by Thomas Sabel
“May I come in?” Ulrik knew he was already in and then felt foolish for saying it.
“If you can stand the heat, come in and have a rest.” Ethel offered him a chair at the worktable which was coated with a light dusting of flour. Ulrik absentmindedly began to draw in the flour dust with his finger, and his thoughts went back to the castle kitchen where Helga had taught him his letters by having him write them out on a floury table.
The heat caused him to sweat nearly as much as Ethel and Henry, with drops falling from his nose, making patterns in the flour. “Here, sir, try one of these if you please,” Ethel slid a plate of a fresh muffins across the table, leaving a path through the flour dust. When he thanked her, he saw that she had lowered her eyes to avoid looking at him. He ate as they looked on, being careful not to look at them, knowing they would quickly drop their gaze if he should lift his eyes. The first taste reopened familiar territory leading him to moan with pleasure.
“I’m glad you like it, sir. I pulled the recipe from an old box I found and was trying it out to see if’n I should make them for the abbey. I gave one to Henry, but he likes everything out of the oven,” said Ethel.
Ulrik asked to see the recipe. Ethel brought in a recipe box stuffed to overflowing. “Oh, dear me. Which one was it? I thought it was here in the front. Ah, this one.” She pulled a card from the box and laid it in front of him. He recognized the handwriting at once; Helga had written it when she lived in the abbey.
Later that day, Ulrik requested to be assigned to the bakery with Henry and Ethel. The abbot joyfully agreed. Ulrik’s duties placed him deep within the ebb and flow of the community. Because he needed to be at the bakery, he rose earlier than nearly everyone and within a week had learned his way from his room to the bakery without needing a light to guide him down the hallways or across the courtyard. He would find Henry already there, firing up the oven, a skill Ulrik attempted but failed at more than once. The first time the fire was too hot and the first batch of breakfast muffins (which didn’t make it to the breakfast table) burned. He over-compensated the next time so that by the time the muffins were brown on the outside, they were as dry as the desert on the inside. Other attempts met the same disastrous results. With the community’s patience wearing thin, the abbot suggested he work with the dough instead.
When Ulrik kneaded the dough, his hands worked it like a living object needing to be pulled and pushed, stretched and nurtured into maturity. Ethel tried to tell him to go easily with the first batch so he wouldn’t exhaust his hands. He paid little attention and that night his fingers could barely move. In the morning they were cramped up into claws. Ethel didn’t bother him with, “I told you so.” Instead, she massaged his fingers loose and set him to work washing pans, knowing the hot water would help ease the ache.
After this lesson he learned to pace his work carefully. Soon the folks in the refectory noticed the change in their bread and asked about the new baker, surprised to hear it was the prince. Under Ethel’s watchful eye he quickly advanced, and then he began with his own experiments. After many trials he developed a specialty—a sweet bread in the shape of a heart stuffed with cinnamon, sugar, and ground nuts. When the abbot tasted it he told Ulrik that the time in the castle kitchen with Helga had been well spent.
His bakery duties ended before chapel services began. He met Prester John after the service and continued to learn the ways of the Enchiridion.
“Now, Ulrik, recite for me the fifth commandment,” said Prester John.
“You shall not murder,” the prince recited.
“What does this mean?” asked his teacher.
“We should fear and love God so that we do not harm our neighbor in his body but help and support him in every physical need.”
“Very good.”
And so they continued through the commandments. Ulrik memorized and recited each commandment while Prester John listened without comment. One day the prince asked, “Is this all there is?”
“What do you mean?” asked his teacher, visibly put off by the question.
“Is this all that being a Christian is about? Memorizing the commandments and the Enchiridion meanings?”
“No,” explained his teacher. “We also have to learn the Creed, the Our Father, the . . .”
“Yes, I know that,” Ulrik cut him off abruptly. Prester John stiffened as the prince continued. “I know what we’ll be doing. I’ve read the Enchiridion through several times. A child could do this.”
Prester John attempted to explain, “The Enchiridion was written for children. It’s part of what we teach . . . the meaning of the faith.”
“But after that? Isn’t there more? I memorize and recite. You pronounce it “good” and we go on,” complained Ulrik.
