“And I am.” The penitent smiled. “I am, Dzierżka. My heartfelt thanks. I’ve always been able to count on you. And so you won’t say I only take, take, take, here’s a present for you.”
“Some purses,” Dzierżka stated coolly. “Embroidered with silver thread and pearls. They’re quite pretty, even if they’re fake. But why three?”
“Because I’m generous. And that’s not all.” Scharley lowered his voice and looked around. “You ought to know, Dzierżka, that the young Reinmar present here has certain… abilities. Absolutely remarkable, not to say… magical.”
“Eh?”
“Scharley is exaggerating,” said Reynevan, flinching a little. “I’m a physician, not a magician—”
“Precisely,” the penitent interrupted him. “Should you need an elixir or philtre… Like a love potion, let’s say. Maybe an aphrodisiac or something for virility…”
“For virility,” she repeated pensively. “Hmm… It could come in useful—”
“There you go.”
“—for my stallions,” Dzierżka of Wirsing finished her own sentence. “I can cope with love myself, and manage splendidly without sorcery.”
“A quill, ink and paper, if you please,” Reynevan said after a moment of silence. “I’ll write down the recipe.”
The horse being prepared turned out to be a well-formed chestnut palfrey, the very one they had found in the clearing. Reynevan, who hadn’t really given credence to the prophesies of the sylvan witches at first, now pondered deeply while Scharley leaped into the saddle and trotted briskly around the paddock. The penitent displayed another talent—a firm hand and strong knees soon had the chestnut trotting gracefully, and the stable boys and soldiers from the escort applauded Scharley’s perfect riding position. Even the composed Dzierżka of Wirsing clicked her tongue in approval.
“I never knew,” she muttered, “that he was such a cavalier. Verily, he isn’t lacking in talent.”
“Indeed.”
“And you, kinsman,” she said, turning around, “take care of yourself. Hussite emissaries are being hunted down. Strangers and foreigners are watched and anything suspicious is reported, because anyone who doesn’t inform is himself suspicious. And if it wasn’t enough that you’re foreign and a stranger, your name and family have become well known in Silesia. I suggest you make something up. Best to keep your given name so you won’t be constantly confused… Let’s say you’ll be… Reinmar of Hagenau.”
Reynevan had to smile. “But that’s the name of a famous poet—”
“Don’t be fussy. In any case, times are hard—who remembers the names of poets these days?”
Scharley finished his display with a short but vigorous gallop, then brought the horse to a sliding stop, showering gravel around. He rode over, making the chestnut do some pretty dressage steps that earned him more applause.
“An elegant creature,” he said, patting the colt’s neck. “And swift. Thank you again, Dzierżka. Farewell.”
“Farewell. And may God be with you.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. See you in better times.”
Chapter Twelve
In which Reynevan and Scharley eat luncheon in a Benedictine monastery on Saint Giles’s Eve, which falls on a Friday, a fast day. And after luncheon, they exorcise a devil. With an utterly unexpected result.
They heard the monastery before they saw it, because even though it was hidden in a forest, it suddenly spoke with the deep but melodic tolling of a bell. Before the sound had died out, they saw red-tiled roofs on buildings surrounded by a wall, reflected in the still waters of fishponds disturbed from time to time by ripples marking the feeding of large fish. Frogs and ducks went about their business in the rushes.
The horses walked along a reinforced causeway, down an avenue of trees.
Scharley stood up in the stirrups. “Look at the monastery. I wonder what the rules are like. Do you fancy eating carp? Or tench? It’s Friday today and the monks have rung the Nones. Perhaps they’ll offer us luncheon?”
“I doubt it.”
“What do you doubt and why?”
