The Wounds of God

by Penelope Wilcock

  ‘… and the little mouse came and pulled the cat, and the cat pulled the dog, and the dog pulled the little girl, and the little girl pulled the little boy, and the little boy pulled the old woman, and the old woman pulled the old man, and the old man pulled the turnip and they…’ I looked down at her, and she said the words with me: ‘pulled and they pulled and they pulled and they pulled and they PULLED, and…’ Cecily looked at me, her eyes dancing with delight. ‘Up came the turnip!’ she shouted with me. ‘And they all had turnip for tea, all of them. I hate turnip!’

  I hugged her, but she wriggled free and raced upstairs to Mother. In the bedroom, Mother took her on her knee. ‘Prayers, Cecily,’ she said. Cecily put her hands together and shut her eyes so tightly that her face was trembling with the effort of keeping them shut.

  ‘Gentle…’ Mother prompted.

  ‘Jesusmeekandmildlookuponalittlechild,’ gabbled Cecily. ‘Pity… pity… pity mice…’

  ‘Pity my simplicity. Suffer me to come to thee,’ Mother finished off for her. ‘There, into bed.’

  She drew the curtains and lit the candle as Cecily nestled into her bed. ‘Go away, Cecily,’ muttered Beth irritably as Cecily snuggled up against her.

  ‘Lie still now,’ said Mother. ‘Ssh. I’ll sing you a song.’

  She sang them some songs, an Irish folk song and two hymns, and they were quiet and drowsy when she had finished.

  ‘Story?’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes. About poverty. This is not a story about the sort of poverty where people are in rags or starving. It’s about holy poverty, monastic poverty.’ Mother laughed. ‘I once knew a girl who went to stay with some Poor Clares in their monastery. She came back all big eyes saying, “They live in such poverty! They only have one towel in the bathroom.”

  ‘“It must get very wet,” I said. “Oh, no,” she said, “they’ve got lots of bathrooms.” Yes, holy poverty is different from the ordinary sort. It’s simplicity, really. Having a humble and frugal way of life for the sake of Jesus because he was poor and like a servant. To live in holy poverty is one of the three monastic vows. The hardship of holy poverty is almost the opposite of ordinary poverty. With the ordinary sort, the worst thing is having no choice, being trapped in it. With holy poverty, the hard thing is being faithful to it, having chosen it.

  ‘Anyway, this is the story. It’s one that Father Peregrine’s daughter Melissa used to love especially.’

  ‘I ’ave brought a little cask of wine with me, mon père. Exquisite, beautiful wine. If one of your young men will bring it to your house, we will sample it together. I made the mistake of drinking your wine last time I was here, bon Dieu! Hedgerow vinegars made of every curious root and flower the wilderness spawns. Sacré bleu! Your father would turn in his grave to see what you have descended to! And the foul mixture you drink with your viands—your ale and water—ah, Lord have mercy! There is time enough for purgatory. I have no wish to begin it now.’

  Père Guillaume from Burgundy had come to pay Father Peregrine a friendly visit while he was in England. The two of them were walking across the great court of the abbey from the guest house to the refectory, which was the point of entry into the cloister buildings. Brother Martin, the porter, watched them from the gatehouse with a smile as they went slowly across the court, for they made an extraordinary couple; Guillaume strolling in corpulent magnificence (twenty-one and a half stones, Brother Martin decided, would be a very conservative estimate), and Peregrine’s spare, nowadays slightly stooping, frame jerking along with the aid of his wooden crutch. To Brother Richard, the fraterer, who had caught sight of their approach through the window of the refectory and opened the door for them, they presented an equally amazing sight. Père Guillaume’s voice was suave and educated. His eyes took in everything around him with quick intelligence, missing nothing. Great waves of rich laughter rumbled up from his enormous gut, shaking his immaculately shaven chins as he took Peregrine to task for the severity of St Alcuin’s simplicity. His elegant white hands gestured articulately as he spoke.

  At first glance, Father Peregrine’s ungainly figure seemed unlikely company for such a man. That Peregrine’s ascetic preferences and the frugality of his house horrified the abbé was the first thing obvious from the words that rolled across the court before him in the deep and fruity accents of his confident voice; the voice of a man used to commanding, used to imposing, used to power. But as they drew closer, Brother Richard saw that there was more to it than that. Père Guillaume bent his head and listened with close attention to Father Peregrine’s quiet replies, and looked sideways at him with a sort of fascinated respect. And well he might, thought Brother Richard, as he held the door open for the two abbots to pass into the refectory, looking at the lean, uncompromising lines of his superior’s face, disfigured by its cruel scar, illumined by the disquieting penetration of the dark, direct grey eyes. Well he might.

