The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  Hugh was too astonished to do anything but gape for a moment. Brother John, without waiting for answers to any of his questions, ran to a cupboard and got out a vial marked Tincture of Gall. Then he and Hugh rescued a few odd sheets that were being soaked. The monk dried them gently with a soft cloth and then applied the gall. It discolored the sheets but brought out the original writing so that little by little the hidden, half-obliterated words could be read.

  The lay brothers, cooks, and servers for the day came into the kitchen and began preparations for the noon meal. Brother John paid no heed to them at all, merely brushing them out of his way when they impeded him. Squatting on the floor, he examined every sheet of old parchment that he had brought that day, scrutinizing some with breathless care, throwing some aside and placing others in Hugh’s bewildered arms, saying merely:

  “Hold on to them, boy, let not one of them fall to the ground or escape thee!”

  The dinner hour came; Hugh fidgeted, looking hungrily at the caldrons of food cooking over the fireplaces. His mouth watered at the savory smell, but Brother John continued to fill his hands with manuscripts, ordering him again and again not to move or put one of them down until he was bidden.

  The cooks clattered about, steam and smoke filled the air, but still Brother John paid no heed. The midday meal, the only large and substantial one of the day, was dished onto huge trenchers, the servers came and went busily to and from the refectory, and Hugh realized dismally that dinner was in progress, but Brother John showed not the slightest sign of relinquishing his task.

  At long last every sheet of parchment, loose or in boards, which he had brought into the kitchen, had been examined and tossed aside or else given into Hugh’s keeping, and the monk, puffing and groaning with the stiffness of his joints because of his long squatting upon the floor, arose and looked at the boy as if until then he had been ignorant of his presence.

  “Good! Thou are still here!” said he.

  “Why, Brother John, you bade me not move or let one of these fall,” he answered, feeling justly aggrieved, “and it must be two hours, and dinner—”

  “Two hours?” said Brother John, looking around him with blinking eyes that were now smarting with long, close scrutiny and kitchen smoke. Then he laughed.

  “I had forgot thine existence or took those arms of thine for a bench or press, most likely, and as for food, I knew not there was such in the world! No matter; we have work to do, boy, and when thou dost realize what thou hast found, food will not be of concern to thee either.”

  Hugh sighed a little and his glance turned involuntarily toward one of the great fireplaces, with dinner for the workers still simmering over it. The monk laughed again; he was mightily satisfied over something, and in evident good humor. Taking the pile of manuscripts he had placed in Hugh’s arms away from him, he settled himself in the farthest corner of the kitchen, with knife, pumice stone, and tincture of gall. Then he motioned the boy away from him.

  “Go help thyself! Fill up that young stomach to the full and then come and help me with a less woebegone countenance!”

  Hugh did not wait for a second order. He fetched a slab of thick bread, by way of a plate, took the huge ladles hanging near the hearth, and helped himself liberally to everything he had a fancy for.

  “I like this better than eating with the others in the refectory,” said he.

  “Aye,” said Brother John, “I doubt it not! Here there be no reminders that one must serve one’s body sparingly and remember the poor.”

  “And one does not need to listen to the Lector,” added Hugh. “I like well to eat when I eat and listen when I listen, although in sooth, the brother who reads during meal times chooses such dull matter that most times I pay no heed to it at all.”

  “Aha,” said Brother John. “Say you so? But what saith our good Father Abbot anent table manners:

  “‘Eyes on your plate, hands on the table, ears to the reader, heart to God’; hast heard him?”

  Hugh nodded, his mouth being too full of hot beans for a reply.

  Brother John, moved perhaps by the good smell of the food, came to the table where Hugh sat and served himself somewhat to eat also. They sat there cosily enough and made a meal of it, while the servers and kitchen folk came and went paying no heed to them.

  “Will you tell me, Brother John,” Hugh at last asked hesitantly, well knowing the monk’s ability to stop in the midst of a torrent of conversation and suddenly turn schoolmaster, “why this script beneath the script is so important?”

  “I will not only tell thee but show thee,” said the brother after a moment’s pause, “’tis but right.”