Reynevan didn’t reply. He was looking at the half-open monastery gate, from which a piebald horse was cantering, ridden by a monk. Once outside the gate, the monk spurred his mount to a hard gallop—which ended badly. The little piebald horse turned out to be wild and skittish, and the monk, clearly a Benedictine from his black habit, wasn’t blessed with equestrian skill. He had also mounted the piebald wearing sandals, which just wouldn’t stay in the stirrups. After galloping about a quarter of a furlong, the piebald kicked and the monk sailed out of the saddle and tumbled over and over, flashing bare calves, and finally came to rest under some willows. The horse kicked and neighed, pleased with itself, and then trotted along the causeway towards the two travellers. Scharley grabbed its reins in passing.
“Just look at that centaur!” he said. “Rope for reins, a blanket for a saddle and rags for a girth. I don’t know if the Rule of Saint Benedict of Nursia permits or forbids riding horses, I truly don’t, but it ought to forbid riding like that.”
“He was obviously in a hurry to get somewhere.”
“That’s no excuse.”
Like the monastery, they heard the monk before they saw him, for he was sitting among the burdock with his head on his knees, sobbing hard enough to break your heart.
“There, there,” said Scharley from the height of his saddle. “No need to shed tears, Frater. Nothing’s lost. The horse didn’t run away, we have him here. And you’ll learn to ride, Frater, for I see you have a great deal of time ahead of you in which to do so.”
Scharley was indeed right. The monk was but a boy, whose hands, lips and the rest of his face were shaking.
“Brother… Deodatus…” he sobbed. “Brother Deodatus… will die… because of me…”
“Eh?”
“It’s all my fault…”
“Were you hurrying to get a physician?” Reynevan quickly guessed. “To treat a sick man?”
The boy sobbed, “Brother Deodatus… will die because of me…”
“Collect yourself and speak more coherently, Frater!”
“An evil spirit has entered Brother Deodatus and possessed him!” shouted the monk, raising reddened eyes. “So the abbot ordered me to ride as quickly as possible to Świdnica, to the Order of Preachers… To fetch an exorcist!”
“Wasn’t there a better horseman in the monastery?”
“No, and since I’m the youngest… Oh, how hapless am I!”
“I’d say happy, actually,” Scharley said gravely. “Verily, happy. Find your sandals among the weeds and hasten to the monastery. Announce the good news to the abbot that the Lord’s grace is shining on your monastery. That on the causeway you encountered Master Benignus, the veteran exorcist, whom an angel assuredly sent this way.”
“Is that you, good sir? You are—”
“I said hasten to the abbot as quickly as possible. Inform him that I approach.”
“Tell me I misheard you, Scharley. Tell me it was a slip of the tongue. That you didn’t say what I think you just said.”
“Meaning what? That I’ll exorcise Brother Deodatus? But of course I shall. With your help, laddie.”
“Oh, no. Don’t drag me into this. I have enough problems already. I don’t need any new ones.”
“Neither do I. But I do need luncheon and money. And luncheon as soon as possible.”
“That’s the stupidest idea of all possible stupid ideas,” judged Reynevan, looking around the sunlit cloister. “Do you know what you’re doing? Do you know what you risk by impersonating a priest? An exorcist? Posing as some bloody Master Benignus?”
“Impersonating? I am a priest. And an exorcist. It’s a matter of faith and I have faith. That I’ll succeed.”
“I believe you’re mocking me.”
“Not in the slightest. Start preparing spiritually for the task.”
“I won’t take part in a
nything of the kind.”
“And why not? You’re supposed to be a doctor. It’s your duty to help the suffering.”
“He,” said Reynevan, pointing towards the infirmary, which they had just left and where Brother Deodatus was lying, “he cannot be helped. The monk is in lethargy. In a coma. You heard the monks say they tried to rouse him by pricking his heels with a hot knife, to no avail? Thus it’s an affliction of the brain, the spiritus animalis. Some sort of grand mal or ‘great malady.’ I’ve read about it in Avicenna’s Canon medicinae, also in the works of Razes and Averroes, and I know it’s incurable. One can only wait—”
“Indeed, one can wait,” interrupted Scharley. “But why wait with one’s arms folded? Particularly if one can act? And make money from it? Without harming anyone?”
“Without harming anyone? What about ethics?”
