles. Whoever this foolish intruder might be, Cormac assured himself, it would take the strength of a leviathan to unclasp the rod and locks which held the library’s treasured books firmly clasped to their shelves. To his chagrin, Cormac realized the light was not coming from the common reading or circulation section. The glow was coming from the restricted reference collection in the rear of his library. These works were more fragile and considerably more valuable; they were devoted entirely to first-century church history.

  Cormac moved soundlessly with practiced stealth, no longer worried about his bleeding nose. He passed the arched closets cut into the stone walls that stored small statues and miscellaneous treasures, and crisscrossed around the labyrinth of reading desks. When at last he turned the corner to face the intruder, he breathed a long drawn-out sigh. The culprit had disappeared!

  Cormac studied the scene with annoyance. The invasion was certainly not imagined, for the wooden seat he felt was still warm, and beeswax from a burning candle had left its telltale droppings. He noted with alarm that these wax drippings ran across the stone floor leading indisputably to a secret passageway formed within the thickness of the walls, hidden behind the bookcase. It was an obscure escape route, one that a stranger to the monastery would not know. Few brothers even knew of its existence. It was a throwback to earlier times when the monastery was newly built, when there was a necessity to flee in times of war, disease, or rebellion. Cormac bent over the open book. Its title in Latin disclosed its obscure subject: Ancient Holy Relics. Blood dripped from his nose onto a small torn parchment lying beside the book. On it, words were scrawled out, in a hurried but recognizable hand—the same distinctive writing style he’d recognized over a year ago with young Volmar. He read and re-read their meaning: Those in possession of this ancient blood relic, the Spear of Longinus, are invincible against all human frailties . . . the ‘Spear of Christ’ or ‘Spear of Destiny’ is believed to have acquired tremendous mystical power. He read the notes further and shuddered. Whoever claims the Spear ‘holds the destiny of the world in his hands for good or evil.’ It took but a moment before the full implication of these written words illuminated the dark recesses of his mind: Judas had returned!

  CHAPTER 8: PROMISE OF A REMARKABLE MIND

  Common Room and Sleeping Quarters of the Anchorage at

  Disibodenberg Monastery Sunday,

  3rd of November, Late Afternoon

  Hildegard slowly reread the letter she had found folded and sealed on the food tray with their supper. The words were beautifully scripted and written in High German, not Latin; probably, she reasoned, because the person may have doubted her ability to read Latin.

  Sister Hildegard, It has been over a year since our last face-to-face encounter in the woods. I beseech you to pardon my boldness and not to disdain but to accept this message: another friend in Christ recommended me to you, saying that I may be of service as your humble teacher; for you have an able mind and would benefit from a higher level of education. I am willing to do what pleases you and, if by God’s Grace, to help serve Him better in doing so.

  Respectfully yours, Brother Volmar

  And then in Hildegard’s own secretive language Volmar had written an addendum, on a small folded piece of parchment:

  We have much to discuss concerning our mutual friend Brother Arnoul. The book in question is still missing after all these years and I am no closer to unraveling the true identity of our deceptive Judas. Last year I questioned Brother Cormac the Librarian and Abbot Burchard. Both suspected that Judas left Disibodenberg for Rome. However, circumstances may have changed. After all, ten years is a long time. Brother Cormac came to me just tonight to confirm my growing suspicion that Judas has returned. Sophie, the girl you met at the festival last year, saw a disagreeable man leave Saint Peter’s Altar, the very same night we found the tunnel. He asked who had used up his lamp’s oil . . . so, as you can see, there is much to discuss on this matter. By the way, Sophie in her own words is ‘eternally grateful’ for the wardrobe you gave her.

