The Wounds of God

by Penelope Wilcock

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Some of us have progressed less than others, I suppose. I daresay it is a sign of the times that people teach little children with confidence and authority what they cannot possibly know anything about, and have nothing to tell them about the true meaning and development of life. Don’t you think, my dear?’

  Mother nodded. ‘A lot of what they teach them now is above their heads. Mary came down on Tuesday morning saying she would like some vitamins for breakfast. We live in an age of intellectual sophistication and spiritual darkness, I’m afraid. Mind you, I’m glad I don’t have to teach them. The spiritual darkness is more in evidence in the classroom than the intellectual sophistication from all I hear.’

  Daddy leaned forward and picked up the poker to prod the fire. ‘I like Mrs Kirkpatrick,’ he said. ‘She has more about her than some. Beware of toppling her from her pedestal. Little ones respect their teachers enormously, and it’s right they should.’

  ‘Respect is fine, but not mindless acceptance,’ said Mother, ‘however young they are.’

  ‘Have no fear, my dear. Your children are nothing if not strong-minded. Isn’t that so, Cecily? Well now, it’s my turn to say Evensong, so I must tear myself away from your fireside. Pull me to my feet, Beth and Mary. Thank you. Thank you so much, my dears. I have enjoyed myself immensely. I expect I shall see you all on Sunday.’

  Daddy helped him into his coat, and stood with Mother at our door, watching him walk up the hill towards the parish church.

  ‘We shall miss him sorely when the time comes,’ said Mother as she closed the door and came back into the living room to curl up on the sofa by the fire. ‘Father Bennett’s all right if you can stand it, but I do love that old man.’

  She sat there, watching the fire, while Daddy and Beth cleared away the tea things. Mary went with them to help wash up, and Therese got into the bath. She was going out in the evening, to the cinema, and wanted to wash her hair. The lovely scent of her bath stuff drifted through the house. Mother sniffed it. ‘Mmm. This has been an afternoon of nice smells,’ she said. ‘Where’s Cecily? It’s very quiet.’

  I went to look. She had fallen asleep playing with her toys upstairs in our bedroom.

  ‘So you could tell me a story, Mother,’ I said as I sat down again by the fire. Mother glanced through the window at the overcast sky and drizzling rain. ‘It’s a story kind of day,’ she said, ‘not fit for much else.’

  ‘Tell me a story about Father Peregrine with Melissa in it; Melissa and her children.’

  ‘Melissa… she doesn’t come into many of the stories, you know. The monks told the stories to her, so she wasn’t part of the stories. But there are one or two times she was there and had her own memories to pass on. Melissa…. Now then, there was one story, yes. Put another log on the fire, my love. Yes, I remember it now.’

  Melissa had brought her children to the abbey to stay through the last watch of Lent and celebrate the Easter feast. She never saw very much of Father Peregrine when she came at Easter; there were too many other demands on his time. Already the guest house was almost full with visitors and pilgrims who had come to share in the resurrection festival. Still, she liked to be there with him following the long, sorrowful journey of Holy Week, and the explosion of triumph as the tables were turned on death itself on Easter Day.

  There was another reason, too, why she came at Easter. It was on Easter Monday eleven years ago that Father Peregrine had been beaten and disfigured, his hands maimed and his leg crippled. It was a time of year when the sharpness of memories pressed painfully upon him, and old terrors stirred. Melissa knew that. She knew that most of the brothers would be rushed off their feet caring for guests and carrying out the rites of the Easter liturgies, on top of the round of work and prayer that was a daily necessity. They would likely be too busy to glimpse the horror and panic that sometimes came very close to the surface in Abbot Peregrine on Easter Day. She had asked him once, straight out, ‘How is it for you. Father, at Easter-time? There are some bitter memories there for you.’

  He had sat in silence a long while before answering her, and when he did speak, it was hesitantly, reluctantly.

  ‘Holy Week is not too bad. I… Jesus in Gethsemane… I… he… that is the source of all my peace. There have been, there’s no point in trying to hide it, times when I’ve thought I would go under in the fear and helplessness—despair really—that overwhelms me some days. I have held myself together, just, but… the dread of breaking apart before the whole community, I can’t tell you. His terror and distress in Gethsemane… you can see his soul writhe… it answers, more profoundly than I could express, the intolerable… how can I explain it? The words go round and round in my head, “I can’t bear it, l can’t bear it,” behind all I am saying or doing, filling all my silences. It steadies me to hear his humbleness, “Lord, if it be possible—take this cup from me.” Then I know what courage is, where to find it. Good Friday, and the cross… nails through his hands… oh, God!… Melissa, nails…’

  Peregrine paused and shook his head, his face contorted at the horror and pain of it.