“I don’t usually discuss philosophy on an empty belly.” Scharley shrugged. “But later, belly full of food and beer, I’ll lay out the principia of my ethics and astonish you with their simplicity.”
“I dread to imagine it.”
“Reynevan.” Scharley whirled around. “For God’s sake, think positively.”
“I am thinking—and I think this could end badly.”
“Oh, think what you want. But for now, be so kind as to shut up, because they’re coming.”
The abbot was indeed approaching, in the company of several monks. The abbot was short, plump and chubby-cheeked, but his benign and good-natured appearance was contradicted by the fierce grimace of his mouth and his lively eyes, which swiftly jumped from Scharley to Reynevan and back again.
“Well?” he asked, slipping his hands beneath his scapular. “What’s wrong with Brother Deodatus?”
“The spiritus animalis is afflicted,” announced Scharley, pouting proudly. “It is some kind of grand mal or great malady, as described by Avicenna, in brief: tohu wa-bohu. You ought to know, Reverende Pater, that things look bleak. But action shall be taken.”
“What action?”
“To drive the evil spirit from the possessed man.”
“Are you so certain that it is possession?” asked the abbot, tilting his head.
“I’m certain it’s not diarrhoea.” Scharley’s voice was quite cold. “Diarrhoea has different symptoms.”
“You are not men of the cloth, however.” The abbot’s voice still carried a note of suspicion.
“Oh, but we are.” Scharley did not bat an eyelid. “I’ve already explained it to the brother infirmarian. We dress secularly for camouflage, to baffle the Devil, in order to take him by surprise.”
The abbot looked keenly at him. Oh dear, this isn’t good, thought Reynevan. He’s no fool. This might indeed end badly.
“How, then, do you mean to proceed?” The abbot kept his probing eyes on Scharley. “According to Avicenna? Or perhaps according to the instructions of Saint Isidor of Seville, found in the work entitled… Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten… But you, learned exorcist, undoubtedly know—”
“Etymologiae.” Scharley didn’t bat an eyelid this time, either. “I make use of the lore found there, for it is elementary knowledge, and of the same author’s De natura rerum.”
The abbot’s gaze softened somewhat, but it was clear that some suspicion remained.
“You are learned, there’s no denying it,” he said with a sneer, “as you have demonstrated. And what now? Will you ask for vittles first? And beverages? And advance payment?”
“Not a word about payment,” said Scharley, straightening up so proudly that Reynevan was seized with real admiration. “Not a word about coinage, for I am neither a merchant nor a money-lender. I shall settle for alms, a modest gift, and by no means in advance, but only after the work is complete. Regarding vittles and beverages, however, I shall remind you, Reverend Father, of the words of the Gospel: evil spirits are driven out only by prayer and fasting.”
The abbot’s face lit up and the hostile severity vanished from his eyes.
“Verily,” he said, “I see I am dealing with virtuous and pious Christians. And verily I say: the Gospel is all very well, but how can one, as the saying goes, work on an empty stomach? I invite you to prandium. A modest, fast-day prandium, for today is Friday. Beavers’ tails in sauce…”
“Lead on, honourable Father Abbot,” said Scharley, swallowing loudly. “Lead on.”
Reynevan wiped his mouth and stifled a belch. The beavers’ tails, stewed in a thick horseradish sauce and served with kasha, turned out to be delicious. Until then, Reynevan had only heard of that speciality. He knew that in some monasteries it was eaten during fasts, since for some obscure reason beaver was considered to be something like fish. It was, however, quite a rare delicacy, since not every abbey had beaver lodges in the vicinity and not all of them had hunting privileges. But the great pleasure of eating this titbit was marred by anxious thoughts of the task awaiting them. Although, he mused, scrupulously wiping his bowl with a hunk of bread, no one can take away what I’ve just eaten.
Scharley, who had made short work of quite a small portion—it was a fast day, after all—was now pontificating.
