Temple of The Grail (36 page)

‘Oh, no matter,’ he said. ‘More for
me. I like raisins, they all did . . . It makes the mouth moist and conceals
the sourness of death. They are soft and sweet and innocent, like a nubile
virgin whose innocent, plump, little body has matured, warmed under the
caresses of God’s hands . . .’

‘Do you come here often?’ I blushed
but thankfully he did not notice.

‘Hm? Oh, yes, I come here to get away
from them,’ he said coldly, pointing in the direction of the cloister buildings
with his walking stick. ‘Sometimes an old man needs the company of animals . .
. They do not ask so much of me.’ He looked at me then as if suddenly seeing me
for the first time. ‘Yes, you remind me of
him.
You are beautiful, as he
is, but you must remember, the beast likes the beautiful ones best of all. He
lures them with vanity, for he knows that a beautiful boy provokes the most
lustful of desires, the most unholy of sentiments . . .’ His hands were like
ice on my head, did I have a fever? I longed to be gone from him before those
hands seized my throat. ‘Your beauty, child, is your sin, a sin for which you
must atone each day. Mortify the flesh! Better to be ugly and scarred than
beautiful. Far better to be abhorrent, because then you will not be responsible
for the downfall of your fellows! Beauty only hides what lies beneath it,
ugliness, falsehood and evil!’

‘But master,’ I said, confused and
angry despite my fear, ‘we are told that man is created in the image of God and
this image must therefore be true and beautiful and good.’

‘Ahh, but what you do not know is
that it is created by the evil God in His own image, and therefore repugnant,
offensive and ugly! Pity, my boy, arouse pity in others, even disgust, and you
will be assured of a place on earth and in heaven.’

That was when I noticed his shoes.
The left one was stained with the red colour of mud from the tunnels!

I stood to leave, and he gripped my
arm with surprising strength. ‘I have upset you? I, too, am a sack of dung, a
sinner, I detest myself!’ Then he let go of me and I left very quickly, not
once looking back.

I ran to the cloisters. A faint pink glow,
diffused through thick cloud, promised another cheerless day and I entered the
cloister buildings through the kitchen door, which was now open, feeling as
though the old brother had drawn a veil of filth over me.

One or two assistants were preparing the
daily meal. After wishing them a good morning, and refusing their offers of
warm milk, I entered the south walk, hearing as I did so the office of lauds
echoing through the stillness. The beautiful sound intoned the youthful message
of praise for a new day. The world may indeed be evil and ugly, I thought
defiantly, it may be soiled with sin, but I also knew that when a man lifts his
soul up to the vaults of heaven, reaching seraphic heights with the power of
his voice, he becomes an eagle soaring, an instrument of the Holy Ghost. I
paused, thinking about Sacar’s words on music that first day, and listened to
the phrasing of the voices as they paused, continued, paused again, and I
realised that this rhythm, like the beating of the heart, is nurtured by that
one brief moment of uncertainty, that ever-present space, that remains silent,
awaiting the unknown. In this pause, in this interlude there is no fear, no
anxiety, for it is this moment of silence that is the key to all regeneration.
The moment in which the divine can leap across the silence to the new word, the
very next beat. Man then becomes like the heart is to the body; the voice of
the cosmos made manifest in the earthly realm, and the rhythm from which all
earthly rhythm is created. Perhaps this and nothing else was the secret of
creation? The mystery of the pause, that, like a seed, appears small and
insignificant, but from it grows the tallest tree? Now I understood better
Sacar’s words to us that day in the church and these thoughts gave me a little
comfort, dispelling my misgivings, as I entered the lavatory. I needed to wash
the old brother from my skin and from my heart.

The two walls were lit by small
torches, leading to a great fire on the far side of the rectangular room. On
the fire I could see some water in a bulging cauldron boiling. I thanked the
monks of the abbey and prayed for their health and longevity, as I filled the
bath closest to the crackling warmth. I immersed myself in the water, wishing
to feel clean again, trying to forget the old monk’s unpleasant and uneasy
words. But soon I found myself taken by a second and more horrible terror.
Perhaps Setubar had followed me? Moreover, perhaps he did not commit the crimes
himself, but instead, as the inquisitor had said so many times, sent his devils
to do his work!

