The Seer and the Scribe (18 page)

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!

Common Room and Sleeping Quarters of the Anchorage at

Disibodenberg Monastery Sunday,

3
^rd
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 request 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.

At length Jutta responded. “Very well, I will write to Abbot Burchard on your behalf. We should come to some arrangement for your continued education here at the Anchorage.”

Hildegard's hands wrapped around the letter Jutta handed back to her, feeling assured that so long as her life was in God's hands all would be well.

Abbot Burchard's Private Quarters at Disibodenberg Monastery

Sunday, 3
^rd
of November, Evening, Before Compline

Volmar scraped clean from the ivory-colored parchment yet another portion of what he had written. He was already regretting the size he'd cut the parchment into. The dictation was more involved than he anticipated, so every word needed to be carefully chosen.

“Brother Volmar, is something troubling you?” The Abbot sat across from his young protégé and held his hand to his brow. He rubbed his temples, a habit, Volmar noted, the Abbot exhibited whenever he was perplexed. “It's so unlike you to make so many mistakes.”

“Father, I am troubled. If someone you knew had a remarkable mind and musical talent, should that person not be taught to use their talents: to learn to read and write better in Latin and to study musical notation?”

“By all means, my son, Christ taught us to use, not squander, our spiritual gifts. It would be a sin to knowingly repress such abilities.”

“I thought so,” Volmar mused.

“How so?” Abbot Burchard adjusted his weight, finding the wooden seat less tolerable than usual.

“I am not ready to disclose all as of yet, Father. I wrote a letter to this person and am waiting anxiously for a reply.”

“Patience is not one of your virtues, Brother Volmar. That much I do know.” The Abbot chuckled and the two men resumed the chronicle, or recording, of the week's events. “What day did we leave off?”

“I believe, Saturday the 2nd of November.”

“Good. Be sure to add that I've discussed with Brother Andres the need to increase our provisions, since the farmers predict a long and bitterly cold winter ahead. All signs point to freezing temperatures well into the Lenten season.”

There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” the Abbot said, recognizing immediately the young man who came in as being from the Bishop's own personal entourage. “We have word already of Adalbert's release?” He rose and offered the young man a chair next to his.

“No, Father,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “I cannot stay long. I'm afraid the circumstances are quite grim for the Archbishop.”

“And Reginald, how is he holding up?”

“As well as can be expected, Father, under the circumstances. The Bishop wants you to keep him in your prayers. The Emperor has issued a violent manifesto against the Archbishop and all his treasonous followers.”

The Abbot hung his chin in his hands. “His followers are many: the Pope, the church, and the nobles, particularly in Saxony. Any word from Rome, as of yet?”

“It is too soon, Father. There's snow just south of here. Word has it that the only pass through the Alps that isn't blocked from the recent landslides is treacherous due to ice.”

“Has the Emperor made clear where he will celebrate the Nativity of the Lord this year? Last year, it was held in Mainz.”

“This year he is planning to celebrate the Nativity of the Lord in Goslar, Father.”

“In the Duchy of Saxony? Oh my, he is asking for trouble. God be with you, my friend. Tell the Bishop that we will pray for Reginald and the Archbishop's timely release. Go in peace.” The young man knelt before the Abbot. “May you travel with His hedge of protection around thee. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” He motioned the sign of the cross before touching the man's forehead.

Still thinking, Volmar said, “More than ice needs to melt. None of it sounds hopeful.”

After the young man had disappeared down the stairs, the Abbot laid a hand on Volmar's arm and said, “It is getting more difficult each year to keep our own little corner of the world free from the battleaxes chipping away at its very mortar.”

“Come now, Father,” Volmar said, absentmindedly twirling his quill. “If I remember correctly, Reginald spoke all too freely of his hatred towards the Emperor. I'm sure his father too had difficulty holding his tongue.”

“I know. Both men thought little of their own safety. Do you suppose that other man, the Aramaic scholar, had something to do with all of this?”

“He was not an Aramaic scholar, Father. This I can assure you of. I questioned him the next day and found his scholarly knowledge lacking. His weaponry expertise, though, was exceptional. He even gave me a few sword-fighting lessons.”

“I suspected as much. He did not know what his name Atif meant in Persian. A man gifted in languages should know such trivia.”

“I'm sure you've already been to the library to look up Atif's name. What does it mean, Father?”

The Abbot grimaced. “What the man is obviously not: compassionate and sympathetic.”

Stables at Disibodenberg Monastery

Monday, 4
^th
of November, Early Morning, After Prime

Everyone knew that the Keeper of the Stables, Brother Hugo, still held a long-standing grudge against Volmar. Hugo felt betrayed ever since Paulus requested the boy's assistance in the Infirmary.

Still, Volmar knew he couldn't afford the time to wait for Hugo to come back from the village market to ask permission to borrow the small stool. Hildegard was waiting for him, and this was to be their first introductory lesson together.