The scar dividing Prester John’s face reddened. He looked hard at Ulrik, holding back his anger and frustration. Finally, he muttered through a half-closed mouth, “Maybe you’d be better off talking to the abbot.” Clutching his robes closely around himself he stormed off leaving Ulrik alone.
Ulrik took Prester John’s suggestion and sought out Abbot Peter, finding him in his book-lined study. He knocked, entered, and explained what had happened between him and Prester John. The abbot listened and then took the Enchiridion from Ulrik, opening it to the frontispiece.
“I gave this to your mother years ago. She was about your age, maybe a bit younger, and I was a very inexperienced pastor,” Abbot Peter said, with the Enchiridion in his large, old hands. “She was an active girl- not so keen on memorizing as she was on running through the courtyard or pestering Father William whenever she had the chance. I suggested she not worry so much about memorizing the words but study them slowly. The idea helped her and maybe it will help you.”
This was all Ulrik needed. The Enchiridion took on a new meaning as he nibbled it in small bites rather than swallow it in whole gulps. Sometimes, he would slowly study the part Prester John had assigned to him. He would take a word or phrase and roll it around in his heart. On some days one word would be enough, like the time that the word “covet” caught him. Does merely wanting something mean the same as “covet?” If my neighbors are all worse off than I am, how could I covet anything of theirs? Other days would find him turning the pages, looking at the illustrations and seeing if some detail may have been overlooked. On one such day he flipped to the back of the book and discovered a section on prayer; but the prayers didn’t catch his attention. Tucked deeply in the pages, near the center lay a fragile flower, pressed and dried through the years. Some of the flower’s color had bled onto the paper.
“How did this . . .” His mother had placed it there. He nudged it with his finger, wanting to take hold of it to, but the delicate petals began to shatter at his touch. The flower was like a gift or a relic, making the book more valuable for the flower than for the words it contained. With this discovery, each moment spent with his Enchiridion brought him closer to the mother he never knew.
One morning, when the oven’s heat drove him out of the bakery, he wandered near the herb garden behind the main abbey buildings and saw Edgar, all swathed in white, wearing an enormously brimmed hat. Edgar was studying a plant held by Brother Salvador, also swathed in white from head to toe. The brother carefully and slowly pointed out the unique characteristics of the plant. Edgar studied it and then located another like it in the garden. Brother Salvador was patting him on the back when Ulrik interrupted them.
“Ulrik,” said the brother looking straight into the prince’s eyes. “I suppose I need to thank you for my new assistant.”
“That’s me,” chimed in Edgar in answer to Ulrik’s puzzled look. “Brother Salvador says Edgar got a nature eye.”
“A natural eye,” corrected Salvador, “It doesn’t take him long to identify the right plant from the wrong one. I show him what I need, send him out, and he brings it back right away. Not many assistants can do that. Most of the ones I’ve tried to train before couldn’t tell a cowslip from a dandelion.”<
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“Edgar can,” he said, smiling as far as his scarred face would allow. He leaned over and put his face next to the Brother’s for Ulrik to compare. “Brother Salvador says we like twins.”
Brother Salvador smiled briefly, then grumbled, “Enough of that stuff. Let’s get back to work.” Ulrik left them to their tasks, knowing that his friend had found a place he could never have found at the castle- a home and a true vocation.
When Ulrik entered the chapel he had to ask whether it was Wednesday or Thursday because Prester John was leading the service instead of the abbot. When he was told it was Wednesday his confusion increased because Wednesday was always the abbot’s day. While Ulrik tried to get his teacher’s attention, Prester John made a point of ignoring him throughout the service.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Following the prayer service, Prester John instructed the prince to follow him to the abbot’s study. Ulrik struggled to keep up with his teacher’s long strides.
As soon as Ulrik saw Abbot Peter’s face, he knew this meeting was about him. His stomach churned with anxiety.
“Ulrik,” said the abbot, moving close to him. “We’ve received information regarding your father.”
The word “dead” caught Ulrik in the throat; a word so empty he couldn’t bring himself to pronounce it.
