The Seer and the Scribe (17 page)

“What miraculous potions are you working on now?” Volmar asked, curiously lifting the lids of a few of the jars and wrinkling his nose in disgust at some of their horrid stenches, placing them quickly back on the shelf. He missed the days when he was Paulus's apprentice, assisting him in his experiments and helping him record the details of various medicines, salves, and tonics that he had concocted.

Paulus scanned the top shelf of his laboratory and said ruefully, “That shelf, as you know, represents my failures—potions I'd rather forget. But that doesn't quite answer your question. I've had a couple of recent travelers from the Holy Land who, in exchange for lodging, have given me some interesting seed specimens.”

“Are they the sword fighters from yesterday?” Volmar asked sheepishly. He hated bringing up the memory but was curious about the new travelers from the east.

“Yes, I believe they're the men who nearly put you out cold in my mortuary, Ulrich and his younger companion Donato.”

Volmar hung his head in mock humility. “I'll stay out of their way, I promise.”

“Good. Thankfully they keep to themselves and are gone most of the day. Both of them, however, impressed me with their knowledge of the healing arts.”

“Really?” Volmar replied, intrigued by this juxtaposition of opposites. “Warriors and healers, an odd combination, wouldn't you say?”

“An implausible, dangerous combination if you ask me.” Paulus walked out into the Infirmary's courtyard and over to his hot house, a lean-to set against the Infirmary's chimney. Its constant warmth helped germinate the more sensitive seedlings through the cold winter. He changed the topic abruptly by proudly pointing out the bounty of his recent trade, a seedling tray where he had planted the traveler's seeds. “They're much too fragile to set in the ground. I'll have to wait until spring. Supposedly, the salve from their seed spores can cure blindness. I'm not sure about that, but it is worth trying, eh, my friend?”

They returned to the laboratory and Volmar couldn't keep his eyes from studying the shelf that always held his interest more than any other. It was the shelf of dried specimens. There were exotic reptiles,
birds, and other small mammals, including a dried bat. Their shriveled skins, nails, hair, and even tissues provided Brother Paulus with ingredients to prepare his healing remedies.

Suddenly there was a cry from the women's infirmary followed by a crash of what sounded like shards of pottery shattering on a stone floor. Volmar and Paulus rushed to the room, aghast at what they saw. The bowl Sophie was holding had been flung to the floor by the redheaded woman she was trying to feed. The woman now stood inches from Sophie's face, screaming over and over, insisting that the girl “feed my babies.”

“Providence, I feel, has brought us together,” Paulus said, as he placed his hand on Volmar's sleeve. “Come, I need your help.”

The two approached the frantic woman from either side. Paulus quietly and firmly whispered in the woman's ear. “I'm here to care for your children also.”

The whispered words of comfort were surprisingly louder than her rage. With the woman's face purple from grief and anger, Volmar gasped at how hideously the ashen lines accentuated her inner torment. With remarkable ease, Paulus led the woman back to her cot.

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.”

Countryside Beyond Disibodenberg Monastery

Sunday, 3
^rd
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 scimitar
⁷⁷
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 movement 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.”

Library at Disibodenberg Monastery

Sunday, 3
^rd
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 retrochoir
⁷⁸
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.