Bread

by Stephen Brown

TAKEN FROM THE RIGHT AND ORDERLY NOTEBOOK OF SADFAEL THE MONK

  I had been summoned to see His Grace the Abbott in his study straight after Evensong, so I did not really notice the murals lining the otherwise bare corridors in this part of the Monastery, the flapping of my sandals echoing noisily as I dashed, almost running, to keep my engagement. Needless to say a whole myriad of thoughts were spinning in my head as I stood outside the door. I took a deep breath and knocked, waiting for the reply before entering.

  To be requested for an audience with such immediacy straight after prayers meant it must be something quite serious, but as usual His Grace showed a composed and most holy frame of mind, not letting anything on. At the moment of my ingress he was holding out a handful of corn to his ‘pet’ Rocking Horse.

  “He doesn’t seem to be very hungry today Brother Sadfael. He hasn’t touched his meal from this morning. I am beginning to worry about him.”

  I looked away, unable to meet his eye and in the embarrassed silence that followed he patted the toy horse affectionately on the neck. It was always like this when somebody forgot to remove the food His Grace put down for the thing twice a day. I have since looked on the rota and seen that it was Brother Goot’s turn today and have already admonished him for his forgetfulness. Lord knows - I hope and pray - that we mean no harm by this deception, for surely it is kinder to His Grace this way, to humour him in this, his one and only weakness rather than telling him that for the past fifteen years he has been trying to feed a wooden toy. It could well break him, and he is such a great man.

  Sighing and replacing the corn in the bowl at the horse’s feet, he stepped away and moved to the other side of his dark, wooden desk. His countenance was grave indeed and he proceeded to tell me of a Just and Righteous Mission for which he has singled me out.

  “Sadfael, there is a Just and Righteous Mission at hand, for which I have singled you out.” He was always straight to the point, His Grace. “Reports have been coming in from the countryside,” he began, his face darkening further still. “Most disturbing reports. The peasants from as far a field as Ashworthy and Hood have sent messengers here to St. Malcolm’s, all claiming that the very Devil is abroad, waging havoc and laying waste to all in his path.”

  I crossed myself as a chill passed down my spine, respectfully following His Grace over to the lead-lined window. We stood in silence for a few moments, watching as the crows fought the magpies and the pigeons fought each other for the scraps put out for them – not as much as was customary, due to Brother Goot’s lapse.

  “Your Grace, if this is true, if the Great Goat himself now walks among us, the Lord of Lies, could it mean that the Second Coming is at hand? Could this be the beginnings of the end? Could it be that Old Jake Peabody was right after all?” The Abbott raised an eyebrow at the name.

  “Old Jake Peabody?” he enquired.

  “From the village, your Grace. The one who walks around with a bough of apple-wood tied around his neck, believing it somehow to be his Bible. He rants and raves continuously about the final war between Heaven and Hell being upon us.” A glimmer shone briefly in the Abbott’s eye and he nodded with recognition.

  “Ahh yes, Mad Jake Peabody - Peabrain the villagers call him.” Uncharitable souls. “No, no brother. He has been going on about Judgment Day being at hand for as long as anybody can remember; a half dozen years at least. I fear that poor Jake’s ramblings owe more to his fondness of the Brewer’s tap than to any inclinations towards God.

  “I do not believe that these latest incidents – heinous though they undoubtedly are – foretell the opening of the Seven Seals, but certainly the Dark Angel has sent one of his Hellish minions to work his deprivations among us and he must, therefore, be stopped.

  “In consultation with my colleagues at the High Table, it has been decided that you are the one to be sent out after him.”

  “Me, your Grace?” I almost choked, so taken aback at this new confidence.

  “You, Brother Sadfael. It is our considered belief that in the whole of St. Malcolm’s there is none other with your… unique skills.” He did not give me time to brook any further arguments as to my suitability, simply turned back to the window and continued on. “You are familiar with the Rites of Exorcism?”

  “Err, to a degree your Grace.” I stammered.

  “Good. It is well for you that you will have ample time to refresh your memory of them as you walk. By the pleas for help coming in to us it can be deduced that the fiend’s path is carrying him East, ever away from the Monastery.”

  “No doubt he fears the certain retribution that would be visited upon him were he to stray too close to this Holy seat,” I proclaimed with fervour.

  “Err… yes…” the Abbott replied, although with a somewhat furrowed brow. “No doubt. The clouds in the evening sky show good portent of the weather for you on the morrow. I pray the Lord in his Mercy will bestow such favour upon you for the duration of your journey.” His Grace moved toward the door. I followed meekly, still shocked.

  “I… I must leave so soon?”

  “Oh yes. It is of the utmost importance that you do not dally Brother Sadfael. This spawn of Satan must be tracked, caught and banished as soon as possible. I recommend that you gather together a small pack of what you will need and then sleep. As it is I fear it may well take you several weeks to find this monster, so one more night will not overly hinder you, for the sake of freshness.” He opened the door to usher me out into the cold corridor beyond. “But no more than that. Do not expect anybody to see you off on the morrow brother – it is my intention to spare as many as possible, even from the knowledge of these troubled happenings, lest a great panic set in, allowing Lucifer a further foot in the door. You must be up and away before the others rise.”

  As I stumbled into the long and lonely corridor which now seemed to stretch far longer than ever it did, the Abbott folded his arms within the sleeves of his habit and stared at me with a look of absolute finality.

  “You are doing a great service to all of us Brother and I know I can rely on you to never quit, to never stop, to never come back until this thing is done.” Numbly I nodded, dumbstruck by the gravity of it all. Maintaining his forceful stare, His Grace nodded one last time.

  “Goodbye Brother Sadfael,” he said and then he closed the door.

  Much as it troubles me to think of the tribulations that lie ahead, as I sit here in the tiny, unadorned cell which has been my humble home for many years now, I cannot help but count my blessings. For no matter how daunting, ‘tis an honour indeed to be given a quest in these times of darkness and devilment. True, it does mean that I must leave here on the Eve of the Great Centenary Cheese-fest, and will therefore miss the week-long celebrations, but God’s work is always more important than our own mortal frivolities; one must never lose sight of that.

  Ahh, to think of it, an infidel on the loose, some Stygian Abomination, and it has been given up to me, Sadfael, to stop him!

  This can only be a sign from the Lord! I must confess that there had been some unholy - or rather I should say ‘less than holy’ - thoughts racing around in my head these last few months. Why does He allow cabbages to rot after only three days, for example? Why am I not permitted a draft excluder in my cell? And why must I wear these unstylish sandals all the time?

  It must be a sign, an opportunity from God for me to expunge these and other blasphemous thoughts from my mind and thus to reaffirm my faith. He has bestowed a great honour upon me, and I must ensure that His trust is well founded. I now close this entry in order to pray for success and then go and pack.

  But first I will quickly nip back to the Abbott’s rooms and remove the horse’s food which is still sitting uneaten. I am surprised he has not noticed how fat the birds are around here, but then His Grace does not get out as much as he used to.

  A truly great man though.

  In his youth.

  Or so I am told.

  ***