  Father Peregrine stood aside to allow his guest to precede him through the doorway. ‘Mais non, aprés toi, mon ami I must follow my betters!’ The abbe stepped back, raising his hands in deprecation, then courteously but firmly put his hand to Peregrine’s elbow, steering him ahead of him through the door.

  Abbot Peregrine smiled his thanks at Brother Richard standing holding the door for them and Père Guillaume stopped to acknowledge him too: ‘Ah, now; see how your sons love you, mon père! In my house they slam the door in my face. “Let the old pig root for his own truffles,” they say. Yes, mon fils, ’tis true, I swear it!’ He nodded at Brother Richard’s startled face, then put a plump hand on his shoulder, the gold of his ring glinting in the sun that slanted through the doorway. ‘I am jesting, maybe, but I speak the truth when I say that I am not loved as this abbot of yours is loved. The reign of God is in your love here. I love him too.’ He patted Brother Richard’s shoulder, and continued on his way into the room, where Peregrine stood waiting for him, watching Brother Richard’s reaction with amusement. But the abbé stopped short. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he said, the sweeping gesture of his hand inviting them to look at their refectory. ‘Look at the bare wood of this place! Have you no linen for your tables? Have you nothing better than stone for your candlesticks? Ah, but they are beautiful candles. I remember Frère Mark and his bees. Beautiful candles! They tell me, mon père—can it be true?—they tell me that these Englishmen are barbaric. Come, you are a Frenchman, you can tell me if it is true! They tell me it is impossible—but impossible—to stop the English from wiping their knives and blowing their noses on the tablecloths. It is true then, mon père. It must be true, for you have taken their tablecloths away!’

  He stood in the middle of the room, his eyes wide in mock horror and amazement, his hands spread and his eyebrows lifted in enquiry. Peregrine laughed at him. ‘For sure it is true, but I didn’t take them away. Our novices stole them to enable them to escape over the wall at night, driven to despair by the insupportable harshness of our regime. Come now and revile me in my own house. Stop offending the silence of our cloister. Alas, I have only bare wooden chairs to offer you there too, but I see you’ve thoughtfully provided your own cushioning as well as your own wine. Brother Richard, if you have a moment to spare, would you be so kind as to bring us from the guest house Père Guillaume’s cask of wine? I have nothing he can bear to drink. Even the water in our well is rank, though it be sweet enough for our degraded palates.’

  ‘Ouf! Touché!’ the abbé chuckled. ‘Very well, then, let us tiptoe along your cloister. Let me amaze you with the revelation, we too keep silence every now and then. I can bear to cease my chatter till we are within your parlour.’

  So saying, he folded his hands reverently within the sleeves of his habit, and proceeded with regal dignity along the cloister, his face composed into a grand abbatial solemnity which went oddly with the gleam of mischief in his eye.

  Brother Richard brought the wine, and broached the cask. He poured it out into the simple pottery beakers that were all the abbey could boast for drinking vessel
s. Father Peregrine saw the expression on Père Guillaume’s face as he looked at the beakers, and forestalled his comment. ‘Guillaume, it suits us to make pots. It keeps our idle hands from mischief. We make them, and then because we are barbaric as you say, and have but the clumsy manners of peasants, we drop them and break them. Then we can make some more and it saves us from mischief again. If we drank from silver vessels, we should have nothing to do but drink all day, and nothing to drink anyway, but ale and water. Thank you, Brother Richard. Your very good health, my brother, my friend. May God unite us in peace.’

  ‘Amen, mon ami. Bon santé!’

  ‘Oh, but Guillaume, this is beautiful wine. You have brought me the best. I am not so boorish yet that I cannot appreciate this. It is beautiful wine!’

  Abbé Guillaume smiled in satisfaction, and looked affectionately at his friend. ‘I have looked forward with impatience to this visit with you, mon frère. I carry you in my heart, though I see you seldom. It is an honour to be your guest.’