  ‘Nails through his hands! On Good Friday morning I kneel before the crucifix in my chamber and I stretch out my hands to him, and I say, “Crucified one… beautiful one… Redeemer… Saviour… Lamb of God… you heal us by your wounds. Can you make something of these broken, ugly hands… put them to some use?” But Easter Day—Easter Day is another thing. Christ is risen and I know, I do know, that is my salvation. I understand that it is my glory, and my hope. Without his rising, our suffering would embitter us beyond redeeming, I know it. Only… he is in glory, and I am still in Gethsemane. He is in triumph and I am still pinned to my cross. On Easter Day he leaves me behind. Besides all that, it is our busiest time, and I do wonder at times, I confess it, if one day among the crowd, they will come again and finish their vengeance on my body. For they meant to have my life. I greet the pilgrims, and I must smile at them, and welcome them lovingly as I should. But all the while I am watching, wondering. Well, no, not all the while. I exaggerate. But the old terror is still there. I feel sick with it sometimes. It’s hard to control. Don’t mistake me, death I do not fear… but pain, infirmity, helplessness. When I walk through the church and I hear someone behind me, I am cold, sweating, terrified. I have tried to overcome it. God knows, I have prayed. I am ashamed to have so little joy in Christ’s most glorious day. It is not for want of trying.’

  He sat looking down at his misshapen hands. The craftsmanship and costliness of the abbot’s ring decorated the right hand incongruously, its opulence mocking their ugliness. They showed starkly against the unrelieved black of his tunic. Melissa wondered how often in a day he looked down at his hands, and if there was ever a time when he thought nothing of it, being merely accustomed to their brokenness.

  He raised his eyes to look at her. Usually his gaze was full of warmth, of love; the heart of his giving, passing on the peace of God. But for once he let her look into him and see just what he was; his sadness, his pain, the frustration that raged in the man trapped inside the living prison of his disabled body.

  ‘It’s a poor thing, isn’t it, that the abbot of a monastery should be so…’ He paused, searching for the word he wanted.

  ‘Human?’ she said.

  She did not forget the conversation, or his sadness and his sense of shame, and she tried when she could to be there at Easter. When she came, she brought her children too. They were growing fast. The youngest, Benedict, was almost two, and his days were one long disaster of joyful exploration. Nicholas, her oldest child, was just eight years old. In between came Anne, a little more than a year younger than Nicholas but twice his age for wisdom and common sense, and Catherine, who was just four, candid, passionate and therefore a continual source of embarrassment to her parents.

  As soon as they arrived at the abbey, the children made for the kitchen and Brother Cormac, who was their hero. They were a little bit afraid of Brother Andrew
, the fierce old Scot who was the cook and monarch of the kitchen’s self-contained kingdom, but Cormac told them stories and fed them tit-bits, and took them to see the lambs and the calves in his free time. Cormac also knew where the birds and the field mice nested, and won their undying admiration by being able to spit a cherry-stone even further than Nicholas, who had been practising for weeks. It was Cormac who made them a swing and climbed to a dizzy height in a tall elm tree to secure it to a branch. It was Cormac who took them sledging in the winter on the steep hill that sheltered the guest house and played hide-and-seek with them among the straw bales in the barn. He showed them how to call the owls at night so that they would answer, and he played fivestones with them in the summer dust, and they loved him dearly.

  ‘Don’t plague the life out of the kitchen brothers, now!’ Melissa called after them as they vanished across the abbey court, ‘and mind Benedict near the well!’ They were not listening. She watched them go, and then turned back to the guest house. She felt happiness bubbling up inside her, a pressure of joy. She loved to be at the abbey. It was a harbour of peace for her, a place to rebuild her strength. There are not many places where a woman with four small children is welcomed with unfeignedly joyful hospitality, but this was one of them.

