TEMPLE OF THE GRAIL - a Novel

by Adriana Koulias

  My terrified eyes located Setubar sitting low on a chair to the far right of the stalls, his angular frame drowned by his voluminous habit, his eyes wrinkled and wickedly intelligent. He nodded, lifting his long tapered hands to beckon me to him. ‘Come, come, my beautiful boy . . . Why art thou so full of heaviness, O my soul, and why art thou so disquieted within me?’ He laughed a little, ‘Have you put thy trust in God? Oh, the young never trust God,’ he answered himself, waving a pale hand in the air. ‘They trust only in their youth! But youth is fleeting . . . You see me? I was once red-blooded and sinewy, like you.’

  I stood motionless, not knowing what to do.

  ‘I see you love your horse, after all he is beautiful and strong,’ he continued, ‘but he is a creature of pleasure and all pleasure is rooted in evil . . . The mule is unpleasant to behold, and though he is stubborn, he is loyal. The mule is a creature of service.’ He nodded his head, and a faint trickle of saliva escaped his mouth.

  ‘Yes, venerable brother,’ I answered, very frightened, ‘but he is not my horse, he is my master’s.’

  ‘Ahhhh,’ the old man hissed, ‘so it is that you covet your master’s horse?’

  I felt a cold sweat snaking its way down my back and I shuddered. This man seemed to be the Devil himself. ‘I confess to having a fondness for him, master.’ I trembled.

  ‘Oh, a fondness! Yes, when one is young one is fond of everything. Everything is new and wondrous, but as one grows older those very things that one thought wondrous cause us the greatest anguish, for as Ecclesiastes tells us, ‘He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.’’ He leant forward and waved me over to him. ‘Come, tell me what gives your youthful face that pallor . . . I am old and my teeth are nearly all gone . . . I will not bite you!’

  Oh, dear God, how I feared that man! Yet I knew that my desire to know the truth should outweigh all other considerations. It was my duty, I told myself, as a soldier of Christ, or very nearly so, to get close enough to the old man to see if his shoes were stained with blood or clay. Determined, I made my way out of the stall, walking timidly what seemed an eternal distance between us. I could see his grey eyes, sparkling malevolently beneath his cowl, drawing me with their intensity. What else could I do but follow his wish? Should I kneel at his side? I wondered. No! I thought in sudden terror. Once I was within reach he would caress me with his cold fingers, as was the custom of older men, what if I should flinch? He would suspect that I knew the truth! I bit my lip. I was no coward, this was my opportunity to find out if he was indeed the cunning murderer. He was not physically strong and so, easily overpowered, and yet, I realised, placing one foot ahead of the other, his victims had not overpowered him! But they were old, ahh . . . but what of young Jerome?

  The door to the stables creaked open for a moment allowing a cold gust to invade the relative warmth, then it banged shut with such force that I gasped, jumping out of my skin, as they say. Indeed, it must have been a comical sight, for it occasioned a chuckle from the old man.

  ‘Come, come . . . You think I am a wicked old man, don’t you?’ he asked.

  How could he know? I resolved that he must be a sorcerer, in league with the Devil, how else could he know my every thought? It is only now, after much reflection, that I know Setubar’s power not to have been diabolical, it lay rather in observation, the quiet skill of every good physician. His was a strength born of many years studying faces, hands, gestures, inflections, tones, to arrive at a diagnosis of the state of a man’s inner as well as outer being. But it also vested him with the ability to penetrate the soul and wrench from it every human desire, thought, passion. In this respect he was indeed formidable.

  ‘Did you know that once they burnt those whose complexions were as pale as yours?’ he grinned, waiting.

  I said nothing.

  ‘The pale ones were naturally suspected of being Cathars, for Cathars do not eat meat . . . They did not know that the old are cold and therefore always pale, because they treasure a life which they know they will soon forfeit, and this paves the way to cowardice that leaves a kind of pallor on the skin.’ He touched his face absently. ‘Youth is warm-blooded and brave. You are not afraid of me, are you, my boy?’ He searched for my face, and I thanked God that I had not removed my cowl.

  ‘Of course not, master,’ I said a little nearer.