“No, he’s not dead,” added the abbot, almost reading the prince’s mind, “but his condition is graver than we had believed. Ulrik, my son, there is more.” He motioned Ulrik to sit down on a bench in the study and then joined him. “The wizard’s power is increasing. I don’t know what he is up to. Our friends haven’t been able to tell us much . . .”
“Helga!” Ulrik exclaimed with fear in his eyes.
“She’s fine, as far as we know. She has a remarkable strength and trust in God. She’s the last one I’d worry about. The first one, Ulrik, is you,” said the abbot. Ulrik’s eyes quizzed him.
“You’re my first worry because you must leave right away. Your father and the kingdom need you back safe and whole, and I have little idea what dangers you will encounter on the way. I’m sending Prester John with you. You still need to complete your education and he may prove to be the company you’ll need for the journey.”
Prester John shifted uncomfortably, not sure of what to say or do until at last he broke the silence. “We’d best get packing. We should leave while it’s cool. I’ll help you pack,” he said before exiting quickly.
“Prester John carries far too heavy a load,” Abbot Peter commented.
Back in Ulrik’s room, Prester John gave out the instructions, “Pack as lightly as possible, little more that the clothes on your back. Much else gets too heavy. The pack pony will carry our food and water. Now show me what you plan to pack.” Ulrik told him he had no pack, for all he owned had been left behind on the sky-ship. “Take mine, I’ve an extra.” Prester John tossed a very worn pack on the bed. “Make sure you don’t over-pack it. Leave yourself extra room in it. You’ll need it.” The teacher left the prince to his packing.
Ulrik easily followed the instructions because he had accumulated little since his arrival- an extra set of clothes, a broad-brimmed hat, an apron from the bakery, and his mother’s Enchiridion. This most precious object he carefully wrapped in a shirt and placed in the pack. He would return the apron to Henry and Ethel.
In the courtyard a crowd had started to gather. The abbot, in his chapel vestments, stood beside the pack pony arguing with Prester John. The argument was cut short when the abbot raised his voice and said, “No, you don’t have a choice. You will take it and you will teach the boy. Being a servant of God’s Church doesn’t mean amnesia regarding old skills.” Prester John accepted the answer but didn’t like it, for while the others collected in the center of the courtyard from various corners of the abbey he remained to one side, near the pony.
“Farewell and Godspeed” was the rite used to bid them good-bye, which explained why Abbot Peter wore his vestments. Edgar stood alongside Brother Salvador; Henry and Ethel stood near, still lightly dusted with flour; Father William, whom Ulrik wished he’d gotten to know better, also stood nearby along with the rest of the abbey’s community.
Abbot Peter kept the service brief to give the well-wishers time to make their good-byes. Henry and Ethel gave Ulrik a loaf of very heavy bread. “This is my great-grandmother’s recipe. She called it ‘Hunger Bread’ to be eaten when all else was gone. It’s nothing like Helga’s. No one in God’s creation can bake like that woman, I tell you. Our bread may not taste like much but if you take a small amount and keep on chewing it until your jaws ache, it’ll fill you up and keep you going. But don’t eat it until you absolutely have to. It’ll keep fresh through anything as long as it’s tightly wrapped,” Ethel explained, and after giving him a great hug said, “I pray you’ll never need to eat it.”
Henry almost wrenched Ulrik’s arm loose by shaking it so much, tears flowing from the baker’s eyes, “Damn it, look at me crying so much. God bless you, Ulrik.”
Several others came by to bid their farewells; some Ulrik knew only by sight. Only a few bade Prester John good-bye, who was still waiting by the pony.
Edgar was the last to say good-bye. Because of the bright sun in the courtyard he kept his wide-brimmed hat on. Clothed in loose white robes, he looked like a larger version of Brother Salvador. Edgar paced back and forth rehearsing what he was about to say. Finally, he went over to the prince. “Uley got Prester John to take care of Uley now. He’s good, strong too. Edgar stay here. Edgar’s face is ugly out there,” he said, pointing off to the horizon. “Not here with Brother Salvador and friends. Uley be all right?”