  She stood leaning her back against the rough stone wall of the guest house, looking across the flagged court at the huge abbey church rising like a great rock of strength and assurance. She sighed contentedly and went in at the guest house door. She saw Peregrine before he saw her, limping slowly across the hall. He had come in search of her, having been sent word of her arrival.

  ‘Father! God save you, you look tired to death!’

  His face lit in a smile of welcome and he hugged her to him. ‘It’s good to see you, dear one. Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this! Have you lost all your babes to the kitchens already? Well then, come and share some of Brother Walafrid’s blackberry wine with me, and we’ve been given some figs that are good. We can have a moment of quiet together. Oh, but forgive me, selfish. Maybe you are too weary after your journey? Would you rather rest first, dear heart?’

  Melissa smiled at him, loving him, soaking up the luxury of being cherished, made to feel special. ‘It’s you I’ve come to see,’ she said happily. ‘If you’ve a spare moment, I’m going to seize it before someone else does. I can rest later.’

  The children found Brother Cormac finishing the preparations for the cold evening meal that the community would eat after Vespers. He was pleased to see them, but he looked slightly harassed.

  ‘Oh, ho! Ho! It’s you, you demons! Search in the store, little Annie, and you’ll find apples and honey—you know where the bread is. If you’ll take some out to the cloister to nibble, I’ll come presently and take you to see the new foal and the bats in the church tower. I mustn’t come for another few minutes yet though. Brother Andrew’s turned into a dragon today and he’ll scorch me with his fiery breath if I stop working for one moment. Find yourselves something to eat and skedaddle, there’s good children. I’ll come out to you when I can.’ And with these words he disappeared into the dairy to fetch the pitcher of milk from its cool stone shelf.

  Catherine moved closer to her sister. ‘Has Brother Andrew really turned into a dragon?’ It did not seem unlikely.

  ‘No, stupid. Cormac just means he’s in a bad temper,’ said Nicholas scornfully. ‘Come on, let’s get some bread and honey and apples before he comes.’

  They sat out in the cloister which gave a fair shelter from the chill March wind, and ate the things they had found. Benedict transferred most of his honey, generously ladled out by Nicholas, from his bread to his hair and clothes, and then turned his attention to rooting up the flowers that were Brother Fidelis’ pride and joy.

  ‘Glory be to God!’ gasped Cormac as he finally emerged from the kitchen and caught sight of Benedict. ‘Is that a child or a compost heap? Let me give you a scrub, for mercy’s sake or your mother will be scolding me, and I’ve been scolded enough already for one day.’

  He seized Benedict and holding him well away from himself, he carried him through the kitchen to the yard at the back, and set him down on the cobbles beside the well, ignoring the little child’s indignant yells of protest. The other children trooped through behind him. ‘Fetch me a towel, Annie,’ said Cormac. ‘You’ll find some back in the cloister, in the lavatorium, next to the refectory. Nicholas, a bucket of water if you will. Thank you. That will do nicely. Now then.’ He kept a firm grip on Benedict as he spoke, and stripped his clothes from him and sluiced him thoroughly under the icy water. Not brought up to monastic asceticism, Benedict roared with pain and rage when he could get his breath back. Brother Cormac took not the slightest bit of notice, but briskly rubbed the little body with the towel Anne had found until Benedict was pink and glowing; then wrapped him up in it and proceeded to rinse his clothes.

  ‘Stop screaming, child. Think you a worm or a mole that you can go burrowing in the earth and come up clean? Come now, that’s the worst of it off. Let’s go and rummage in your bags in the guest house and see if we can find some clean clothing before your mother sees you. Here, I’ll carry you. Nicholas, bring his clothes. We’ll set them to dry before the fire. I’ve wrung them well, but they may drip still, so mind you hold them away from you and don’t get yourself all wet. That’s it.’

  Cormac took them as he promised up into the bell tower of the abbey church and showed them the bats hanging in the dimness, and to the stable to see the spotted foal, very young, bedded with her mother in clean straw. They collected the eggs from the henhouses, and carried them back to the kitchen, brown and snow white and speckled, and one of a pale, rosy beige, which Cormac said was laid by Dame Cluck, the sovereign of the poultry yard and the cockerel’s favourite wife. He took them into the warming room to say hello to the two or three brothers there who had come down from the scriptorium to warm fingers that were numb with cold at the great fireplace. Just before Vespers he returned them to their mother, and she thanked him warmly.

