The Greenest Branch

by P K Adams

  “Does she?” I thought I saw a look of concern cross Brother Wigbert’s face and wanted to ask more, but Bertolf poked his head in and said that we were needed in the infirmary.

  * * *

  It was a tradition at St. Disibod that as winter approached, the infirmarian made large quantities of elderberry wine and rosehips tincture. The year 1117 was no different. As the northerly winds turned colder, patients with chills and coughs began to arrive. I wondered what the real reason for their visit was, for the wine was justifiably renowned throughout the countryside.

  As far as actual treatment, Brother Wigbert’s approach was the same in most cases. He would give each patient a cup of warm wine, then bathe their foreheads in rosewater to cleanse the skin of the bad vapors the body was expelling. For more stubborn cases, he made fennel drafts, which seemed to ease the discomforts better, but we only had a small quantity of the herb as most of the yield went to the kitchen.

  At Bermersheim, Uda had always kept a stock of horehound lozenges to soothe our throats, and I had made certain provisions that autumn. I had befriended the servant who brought meals to the infirmary and asked him to pick some horehound for me in the forest where it grew abundantly. When he did, I hung it up to dry in the tool shed behind the workshop. It was almost ready, and I was excited to make a batch of lozenges to surprise Brother Wigbert.

  But before that happened, I saw my first severe case of the seasonal ailment when a girl of about fourteen was brought to the infirmary, feverish and shaking with a violent cough. Brother Wigbert applied his standard cures, but the next morning her fever was higher and pulse more rapid. He boiled the remaining fennel and she drank the draft avidly, but to no avail—she remained flushed and restless, with glassy, bloodshot eyes.

  It was then that he decided to examine her urine. When I brought the requisite fluid in a special bell-shaped glass, he walked to the window and studied it at length, swirling and tilting the glass, and smelling the contents. “The scant amount indicates that bad humors are drying her body,” he explained as I hovered behind. “The color is too intensely yellow; normal urine is paler, similar to straw in hue.”

  “And you can tell from that what is wrong with Rumunda?” I asked, amazed. I had never thought of my own water as anything other than waste and a nuisance in the middle of a cold night.

  The monk nodded solemnly. “Urine is the repository of all manner of information about one’s health. Its analysis is the very basis of the art of medicine. This specimen, for example, shows no signs of blood or pus, and its odor is normal. But look.” He brought the flask closer to my face. “It is almost as if someone dissolved a dye in it.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means that she suffers from an excess of yellow bile, which is making her blood warm, causing the fever,” he opined. “I will bleed her to rid her of this overabundance.”

  He produced a sizable bowl with stains of previous procedures on it, and I recalled the words of Herrad, the wise woman who had treated me for my headaches at Bermersheim. My father had asked her about bloodletting, and she shook her head. “I have never seen people who languish from an illness improve after it,” she had said. “Many get even weaker.” Now I held the bowl under Rumunda’s elbow as Brother Wigbert expertly cut the vein, and a line of thick dark blood welled up, trickled down her forearm, and started dripping into the receptacle.

  “You have gone a little pale.” Wigbert said as he wiped the knife. “Never seen this much blood before, eh?”

  If only that were true. In fact, the sight reminded me of Sister Jutta flogging herself on the night I had fallen ill, and my anxiety returned. But I shook my head so as not to appear weak. “It’s nothing. I will be fine.”

  “The first time can make one queasy, but you will get used to it,” he said.

  Meanwhile, the patient sat with her eyes closed, and her chest heaved with labored breaths. When Brother Wigbert deemed that enough blood had been let, he bound her arm up tightly. Even before he finished, she was asleep. “It is normal too,” he said. “Bleeding causes drowsiness, but that is when the body sorts out the imbalance.”

  Herrad’s words came back to me again, and I frowned in puzzlement. Yet was Brother Wigbert not an educated man who had studied at Salerno and done this many times? Uncertain who to believe, I decided that the proof would be in the outcome.