  There was a knock at the door, and Brother Tom entered quietly. Brother Richard had sent him: ‘He has a guest, Tom. Someone important, I think. He may need you to wait upon them.’

  Père Guillaume looked round to see who had entered the room, and when his eyes lit on Brother Tom, he put down the beaker of wine which looked so incongruous in his elegant hand, and heaved himself to his feet.

  ‘Frère Thomas! Mon ami! You remember me? You, I shall never forget, never! I see you as if it happens now before my eyes, standing like a prophet of God over that Augustinian snake, storming at him as the gravy dripped from his furious face. Ah, Sancta Maria, that was a moment to remember! Let me embrace you, mon fils!’

  He enfolded Tom in a mighty hug, soundly kissed him on both cheeks and stood back with his hands on Tom’s shoulders, beaming at him fondly.

  ‘“I had rather be”—what was it? A beetle? Mais non, a cockroach! “A cockroach that crawls on the floor in the house where my abbot is master than be the greatest of those who serve under you!” Formidable, eh? I salute you, Frère Thomas. It does my heart good to see you again. May he have some wine, mon père? Is it permitted? Un tout petit peu?’ He turned in enquiry to Father Peregrine, who hesitated.

  ‘Truly, Guillaume, this is not how we usually spend the afternoon; but yes, why not. Sit down and share some wine with us, Brother.’

  ‘Let me pour you some, mon fils, into this enchanting little pot. It is not at its best; it should settle, it should breathe, but never mind. Voilà. I have given some to your abbot, to draw the English damp out of his soul. The fog has penetrated him. He has become a little chill, a little grey. This will put the laughter back in his eyes—eh bien, look at him! You see! That frozen pond of austerity is melting at the edges. You will drink some more of my wine, mon père? But a little. Non? Un soupçon?’

  ‘Guillaume, this will not do. You can afford to roll unsteady into the Office, but I lurch like a ship with the side stove in as it is. Leave me with a rag of dignity to cover my foolish soul. I’ll not go down to choir drunk, breathing fumes of wine with every phrase I sing. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I meant no rebuke. We’ll drink some more wine over supper.’

  Abbé Guillaume nodded mournfully. ‘It is as I thought. You have seen through me. “’Ere is a man,” you say to yourself, “with all the virtue of a cracked pot.” Fear not, mon frère, the comparison suggests itself to me quite unbidden. There is nothing amiss with this one. “He has suffocated his spirit, which was, alas, noble, in folds of flesh, and I must be wary of the contamination of his gluttony. What is more, I must shield this young monk from the debauchery of his ways, and in no way seem to condone them.” N’est-ce pas? Eh bien, tu as raison, mon ami. Your abstinence is my reproach.’

  He smote his breast and hung his head sadly, then burst into roars of delighted laughter at Peregrine’s discomfited silence.

  ‘Ça va, mon ami, je comprends. I will leave you to your dreary labours until supper-time, but you must promise me then to put aside your dignity of office and be my companion, my old friend, not my judge. I have a conscience of my own to make me uneasy—yes, still, I swear it—I will not be needing to borrow yours. You have finished, Frère Thomas? How do you find my wine? Ah, it has lit in your eyes a little candle. Pleasant? Yes, I think so too. Perhaps your good abbot will send you to France to visit me one day. I have a whole cellar full. What did you say, mon père? What was that very ungracious muttering? You think not, is that it? Ah, well, Frère Thomas, you would have been welcome. Tant pis, uh?

  ‘With your permission, mon père, I will feast on the delights of your library until Vespers. I will behave impeccably, as solemn and recollected as your extraordinary novice master. À bientôt. You will be with us later, Frère Thomas? Yes? Bon! You make an excellent cockroach! À bientôt.’

  As the abbé left the room, taking his colour and laughter with him, and Brother Tom followed him out, Peregrine was left alone. The abbé reminded him of all the world he had left behind, the wealth and sophistication of his youth. To leave it all had seemed a clear call, to which he had responded with an unhesitating ‘yes’, but… it was true, maybe he was a little chill, a little grey… a bit negative, perhaps.