“Various authorities have voiced their opinions regarding devilish possession,” he said. “The greatest of them—men who are no doubt familiar to you—are both sainted fathers and Doctors of the Church such as Basil, Isidor of Seville and Gregory of Nazianzus. Surely the works of Tertullian, Origen and Lactantius are known to you?”
Some of the Benedictines present in the refectory nodded eagerly and others lowered their heads.
“But those sources of knowledge are quite general,” Scharley continued to explain, “and thus a serious exorcist cannot restrict his learning to them alone.”
The monks nodded again, sedulously eating up the kasha and sauce in their bowls. Scharley sat up straight and cleared his throat.
“I know Michael Psellos’s Dialogus de energia et operatione daemonum,” he announced somewhat proudly. “I know by heart excerpts from Exorcisandis obsessis a daemonio, a work by Pope Leon III. I also know the Book of the Secrets of Enoch, but that’s nothing to boast about since everybody does. While my assistant, the courageous Master Reinmar, has even deeply explored Saracen writings, keenly aware of the risks that contact with the magic of the pagan carries with it.”
Reynevan blushed. The abbot smiled benignly, taking it as a sign of modesty.
“Verily!” he announced. “Why, I see that you are scholars and experienced exorcists. I wonder, do you have many devils to your name?”
“In truth,” Scharley lowered his eyes, as modest as a Poor Clare novice, “I can’t compete with records. The most devils I’ve managed to cast out of a possessed person at one time is nine.”
“Indeed,” said the abbot, clearly worried, “that is not many. I’ve heard of Dominicans who—”
“I’ve also heard,” interrupted Scharley, “but not seen. Furthermore, I was talking about higher devils, and it’s well known that every higher devil has at least thirty lower devils in its service. However, self-respecting exorcists don’t keep count, because if you cast out the leader, its followers will also flee. But were I to reckon up using the method of the Order of Preachers, then I might easily compete with those Dominicans you mentioned.”
“Quite right,” admitted the abbot, but somewhat hesitantly.
“Unfortunately,” added Scharley, coldly and a little nonchalantly, “I cannot give written guarantees. Please keep that in mind so there won’t be any grievances afterwards.”
“Eh?”
“Saint Martin of Tours,” Scharley still didn’t bat an eyelid, “took from every exorcised devil a document signed with its own devilish name, stating that the given devil would never, ever dare to possess a given person again. Many celebrated saints and bishops managed to do the same, but I, a humble exorcist, am unable to obtain a document of that kind.”
“Perhaps it’s for the better!” said the abbot, crossing himself, as did the other monks. “Holy Mot
her, Queen of Heaven! A parchment signed by the Evil One’s hand? What an abomination! And a sin! We don’t want that—”
“I’m glad you don’t,” Scharley cut him off. “But first duties and then pleasure. Is the patient in the chapel?”
“Absolutely.”
One of the younger Benedictines, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Scharley for a long time, suddenly spoke. “Nonetheless, how may it be explained, Master, that Brother Deodatus is lying like a log, barely breathing and not moving a finger, when almost all the learned books you have quoted say that the possessed person usually has an extraordinary agitation of the limbs, and that the devil endlessly jabbers and yells through him? Is there not some contradiction here?”
“All affliction,” said Scharley, looking down on the monk, “including possession, is the work of Satan, the destroyer of God’s work. Every malady is prompted by one of the four Black Angels of Evil: Mahazel, Azazel, Azrael or Samael. The fact that the possessed person isn’t thrashing about or crying out but is lying lifeless proves that he has been possessed by one of the demons subordinate to Samael.”
“Christ the Lord!” said the abbot, crossing himself.
“Notwithstanding,” Scharley said, arrogantly, “I know how to deal with such demons. They fly on the wind and possess a fellow noiselessly and stealthily, through the breath, which is called insufflatio. I shall command the Devil to leave the afflicted man via the same route, through exsufflatio.”
“How can it be,” the young monk went on, “that the Devil is in the abbey, where there are bells, the Holy Mass, the breviary and sanctity? How can it be that he has possessed a monk?”
Scharley retorted with a stern look.
The Tower of Fools Page 20