  In the wake of the bloodletting, Rumunda’s fever had stopped rising, but she was weaker, so much so that even her cough turned into little more than a flutter in her neck. Brother Wigbert insisted that the cure needed time to settle in order to restore the balance of the humors as the amount of yellow bile subsided. He also forbade Rumunda from drinking more than strictly necessary so as not to jeopardize the balancing process. On the third day, he ordered an application of leeches, but when she woke up afterwards, her eyes shone with fever again. I gave her a cup of water when Wigbert was away, and her eyes became less cloudy and more focused.

  But she never recovered. She was bled one more time, but it was as if her viriditas had left her body with it, and she languished a few more days until she died on the morning of All Saints Day. She was poor and we laid her to rest in the abbey cemetery. Buried along with her was my confidence in bloodletting and leech cures.

  8

  November 1117

  On the feast of St. Martin’s, just a few days after Rumunda’s death, Brother Maurice succumbed to old age.

  “As you helped to nurse him, the abbot has invited you to the funeral,” Brother Wigbert told me the next morning before leaving to take his turn at the vigil.

  I had the workshop to myself. I was looking forward to going to the big church for the first time since my oblate blessing ceremony, but I also had a cold. The rosehips tincture had only gone so far, and now I was beginning to have a sore throat. I went to the shed and returned with two bunches of dried horehound and proceeded to crush the fuzz-covered leaves with a pestle. In a clay pot, I mixed honey with water and added the herbs as I heated the viscous mixture until it started to give off a mild aroma. After it had boiled and thickened, I used a wooden spoon to scoop up small amounts onto a plate to form round shapes. When they cooled and hardened, I peeled one lozenge off and tried it for taste. It was quite agreeable, but it reminded me of home, and my eyes filled with tears as the sticky sweetness melted in my mouth.

  By then it was midday, and I threw on my cloak as the resounding knell of the church bell broke the quiet of the abbey. Despite the solemn occasion, I ran down the gravel path before slowing to a more decorous pace when I reached the courtyard. In the back of the church there was a large group of lay people, for Brother Maurice had spent many decades at St. Disibod and was well loved in the area. But I was a member of the holy community and felt a surge of pride walking to the section reserved for oblates and novices.

  My heart was beating fast as I took a seat in the third pew behind the oblate boys. I folded my hands and tried to concentrate on the prayers, but I was seized by an irresistible urge to look around and take in the sights of a real Mass, with the incense, the candlelight, and the chants whose notes quavered sublimely as they echoed off the stone walls.

  As the proceedings went on, the oblates in the front pews began to fidget, nudging each other and whispering. I noticed that one of them, an antsy boy of about eleven, was particularly given to pranks, reaching over two or three of his neighbors to pull on the back of someone’s cowl. But they all bent their heads in unison and assumed postures of utter devotion whenever the sharp gaze of Brother Philipp, the novice master, fell on them.

  A few pairs of eyes swiveled in my direction from the chancel where the monks sat, mostly curious, except for Prior Helenger, whose disapproving look sent a chill down my spine with its almost physical coldness. My excitement vanished and my mind filled with doubt. What was I doing here? Among all these men and boys, I must be breaking who knows how many rules.
But then I caught the gaze of Brother Wigbert, and he gave me a slight nod to signify that everything was fine.

  After that, I kept my eyes judiciously fastened on Brother Maurice’s shrouded body, lying on a bier at the foot of the altar with two large tapers burning on both sides. The service was just coming to an end when sounds of a commotion floated from the outside and grew louder as someone called for help. Disconcerted, Abbot Kuno gave a signal to pause and sent a couple of junior monks to investigate. They came back reporting that there had been an accident.

  Brother Wigbert rushed outside, and I followed him. There, we found that one of the men working on the chapter house roof had fallen from the scaffolding as he rushed to finish the work before the first frost. He was sprawled on the ground, groaning as he clutched his legs. That he could move was already a good sign, I knew. His fellows explained that he had been on his way down and fell less than twenty feet. Brother Wigbert examined him and found that both of his legs were broken, and the workers improvised a stretcher from two planks to carry him to the infirmary.