  He pushed aside his cup and the remainder of his bread, and left the table. Hugh, who had by now eaten his fill, followed eagerly. They took the parchment sheets which had already been scraped and treated sufficiently to show their original content and, leaving the others in a secure corner where they would be safe until their return, left the kitchen and entered the cloister walks. Brother John led the way straight to the Painted Aumbry.

  “I am sure,” said he, “and yet there must be no shadow of doubt. These old eyes are dimming a trifle and I might be mistaken. But if I am not—! What a find! What a find!”

  They reached the aumbry, the brother opened a panel at the side, took out some volumes far back, moved a false bottom, and then Hugh, peering curiously over his shoulders, saw a book lying by itself in the secret aperture thus disclosed. Brother John handed his parchments to Hugh that he might take two hands to lift with infinite care this hidden volume. It was brown with age, the rich leather over its board binding was worn through in spots and frayed at the edges. With reverent and gentle fingers Brother John opened the cover. Hugh could see that the pages were of thick parchment, deep cream colored, stained with soil, but adorned with exquisite lettering, heavy with gold and the bright scarlet minium dye. The script was the same character, rounded, large, as on the pages the boy held in his hand and, he was secretly sure, the same as on those others hidden in St. Joseph’s Chapel. A few moments’ careful inspection were enough to convince the two of them.

  “This,” said Brother John impressively, raising his head from the close scrutiny of comparison and indicating the ancient volume in his hands, “this book is the oldest in our abbey, doubtless one of the oldest in the whole world. It is the greatest treasure that we own, at least that we know we own. There may be others lost, hidden, forgotten but of that no matter now. Whence it came none knows, nor aught of him who wrote it save that his name was Blaise. Look you, the title page, scarce to be deciphered.” He held the book open that Hugh might see more clearly:

  The Book of the Seynt Graal.

  Being the Record of Blaise, the Hermit

  “And now, mark you,” continued the monk, turning the volume carefully over and opening it from the back. Pages had been torn out, carelessly, ruthlessly, leaving a ragged edge here, half a sheet there, and none could tell how many missing entirely. Hugh looked his question and Brother John continued:

  “It is very ancient, as thou canst see, and the Latin is hard to decipher, yet it is not age so much as the matter it contains that makes this book a treasure beyond price.” He paused. “I scarce know how to begin. Dost thou know, Hugh, that Glaston has been a sacred and a holy spot ever since Our Lord died upon the Cross, or since a few years thereafter?”

  Hugh shook his head. The solemn manner in which Brother John spoke filled him with a sense of awe and expectancy.

  “After Our Lord died, a rich Jew named Joseph of Arimathaea, took His body down from the Cross and laid it in his own tomb which was nigh unto Calvary. That thou knowest from the Gospel readings, and of the emptiness of Joseph’s tomb on Easter morning when Christ had risen gloriously from the dead. But of Joseph the Scripture tells little more. ’Tis only in this book, this Record of Blaise, that we learn how he held in his possession the Cup out of which our blessed Lord drank at the Last Supper and in which, so the story goes, the ce
nturion who stood at the foot of the Cross, caught drops of water and blood that fell from the pierced side of the Son of God at the end of the Crucifixion. That Cup is the most Sacred Hallow in the whole world. And I say is, not was, mind you, for I believe, nay I know deep in my heart, that it is still somewhere upon this earth, though men’s eyes have not beheld it since the days of King Arthur. At that time it was known as the Holy Grail, and they who saw it bore witness that it was full of living light. Only those whose eyes were pure and whose lives were sinless might behold it openly, but even to those who caught the vision of it dimly, came wisdom, healing, food for the body and the soul, salvation for the spirit. But I am getting ahead of my story.

  “Now after Christ’s death and Resurrection, His friends and followers were persecuted by His enemies, and Joseph was imprisoned in a desolate tower, walled in and left to die. Some say that an angel appeared to him in his round-tower jail and gave him the sacred Cup, others that he had cherished it, hidden beneath his garments, and taken it with him. However that may be, the Holy Grail sustained him for forty long years, and he suffered no lack of anything that is needful to the body or the mind or the spirit. Then he was released and, still guarding that Sacred Hallow, he came, after much adventuring, at long last, here to our Glaston.”