  ‘Brother Cormac, you’re an angel! Many, many thanks. Look at them: tired and happy. All I need to do is feed them and put them to bed. Oh—what happened to Benedict’s clothes?’

  Cormac grinned at her. ‘An angel, is it? By’r lady, I shall need to be this week. We’ve that much work in the kitchen it’s beyond mortal man. His clothes you will find drying by the fire, not entirely clean, but recognisable now. I’ll take the children to see the lambs tomorrow, but not till the afternoon. There’s the Vespers bell now, I must be on my way. The thanks are all mine; I’ve loved their company.’

  He kissed Benedict and handed him over into his mother’s arms, rested his hands lightly a moment on Anne’s and Catherine’s heads, nodded to Nicholas as one man to another, and was gone. Melissa took them to eat their supper in the guest house refectory after they had washed their hands and picked the straw out of their hair and clothes. A bowl of new milk had been set for each of them, and a small loaf of fresh bread, wrapped in a linen cloth. There was a pat of rich, yellow butter on an earthenware plate, some soft, white cheese, salted slightly and delicately flavoured by the herbs that had wrapped it, and a wooden bowl of sweet yellow apples from the store, polished until they glowed in the firelight like lamps.

  ‘Brother Dominic says the abbey is supposed to reflect the peace and order of heaven,’ said Melissa to her children as she sat Benedict on her lap and helped him with his milk, ‘and it does. I can’t think of heaven being much different from this.’ She smiled peacefully.

  ‘That’s because,’ said Nicholas, tearing a large piece of bread off the loaf and spreading it vigorously with plenty of butter, ‘you haven’t heard Brother Cormac and Brother Andrew arguing in the kitchen.’

  Melissa looked at him with a little frown of irritation. ‘Nicholas, don’t put so much food in your mouth at once,’ she said sharply. She did not want her dream shattered. ‘I’m sure they don’t argue.’

  ‘They do. They’re
terrible, worse than us. Brother Damian says you could light a candle from the sparks that fly between them. It’s because Cormac’s cooking’s so awful and he doesn’t like doing the meat and the fish. Brother Andrew says to him, “What would you like me to do with these rolls, Brother? Will I put them on the table, or are you saving them for a sling-shot? But half of one of these would slay Goliath nicely,” and Cormac glares at him from under his eyebrows and mutters. He swears. Yes he does, Mother, I’ve heard him.’

  ‘Nicholas, I’m sure you’re making all this up. I’ve never heard Brother Cormac swear. Father Abbot says those two love each other like father and son. Now stop talking and eat your supper. Look, Catherine’s falling asleep over her food.’

  ‘They may love each other, but it doesn’t stop them…’

  ‘Nicholas! Enough. Don’t speak with your mouth full either.’

  When they had eaten everything in sight and left nothing but a sprinkling of crumbs and a scrape of butter, Melissa shepherded them upstairs and into bed.

  ‘Brother Cormac,’ said Catherine sleepily, as Melissa tucked her and Anne into the bed they shared, ‘knows what the rabbits think. He knows what the words are of the song the thrush is singing. It is saying, “Can… cantabo…” what did he say Annie?’

  ‘Cantabo Domino in vita mea,’ Anne recited carefully. ‘But I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘I will sing to the Lord as long as I live,’ said Melissa softly. ‘Is that what Brother Cormac says the thrush is singing?’

  She told Father Peregrine about it as they sat together over their evening meal, and he smiled.

  ‘Brother Cormac, yes, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he understood the song of the birds. He loves the wild creatures. He used at one time to love birds and beasts more than he loved mankind. It distresses him to see anything wounded and killed. He likes them to be free. I’ve seen him in the kitchen preparing a fowl for the pot. Brother Andrew will be standing there with the bird dangling by its feet, neglected in his hand, as he issues orders or corrects someone’s work, and he’ll dump it on Brother Cormac—“Pluck this and gut it please, Brother.” Brother Cormac will take it into his hands with its poor dead head supported on his wrist, and carry it to the workbench so, and lay it down reverently, and strip it of its feathers as tenderly and gently as a woman laying a sleepy babe to rest. It irritates Brother Andrew no end. Ah, no doubt about it, the kitchen work is a hard discipline for Brother Cormac sometimes.’