“Edgar, you’ve been my friend for as long as I can remember. You’ve taken good care of me. Helga would be proud. But now you’re needed here. God bless you, Edgar, and I know he will. Like our friend Christian always said to us, ‘Pax et Bonum.’” Ulrik reached out his arms to embrace his friend, but Edgar had a different plan; he grabbed Ulrik and threw him onto his back, knocking off his own hat and laughing like they were back in the castle kitchen. With the hat gone, Ulrik saw the rawness of the scars and knew that the abbey was the best place for him.
“Edgar! Put him down and put on your hat!” scolded Brother Salvador running across the courtyard to them. “The sun is far too bright for you. For heaven’s sake, put your hat on.” Edgar quietly obeyed, looking like he had been caught doing something naughty.
The abbot interrupted their good-byes by calling Ulrik and Prester John over for the final blessing. They knelt in front of him. He put his hands on their heads and prayed: “Almighty God, creator of heaven and earth, look with love and tenderness upon John and Ulrik as they make their journey on unknown paths. Protect them through storms and dangers and all that may beset them. Grant them traveling mercies, O Lord. In Jesus name….” And the crowd responded with a strong “Amen.”
After the travelers rose to their feet an oddly shaped man whom Ulrik had occasionally seen came around the corner. His back curved in as much as his enormous belly hung out. He smoked a deeply curved pipe, giving the appearance he was made from a collection of S’s. He waddled towards them, striving to keep himself from tipping forward.
“Porter!” called Abbot Peter, “are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, sir. The desert looks clear for the next few days so we shouldn’t have a rough go. I just need my pack.” He gave a sharp whistle and two boys came out struggling with an enormous pack, larger than the one the pony carried. With their help, he hoisted it into the curve of his back with the weight pulling him upright. “Ah, that’s better,” he sighed. “It’s well loaded and balanced to boot. We should make good time.”
“Porter will lead you through the desert to the base of the mountains. He reads the desert better than anyone. He’s carrying enough to get you through so you can save your supplies until you need them. One last thing, Ulrik, do you still have the map?”
The map. Ulrik hadn’t thought of it
since his arrival. He remembered he had placed it in the nightstand of his room. He was about to run and get it when the abbot stopped him and instructed the porter’s boys to fetch it. They shot off like rabbits, stumbling over each other to be the first there and back.
“Nagel made some incredible maps in his time,” the abbot commented to Ulrik. “Yours is one of the most remarkable. He was a cartographer who once lived and worked here. He would have visitors and messengers coming in from all over the world, giving him bits of information that he used to complete these wondrous maps. I can still almost see him hunched over his drawing board, a green eye shade pulled over his forehead. Fortunately for his sake, he passed before the dark time came.” The boys returned with the map. Ulrik unfolded it for the first time in many weeks. Rather than looking worse for wear, it looked rejuvenated, as if the time in the abbey allowed it to heal. He unrolled it to see what changes may have taken place. The places where he’d been had faded from the page. In the center was the abbey sharply drawn with the brilliant colors Father William described to him and bore the label: Abbey of Santa Sophia. New to the map was a well-defined mountain range with a spot near the top of the mountain labeled, “Where the Wind Is Born.”
“Let’s go, sun’s almost down,” called Porter, and he set off. He had become a sure-footed, fast-moving travel guide instead of the waddling man met earlier. Prester John led the pack pony, and Ulrik walked on the pony’s other side. The setting sun cast its shadows long and deep across the desert floor as they stepped forward into their own silhouettes.
Porter maintained his speed during the seven days through the desert. The full moon lit their way although no amount of darkness would have stopped the resourceful Porter. He knew every rock, dune, and place of shade. During the day they slept, always in relative comfort, thanks to their guide’s knowledge. Their journey fell into a regular pattern. Rising at dusk, Porter, without his pack for balance, would waddle about fixing breakfast. Prester John would teach Ulrik the lessons from the Enchiridion. With the Commandments finished, they went on to the first part of the Creed. Prester John closed their meal with prayers and a devotion. Porter surprised them with his deep resounding voice that filled the desert with music of the hymns. Prester John’s devotions brought little fulfillment. Ulrik got the sense that his teacher was preaching as much to himself as to them and with little conviction. The right words were in the right place, but little heart could be found. Rather than listen, Ulrik’s mind wandered off into the desert.