  ‘So your pallor beneath that cowl suggests something other?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘The Arab philosopher,’ he interrupted, ‘on the other hand, believes that there are two reasons for pallor . . . infatuation with those feminine creatures,’ I lowered my eyes, ‘because this sin never leaves one satisfied, but rather, by virtue of its heinous nature – that one may never in truth apprehend – leaves one insatiated and melancholy. The other reason escapes me . . . Ah, yes, discontentment. Confusion.’ He left his mouth open, waiting for my response. When there was none, he huffed, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You are confused because life is complicated, is that not so . . .? Or are you perhaps in love?’

  ‘I am not in love, venerable brother.’

  ‘You are confused then. Yes? Love, confusion and discontentment are one and the same. One may be discontented because one is confused about love, and then one may be confused because his love leaves him discontented, still one’s confusion and discontentment may lead one to seek out a love that will ease his pain . . . The young love so easily.’ He smiled. ‘So trustingly . . . but the old love as though they will some day hate and hate as though they will some day love, as Aristotle tells us . . . but we do not speak only of the temporal malady, my fair one, which is inappropriate to those who have chosen to live their lives in the service of the Lord, but also the love of God can be tainted by unholy sentiments.’

  ‘In what way unholy?’ I asked, almost at his side, and he ordered me to kneel with his hand in an impatient way.

  ‘When it falls into disorder, for disorder is to be shunned as a tool of Satan, because it leads to discord and discord leads to confusion, and soon one does not know the difference between the good love and the bad . . . You see? Your mind is in disorder, you no longer know what to believe, is that so?’

  ‘Master, I . . .’

  ‘Beliefs and unbeliefs . . .’ he dismissed, ‘we must learn to forget and unforget, to remember, and unremember! Because when we grow older those same beliefs, like our faces or our hands, change.’

  ‘But our belief in God does not change?’

  ‘Ahh . . .’ he wheezed, placing a cold hand on my wrist, and I felt like snatching it away, for his skin felt moist, ‘perhaps not our belief, but the way we believe changes. Our belief of what is good, and what is evil, changes, or perhaps it is not our belief that changes but our faith in that belief,’ he said. ‘And yes, this finally is wisdom, my boy . . . not as many young men think – a knowledge bestowed from above when one reaches a venerable age. Wisdom is knowing that life is not a path to perfection, but a path to recognising our imperfections . . . You have had a dream? You are a dreamer?’

  I blushed violently, worried he was referring to my sinful dream, and buried my head deeper in my cowl. Seeing that I was trying to hide, he snatched it off my face leaving me exposed to his scrutiny. Before I could make a move he took me by both wrists with his sticky fingers, and in horror I realised that he was looking for a pulse.

  ‘Did you know, fair one, that the heartbeat changes when one is not telling the truth? Avicenna was close to discovering this, but he was not clever enough. You have a vernicular pulse, my boy, either you are in love or you are frightened of me . . . Tell me, for I know that you have had a dream. Did you dream of bees?’

  I swallowed a gasp and he eyed me shrewdly.

  ‘Ahhh, yes. Do not despair, a peasant from the village of Vertus was also tormented by bees in a dream. They entered his body through his private parts, stinging him horribly as they made their way out through his mouth and nostrils. He said they bid him to do things possible only for devils, so the wret
ched man went to the village church and desecrated the crucifix! Therefore he was burnt. And yet, the bee remains a symbol of purity, messenger of the word, as Bede tells us. But the purity of its message depends upon the recipient of that message. Do you follow, child? Like the purity of the wine is dependent on the vessel that carries it . . .’ He paused, somehow finding this humorous, cackling like an old hen. ‘You see, in the case of the poor unfortunate, the bee’s good function was reversed because of the man’s iniquity, so that it became a messenger of evil, entering his body through a shameful gate.’ He sighed, a little tired. ‘One man may have a dream in which bees herald God, and another may have a dream in which it heralds the beast!’ He looked at me pointedly. ‘The Lord clothes his messages to suit his purposes . . . you see?’ He stroked my head as though I were a favourite cat. ‘I have been young and now I am old, you too will be old, and the old are best dead! Because you begin to care less about what is good and more about what is useful, and the useful is only what is good for oneself, it is rarely what is good absolutely, and that is where the danger lies. Would you like a raisin?’ he asked changing the subject so abruptly that it took me by surprise. I thanked him, but declined his offer, fearing that it might be coated in some poison.

  ‘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 finis
hed, 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.