  By then, most of the mourners had come out of the church. As the monks looked on with quiet solemnity, the oblate boys resumed their horseplay, glad for a distraction from the tedious service. A few of them cast shy glances at me—they were not used to seeing girls around the abbey—but the one I had noticed before considered me with frank curiosity, then gave me a wide grin, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. I was a little abashed, though I had to admire the cheekiness of the youngster who stood at least a head shorter than me. No boy had ever smiled at me before except my brothers, and they did not count.

  The funeral resumed with the procession heading for the cemetery while Wigbert and I returned to the infirmary. The bone setting must have been terribly painful, for the patient groaned and cried out and had to be held down by two men. But as the infirmarian wrapped his legs tightly with bandages, I knew that he would be fine. I had seen Brother Wigbert’s surgical skills many times on broken ribs, legs, or arms. Few who came in with such injuries were ever left lame. My teacher may have been a reluctant herbalist, but he was a first-rate surgeon.

  We returned to the workshop, and Wigbert poured wine for us while I added logs to the stove. Then he noticed the lozenges and stood over them with a puzzled expression. “What is that?”

  I had forgotten all about them. “I—I made some horehound pills . . . for the throat.”

  “Is it one of those things you learned from your wise woman?” His brows furrowed.

  “From my nurse, who learned it from a wise woman.” I faltered. “I am sorry, Brother, I should have asked you, but—” I cast around for an excuse “—they work for me!”

  Brother Wigbert still looked skeptical, but his face relaxed a little.

  “Maybe we should try them on a few patients, and if they do not work, we throw them away?” I suggested.

  He grunted. “We will see.” He moved the tray aside. “But now we have more important things to do.”

  Like making valerian oil. I sighed but not too loudly, and we set out to work, assembling the alembic brought out from the shed. When it was ready, we poured water over the dried roots in the pot and covered it with a lid with a cap on top to collect the vapor as the liquid started to boil. A downward sloping tube was connected to the cap, through which the oil would drip into a receptacle. It was the kind of apparatus my Uda had always dreamed about.

  As the November night fell and the wind started howling outside, I watched the thick brown liquid collect and thought about Salerno, where Brother Wigbert had learned the principles of medical analysis. I was fascinated by that faraway land of plentiful sunshine, countless churches, and men from all over the world who studied theology, law, and medicine. And I asked him, once again, to describe for me the students’ robes, their books, the university quarters, even the taverns where they gathered to drink and take their meals. Like each time before, I listened raptly, my cheeks flushed.

  When he finished and rose to pour the oil into smaller flasks, I asked, my heart beating fast against my ribs, “Brother Wigbert, will you teach me about medicine?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What for, child?”

  “So I can be a better assistant to you.”

  He considered this for a while, and I could see that the idea had some appeal to him. “But you have already learned a lot at the infirmary. You are helping me more than Bertolf ever did.”

  “I want to learn about anatomy and about the humors,” I interjected before he could say no. “I want to know how their imbalance affects the body, and how doctors diagnose diseases. Everything.” I added breathlessly.

  Brother Wigbert chuckled. “I studied for four years to become a physician, so I will not be able to convey it all to you in one evening. But I can give you an overview after we are done with the lavender.”

  I jumped from my seat to fetch a sack of lavender buds as he emptied the pot of the valerian dregs and rinsed it. Then he filled it with the lavender, poured fresh water over it, and set it back on the stove. We used large quantities of that fresh-smelling oil to scent infirmary linen.