Suddenly every shadow, every noise,
no matter how slight, heralded the appearance of the evil one. My hair stood on
end.

In such instances the mind is an
enemy, for it recalls best what it fears most, and so I remembered with
remarkable vividness a story where a sorceress killed in a most violent manner
an unwilling lover, though she was leagues away in another village. Another
tale told of a man who lured devils to his aid by the use of one single word,
ordering them to scour the countryside for children whom they would kill and
bring back to him. I sat transfixed. There might be beauty and goodness,
angels, in the world, but there were also demons and devils. And I imagined
hell, as it is given to us by the church fathers, where Satan is said to be
bound to a burning gridiron by red-hot chains, his hands free to reach out and
seize the damned, whom he is said to crush like grapes with his teeth. At the
same time his assistant demons with hooks of iron, we are told, plunge the
bodies of the damned first into the fire, then into ice and afterwards hang
them by the tongue, or slice through their viscera with a saw, or boil them so
that their flesh may be strained through a cloth! And here I was naked, with
the boiling water only steps away!

Long moments passed, or perhaps it
was only a short interval – for time stands still when one is so
terrified – where I was certain that at any moment I would meet my fate.
Brother Setubar need not move from his seat in the stables, his demons would do
his bidding, and an hour from now, someone coming in to wash his hands would
find me dead, drowned in my own blood! Or boiled, or skewered over the fire! I
could hear my master’s voice saying, ‘But there are no identifying marks?’

At that moment, I heard a sound
coming from the door to the cloisters, a piercing cry whose shrillness echoed
down the hallway and into the lavatory. I stood up, preparing to jump out of
the bath for my clothes, when the singer Anselmo came in, dragging a large bag
of firewood. The sound I had heard was merely a branch that, poking through a
hole in the sack, scratched the stone floor as it was dragged over it. Heaving
a great sigh of relief, I barely realised that I was naked. It was only his
amused expression that gave rise to my awareness, and I immediately sat down.

Anselmo said nothing, he dragged the
bag behind him until he reached the fire, and then proceeded to replenish it
with some larger logs. I climbed out while his back was turned, and dressed
quickly. When I had finished, he turned to me with a sardonic grin.

‘You must be very brave, bathing on
your own this day. The Devil himself has been seen lurking in the corridors.
Soon he will have killed everyone who knows . . .’

‘Who knows what?’ I asked.

‘But how can I tell you? Would you
like to die, too?’

‘So you know something?’

He ignored my question. ‘You will
soon find him. Your master is a capable man.’

‘Find who?’

‘The murderer, of course . . . but I
suspect that it is
he
who will find
you
, and when he does, you
had best recognise him first,’ he laughed.

‘Come, Anselmo, tell me what you
know.’

He moved closer, conspiratorially,
saying in perfect Greek, ‘I know that someone else has broken the interdict,
and whoever it was, is responsible for Daniel’s death . . .’

‘Maybe it was you?’ I ventured.

His eyes creased and he laughed out
loud. ‘Me? Your bath has softened your brain. There are far bigger fish in this
pond, my friend. Bigger and tastier . . . I will not insult your intelligence
by naming names, no doubt you have your own suspicions . . . but I will give
you one clue . . . the infirmary chapel.’

‘Why are you not at lauds?’ I asked
as he turned to walk away.

‘It is bathing day, and on those days
it is my duty to see to everything, the blades for the leaching, water etc.
What about you? Should you not be at your master’s side? If you ask me, one
cannot wash off one’s sin with water . . .’ He moved away from me and at that
moment I dropped my waist rope and glanced at his shoes.

Both sandals clean. Perhaps they were
too clean.

I came out of the lavatory in a state
of excited agitation just as the brothers were filing out of the church. Lauds
was over, soon it would be prime. I searched the sea of faces, but Andre was
nowhere in sight. I went to his cell. Nothing. In fact I did not see him again
until a little later that day when so many questions would be answered, and
others raised, but I must hush my garrulous tongue lest I divulge too much too
soon. I will continue instead by saying that having found myself alone, and
feeling the comfort that only daylight brings, I resolved to find some
sustenance, for the mind works best when the body is fed.