  “Here!” broke in Hugh in amazement.

  “Aye, to this very spot.” Brother John closed the torn and ancient book as if the tale were finished, laid it carefully back in its hidden nook, slid the secret panel and replaced the other books over it.

  “Know you not the low hill over beyond Tor?” he said. “We call it Weary-All Hill because it was there that Joseph and his eleven weary companions rested from their journeyings. And the thorn tree—surely thou hast seen the old thorn tree there on the side of the hill? That tree grew out of Joseph of Arimathaea’s staff when he thrust it into the ground in token that he would remain here. Every year at Christmas time that thorn tree blossoms anew, when all other flowers are dead in the winter cold, a never failing miracle. And we, because our eyes are grown dim and our hearts careless, pass it by unheeding.”

  “And the Cup?” breathed Hugh eagerly, “what has become of the Holy Cup?”

  “Ah, that is what I would be telling thee, boy,” continued the brother. “But, mind you, prate not about these ancient sacred things, for it is all a great and solemn mystery, too sacred to be lightly discussed among the brothers and much less among unthinking novices. Thou art a good lad, and quiet, and hast kept thine own secrets well, and ’tis due to thy discovery—but come, I am overstepping myself. About the Holy Chalice, St. Joseph built a chapel for it, a small round chapel made of willow withies, and he put a simple altar within and placed the Cup upon it. And round about that chapel he built twelve huts where he and his fellows might dwell continually in the presence of that Hallowed Thing, worshiping God and converting the heathen who were then living hereabouts. And knowest thou, Hugh, where that chapel stood, the first consecrated spot in all our England?”

  Hugh shook his head.

  “Where the Old Church now stands, hard by St. Mary’s. Thou canst see the marks of the antique foundations on the floor within. It is still called St. Joseph’s Chapel.”

  “And then?” urged Hugh, more eager about the Cup than the chapel.

  “And then, though just how soon I know not, came evil days and much sin. Joseph lived to be an old, old man and, before he died, he hid the Sacred Hallow.”

  “Hid the Cup?” repeated Hugh. “But where?”

  “No man living knows of a surety,” declared Brother John. “Did I not tell thee it is all part of a great mystery? For long years there is no record of the Grail. Some said it had been reft away into heaven by the angel who had given it into the hands of Joseph, some said it had been taken to some sacred spot in the East, but our book, this book in our Painted Aumbry declares that it was hidden here, here in our Glaston, perchance in some chapel or vault under the earth, long lost and forgotten—Hugh, lad, what ails thee?” Brother John broke off in the midst of a sentence and stared at the boy who had suddenly paled and stood with wide eager eyes fastened so intently upon him that he was puzzled and amazed.

  “Go on, Brother John, please, tell me the rest of it,” urged Hugh, ignoring his question.

  “What I have told thee, all of it, rests in yon book, and the end of the story must be there also, or was in it, before it was mutilated and nigh destroyed. The book goes on to tell how the Holy Grail appeared again before the eyes of men, many many years after St. Joseph built the little chapel of withies for it. In the days of King Arthur, when brave knights, pure and noble, more than in any other place or time, went about this realm of England and sought adventure and served God and the king in singleness of heart—then it was that the Holy Grail was seen again. Men gave up all they had, and sought it far and wide, knowing that if their eyes might once rest upon it they would have joy and peace such as is not found otherwise in all this world. But how they went upon the quest of the Seynt Graal, and who they were that found it and how and where, is lost with the lost pages of yon book.”

  “And what became of the Holy Grail at the end of the adventuring? Do you suppose the book told that, when it was whole and entire?” Hugh broke in eagerly.

  “Doubtless,” replied Brother John. “But we shall never know unless we recover the lost ending of it.”

  “And might it—the Grail itself—have been returned to its hiding place, here in our Glaston, to the very place where Joseph had once hidden it?”