  Hildegard held this smaller note to her breast and sighed. It was a rare moment that quietly illuminated everything. It surprised her how gratifying it was that she and this young monk shared a way to communicate with one another outside of the church’s rigid conventions of decorum. In this way she would stay connected to the world outside. Quietly she took the small parchment and, while the other two women were occupied over a dropped stitch, she burned it in the open flames of their hearth. “This is only the beginning of the answer,” she whispered, watching the parchment curl, before burning to ashes.

  In her hand remained permission to continue her studies. She could feel the excitement well up within her. From childhood on she had studied grammar and the other liberal arts, and hoped by perseverance to attain a perfect knowledge of religion, for she was well aware that the gifts of nature are doubled by study. She’d read eagerly the books of the Old and New Testaments, and committed their divine precepts to memory; but she wanted to further add to the rich store of her knowledge by reading the writings of the holy Fathers, the canonical decrees, and the laws of the church. There was so much more she could learn, and she knew enough to understand how little she really knew.

  Hildegard took Volmar’s letter and approached Jutta, who was patiently showing Hiltrud how to mend an unsightly tear in one of the monks’ undergarments. Hiltrud had a willing spirit but not much delicacy of touch; so mending was all she could manage. Embroidery tasks were set aside for Jutta to do, for she was far more accomplished with the needle. Hildegard regarded several large baskets full of mending neglected for years. Clearly, Hiltrud’s days were laid out before her, spent in the honorable tradition of the Benedictine rule of work and prayer . . . but what of her own days? Hildegard knew that she needed purposeful work as well. She considered idleness a poison to the soul. She waited until Jutta returned the needle back to Hiltrud. “Jutta, may I speak with you in private?”

  “Of course.” The two women left Hiltrud bent over and in complete concentration on her next stitch, and entered the sleeping quarters. Jutta’s req
uest for a kneeling bench and altar table had been promptly answered, and they knelt together and faced the standing crucifix placed on an altar cloth woven in gold thread by Jutta many years ago. Though it was their third day of enclosure, it was Jutta’s first day of being entirely conscious and moving around. Hildegard noticed how she winced in pain as she knelt, but did not complain or cry out.

  Jutta spoke first after they both said silent prayers. “You’ve received a message. Are you prepared to tell me of it?”

  “I am. As I told you, I did not know how it was to happen, I only foresaw his gentle face and knew him to be my teacher.”

  “Ah, Hildegard’s scribe, the young monk haunting your visions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember, your visions do not exist to tell you what to do, they are only there to guide. It is up to you to listen, and it is your actions that can take advantage of their wisdom. I have taught you all that I know and so did Uda, God rest her soul. She admonished me many times and made me promise to ensure that you continue your studies; for in you alone she saw the promise of a remarkable mind and feared the prospect that it would be wasted.”

  “And in you, Jutta, she often remarked to me how your sacrificial nature would attract many followers.”

  Both of them fell silent, lost in their memories. The sudden death of Jutta’s mother, Sophia, was tragic; but mentioning Uda’s death brought with it a flood of recollections not easy to look back on, for Uda had suffered greatly under the wasting disease of old age. Health was so fragile and so important. Hildegard wished that Jutta would not take hers so lightly, but she knew forcing her will onto Jutta would be a waste. Suddenly, Jutta went pale. Her eyes fell out of focus. Hildegard rose and supported her arm. “Do you need to lie down?”

  Jutta waved off her concern. “I’m fine.”

  Hildegard knew Jutta held with disgust anything having to do with “the flesh.” To Jutta, suffering from malnutrition, dehydration, and a collection of maladies brought on by the neglect and abuse of her own body only brought her closer to the Almighty. On the other hand, Hildegard saw her own body as a “temple of the Holy Spirit”; to Hildegard it should always be cared for out of respect. It was nearly impossible to explain or understand the mystery of these contradictions. Quietly, Hildegard handed Volmar’s message over to Jutta and regarded her as she read it through. Joy was never an emotion Jutta expressed openly. She’d even gone so far as to forbid laughter in her presence. To Jutta, life was to be lived soberly, and suffering was its only reward.