  He sat down across the table from me and cleared his throat. “You have already witnessed urine examination,” he began solemnly, and I imagined myself a pupil in a vaulted classroom, like I had once thought I would be. “Urine, being expelled from the body most regularly, carries with it the picture of internal health. Normal urine is pale yellow and clear, but disease can turn it red, which indicates the presence of blood. Various hues of brown signify gallbladder disease. If it is too yellow, it means there is an excess of bile, while a strong, unpleasant odor is a sign of the presence of an evil humor in the body. Those who suffer from too much sugar will pass water that is sweet and thick, but if it is cloudy the patient is likely afflicted with a case of . . . uh . . . burning . . . of the nether regions.” Brother Wigbert looked uncomfortable. “Of course, you would not expect anyone from this holy community to come down with it,” he hastened to add.

  I tried to memorize everything he said. “And the humors?” I asked. “What are they exactly?”

  “They are the very essence of health and disease.” He poured more wine from the flagon and began to expound—with growing enthusiasm, for he had likely never encountered anyone at the abbey interested in medical theory—on the four bodily fluids and their counterparts in the physical world, the four elements. He explained how they influenced each other, the essence of health being the right proportion among them. When they were out of balance, disease ensued.

  Blood was the equivalent of Air, a hot and wet humor, which gave the person endowed with it to excess a sanguine temperament. Black bile, being cold and dry, had Earth for its analog, with superfluous bile bringing on sadness, anxiety, and lack of sleep. Then there was the yellow bile, a hot and dry humor similar to Fire, that caused one to become flushed and feverish, like Rumunda had been. Lastly, phlegm, akin to Water in that it was cold and wet, brought on apathy.

  “This theory,” he added by way of a conclusion, “was first put forward by Greek physicians Hippocrates and Galen and gave rise to several therapies that aim to restore the imbalance between the humors and return the patient to health. Bloodletting is the most widely used method, a wonderful cure that purifies the body by draining the excess and resetting the equilibrium,” he said without even blinking. “But there are other useful treatments such as purging, special foods, and drafts made from plants long established as having curative effects.”

  “Do you mean herbs?” I asked hopefully.

  He gave me a significant look. “I mean certain herbs, ones that have been domesticated and are grown and picked”—he pointed toward the garden—“where they cannot become subject to spells and other manipulations.”

  I hesitated. I was beginning to understand his views on non-monastics who dabbled in healing, but I wanted to defend them. “The drafts and oint
ments that Herrad makes from wild herbs restore many people to health. Many who come to her for help find relief, and she taught my nurse who never used spells when she made medicines for us.”

  “The Church is concerned with superstitions that call for such herbs to be gathered at different times of night, often by the light of full moon, which simple folk believe enhances their potency.”

  That, I must admit, was true. I had heard Herrad say as much to Uda.

  “It is then, when there is nobody abroad,” he continued, “that they pronounce incantations to summon spirits to their assistance. It is a practice that is perilous to the Christian soul.”

  I had no idea if that was the case or not, and I felt my shoulders slump. I had plans to expand the use of herbs at the infirmary to show how well they worked, but it seemed that nothing would come of it after all; we would go on giving patients warm wine, rosewater baths, and leeches for everything. “I know that many God-fearing women make potions,” Wigbert added with a note of indulgence, perhaps sensing my disappointment, “but all the same, the Church frowns upon it.”

  I took a deep breath. Brother Wigbert, unlike Prior Helenger, was a person with whom one could at least try to reason. “I really hoped that I would be able to—that is, that you and I—would make medicines using the herbs from the garden, but also the abundance that grows in the forest.” Then I added quickly, before courage deserted me, “All plants, even the most paltry of weeds, are God’s creation, are they not? So if God gave them to us, why not use them to our benefit? We cannot know if they have healing properties if we never try. If wise women use sorcery to make herbs work, then they won’t work for us. But what if they really do have curative powers? Imagine what we could do with them!” My voice rose pleadingly.

  Brother Wigbert’s face was serious but not severe. “You have a good bedside manner and a knack for healing for one so young. You also know how to argue your point even though you are a girl. But I do not want my workshop to become a playground for dangerous ideas.”