It was snowing again. The north wind
sweeping through the deep gorges was as wild as the winds off the coast near
Bayonne where I had lived as a young child. I remembered only turbulent seas,
grey and frigidly cold, whipped up and churned by the icy currents from the
north. I learnt to swim in those chilly waters. Now, as I neared the entrance
to the cloisters, my ears aching, a gust nearly swept me off my feet, and I was
greatly relieved to enter the relative shelter of the cloisters. I passed the
scriptorium, observing the monks from below my cowl. Today, even the
illuminators worked with gloves, pausing every now and then to slap their hands
across their middle and stamp their feet to encourage the circulation. From the
vicinity of the cookhouse delicious aromas hung in the air and the noise of
industry filled me with cheer.

In the cookhouse proper, the
assistant cooks were very busy. They stirred this pot, adding a herb to this
cauldron, a pinch of salt to another pan. In the absence of their master, they
tasted, slurped, and sniffed, and just to make sure, added more of everything.
As I crossed the threshold of the vast hot room, I noticed that two brothers
seemed engaged in a heated argument. The taller brother, of Italian origin,
argued with the shorter one, whose accent I could tell was from the lands to
the north, perhaps German. They argued as to how much rosemary should be in the
sausage. The tall brother stated that in his country one could never have
enough of this sainted herb, for the Virgin Mary herself had found it most
pleasant when she sat on it on the way to Nazareth. The German brother stood
stiffly, I believe using vulgar words in his native tongue, shouting that
hyssop was also a holy herb, used in the Temple of Solomon, but one would
rather die a thousands deaths in infernal hell than cook with it. Finally, when
it seemed they would soon come to blows, they noticed my presence and invited
me in.

The brothers asked me to taste the
sausage, and this I found to be most delicious, much to the delight of the
Italian monk, whose name I learned was Alianardo. He gave the other monk a
smirk of self-satisfaction and showed me into the larder where he said I could
eat whatever I desired. Perhaps I had learnt something of the diplomatic art
from my master?

I entered the darkened room through a
door to the right side of the great ovens and noticed only after a moment that
above me smoked fish and curing sausages hung from hooks attached to the
ceiling. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I saw that on shelves there
were also stores of preserved fruit, olives, eggs, and rounds of cheese. Large
urns of unknown substances that, in my relative ignorance, I guessed to be
olive oil and vinegar, sat on the stone floor. Here some straw had been placed,
no doubt to absorb unwanted moisture, but also affording a soft place on which
to sit. I found a sheltered spot, amid baskets of beans, apples, and dried
foods, and consumed – in concentrated gluttony – the generous plate
brought me. There was melted cheese, olives, nuts, bread, throbbing sausages
– whose juices ran down my chin – and smoked ham. Finally I ended
it with a cup of warmed wine and, ipso facto, grew weary – as one is wont
to do when one is satiated – and leant back on the pleasant, soft straw,
using a bag of wheat for a pillow, the troubles of the monastery a million
leagues away, the inquisitor with his wicked grin a point in a universe of
points. I allowed my full stomach and the warmth from the fire that reached
even into the larder, to lull me into a deep, contented sleep, in which I
dreamt that I was flying into the arms of my beloved.

I must have been asleep a long time
because when I awoke I could see that the light outside the larder had changed.
Shadows stood where previously there had been light, and the kitchen, so lively
with the activity of monks before I had succumbed to fatigue, now appeared to
be very bare. It was then that I heard a strange voice whose owner was unseen
to me. For a moment I was startled, but I heard only the sounds coming from the
great fireplace, breaking the stillness with its crackling and spluttering. I
sat up feeling dull and wondered drowsily how I had come to be here, as is
usual in the case of daytime sleep. I slowly – and I must say shamefully
– remembered first my gluttony, and then, in horror, my dream! It
occurred to me that I may have missed the service of the dead, and not wanting
to add this to my growing list of sins I hastily prepared to leave, when I heard
the voice again.