  Brother John nodded. “And now you know why the finding of those pages is a matter of such grave importance, lad. We must seek again, find every single sheet that may have been written over, scrape, recover, decipher, till every available word about our sacred treasure be brought to light, and the story told to the end.”

  Brother John looked again at the pages he had brought in from the kitchen to compare with the book.

  “But however did the book get so torn? And whoever could have tried to erase pages from it and write over them?” demanded Hugh, still puzzling over the whole matter.

  Brother John sighed. “Lad,” said he, “there is much carelessness as well as sin in the world, now, as in the past. And there have been evil times even in our Glaston, times of ignorance and sloth when the monks lost sight of God and cared nothing either for the things of the mind or the things of the spirit. In some such period of decay, doubtless, our priceless book was mutilated. Indeed it is only by the action of chance, or more likely of divine Providence, that we are still in possession of a part of it.” He was silent a moment, lost in thought, then he continued, “The broken book and the lost Cup; it may be that the time has now come, at long last, when God in His infinite wisdom and mercy is minded to restore to us both the Sacred Vessel and the one book wherein the tale of it is told. And then—and then, Hugh, dost thou realize what it would mean to our Glaston? It would become a place of holy pilgrimage for all the world. The sick and the sorrowful would be healed, here in our little sacred island, and those whose hearts were pure would be fed with the bread and wine of life and go forth to the ends of the earth and teach all men to love God truly.”

  Hugh listened, scarcely breathing lest he break the spell that again seemed to have fallen on the monk who stood with head uplifted and a light on his face that made the boy feel as if he were in the presence of something holy. In a moment or two it was gone and Brother John became his practical, busy self again.

  “Give me those sheets, boy,” said he, “we will stow them in a cubby hole here in the top of the aumbry. Then we will scrape and recover the others, all of them, and when I have deciphered them we will put them together and see.”

  Hugh reluctantly handed over the parchment sheets they had brought and saw them tucked away in the Painted Aumbry. It would be difficult for him to compare them with his find, unless perhaps that sheet with the crude picture of God on it, which Brother John had said he might have, should give him some clue.


  “Shall we go back into the kitchen and work some more?” he asked.

  Brother John looked at him keenly. “Thou art still pale, boy; nay, ’tis enough for now. Go you out into the sunlight and I will work alone for awhile. Young eyes must not be taxed over much.”

  Hugh was eager enough to be gone, to hunt out Dickon and tell him something of this find and, most of all, to get his pages again from their hiding place in the wall of the Old Church, and see if they also might be some of the missing ones. And if so—what about the chest in the underground vault full of ancient parchments?

  He continued silently beside Brother John as he struck off across the garth in the direction of the kitchen. That sheet with the drawing of God on it might hold the key, might serve as comparison for further search among the loose sheets. Brother John had not realized the possible importance of that sheet when he had given it to him, had brushed it aside without noticing. Hugh must recover it before the monk pounced on it.

  When they reached the kitchen, Brother John went directly to his stool in the corner and, in a moment, his eyes were scarce an inch from a half-scraped piece of parchment.

  “I will gladly work over more sheets for thee now,” said Hugh, not too enthusiastically.

  “Nay,” repeated the monk without looking up, “thou hast done enough for the nonce. Besides, I would be alone. Go outside and lad, tomorrow morning, while the dew is still wet in the fields, gather me a goodly supply of cornflowers. I need them to make new dye for the Madonna’s cloak in the title page of the abbot’s missal. Mind they be fresh and unwithered. They boil down to a clearer blue if they be picked with the dew still on them. We must not neglect our other tasks because we have set out on a great adventure.”

  Hugh had been edging toward the cupboard where he had laid the page he wanted. Now he caught it up eagerly.

  “Yes, Brother John, I will gather the cornflowers. The meadows near the grange are blue with them.” (What a piece of good luck that he should be given such a task out of doors just when he wanted most particularly to confer with Dickon!) Bidding a dutiful good-by which Brother John was too absorbed to notice or acknowledge, he left the kitchen and turned at once in the direction of the Old Church.