  For the first time in years, his single-hearted conviction wavered. Oh God, if it were all a hollow edifice, this life he had built. If the gamble of faith were a losing bet, and the temple he had made of his life prove only an echoing vault, an empty house of death; all the sacrifice of chastity, poverty, obedience be no more than frustration, denial, loneliness. He shook the doubts away. There was work to be done. He must go to the infirmary to spend an hour with the aged bedridden brothers. There he forgot himself for a while in their company and conversation, but his mood of uncertainty and uneasiness descended again as he made his way slowly to chapel before Vespers.

  He sat in his stall in the choir, the abbot’s stall, centrally placed in the position of dominance for the man who carried the weight of status and power. When first he had come here, there had been a certain thrill in occupying that place. Pride… ambition, I suppose, he thought sadly as he sat there now. What a struggle it has been. What a struggle to fight the pride of my spirit on the one hand and the rebellion of my flesh on the other, and still to lead with confidence—to teach and shape the men given into my trust. He sat motionless, unblinking, looking back over the way he had travelled. What am I become now? he asked himself. The sour defender of my own crabbed asceticism? Is all that I have endured in the name of humility only the symptom of my own vain pride?

  He thought of the merciless indifference with which he had driven himself in the early days: the hair shirts, the scourgings and fastings, the perverse satisfaction in his body’s miserable craving for softness, for comfort, for pleasure, for tenderness. What was it for? And then, the bleak and barren desert in which he had fought to come to terms with his disablement, the grim tenacity with which he had striven to prove again his competence, his ability to rule, to lead.

  He thought back on a day, one among many, when with a certain cruel detachment, he had very deliberately knelt to pray, brutally forcing the shattered knee to bend, letting the sickening waves of pain force his self-pity and distress into the background, so that the dizzy sweat of it hurting won a savage victory over threatening tears. Why? Systematically he had stripped the life of his community of all pretensions, all luxuries, all self-indulgence, seeking the poverty that God had promised to reward with the kingdom of heaven. He saw again the suffering of men he had held to his own standard: Brother Tom, half-frozen, prostrated on the threshold of the abbey in the biting winter dawn; Allen Howick, now Brother James, drowning in his shame, his poverty of being. ‘I thought it was for you, my Lord,’ he prayed uncertainly in an anguish of self-doubt. ‘Was it not so? Was it the conceit of my spirit? If so, the most cowardly sensuality would have been a better choice. Let me not be a sham, my God. I had thought I had shaped a place of peace. I want your poverty.

  ‘Oh,
a pox on it all, I am tired of trying. Cling to me now, my God, for I have lost the will to cling to you.’

  He tried to concentrate on the psalms, the prayers of Vespers; tried to ignore the insistent questions—‘Why? Why? Why can I not be as Guillaume is, to laugh and drink and eat and forget? Why can I not forget the poverty of Gethsemane, of the cross? Nails! Nails! Oh my Jesus, my Lord… your love has won me… and how should I forget?’

  At supper with Père Guillaume that evening, he toyed absently with his food, and he had little heart for conversation. Brother Tom, seeing his superior out of sorts, made himself as unobtrusive as possible as he waited on them. Père Guillaume observed his old friend shrewdly. He loved him. He had never understood his brooding intensity, but marvelled at his hunger for truth, for simplicity, for holiness. He tried to lift his friend’s mood, to entice him out of his despondency, but without success. In the end he decided to take the bull by the horns.

  ‘Is it your heart, your liver or your soul that is afflicted, mon frère? Your good brother has made us an excellent repast—these delicious little cheeses, this crisp salad—it is not all suffering under your roof. But you do not taste them. You are looking at your supper as if it has done you wrong, and you are pausing only to decide whether to flog it or excommunicate it. Will you not tell me what troubles your heart? You have the face of a thundercloud. You will give yourself indigestion.’

  Peregrine did not reply. He tried to pick up his beaker of wine, but failed, as he often did, to straighten his fingers sufficiently to get them round the vessel. He gave up the attempt, and lifted it to his mouth with both hands. Brother Tom realised that both he and the abbé had stopped breathing as they watched him struggle and fail. Tom hurt for his abbot as he took the thing into his hands. I never knew a man to hate his own weakness so much, he thought.

  Peregrine looked at Père Guillaume over the rim of his beaker as he drank. The stormy intensity of his eyes made the abbé stir uneasily. They had been the best of friends from youth, but despite all the years he had known him, the depth of passion he saw in Peregrine’s eyes still made Guillaume feel uncomfortable, almost afraid. Peregrine set down his wine and pushed his plate of food away.