John the Pupil

by David Flusfeder

  Guard your bags, said a kindly-looking man on my left.

  I carry three bags across my shoulders. In one are the necessities for my journey. In the second is space for the treasures I am to gather along the way, and the package my Master gave me that is only to be opened when we meet despair. The third bag is the scrip in which I carry my Master’s Great Work. Alerted by the kindly man’s warning, my hand went immediately to the third bag. I felt no stranger’s hand, the seal was untouched.

  There are cutpurses everywhere, the kindly man said.

  He was not a monk, and nor was he a nobleman, because his costume was ragged and worn. He looked like someone who worked on the land, but a labourer on the land would not have spoken in Latin. His tunic was extraordinary: on the worn thread were pinned dozens of lead badges in the shape of saints and stars.

  Even here?

  Especially here. You have not been to Canterbury before?

  We have been to nowhere before.

  They call me Simeon the Palmer.

  I am John the Pupil. My companions are Brother Bernard and Brother Andrew.

  You are making penance?

  This was the first encounter I had had on my journey in which I felt greeted with tenderness. There was something about Simeon the Palmer, his wise eyes, the steadiness of his hand on my arm, his odour of violets, that made me yearn to tell him about my childhood and my father’s goats and life in the friary and my loneliness and my learning, and my mission and my Master, so that he should know to love him as much as I do.

  We are making pilgrimage.

  As am I. I go to Rome and then Compostela and on to the Holy Land.

  You must carry a heavy burden of sins.

  Most of them are not my own.

  As we processed to the Cathedral gate, Simeon the Palmer explained to me that his occupation is to make pilgrimage on behalf of men who have a weight of sins, the desire to expiate them, and the money to pay someone else to do so on their behalf.

  You make the pilgrimage and you perform the penance and your hirer stays at home and the consequence is that he is shrived?

  That is how it works.

  The world is a strange place.

  Simeon the Palmer offered to make penance for us. You could divest your load on to me, he said.

  I had not been prepared for the magnificence of the Cathedral, the glory of it, its size, the frescoes on the walls, the holy blaze of the windows. Brother Andrew and I made confession and washed our hands and the three of us were directed towards the foot of the stairs up to the martyr’s shrine, where we removed our shoes and joined the procession of those who have been afflicted, by deformity or disease or riches, because we are all equal in sin.

  We kissed the floor, we climbed the stairs on our hands and knees. A registrar sat with a book of miracles beside the shrine. Two Cathedral monks stood watch over the pile of jewels and money left by previous penitents. We had nothing to offer except our devotion and humility. Master Roger warns that men devoting themselves to holiness must try to avoid the short direct rays emanating from delectable things, such as women and food and riches. Prostrate at the martyr’s shrine, I thought I detected an avaricious shine in Brother Bernard’s eyes, a hungry vacuity mirroring the glistening of the jewels.

  After we climbed back down and reclaimed our shoes and received the blessing for our pilgrimage, we were outside the Cathedral gate again and Simeon the Palmer was with us, pinning a new badge on to his tunic.

  Paradise knocks on your door, a beggar said holding out his hand towards us, but seeing the look in Brother Bernard’s eyes he quickly withdrew it again and turned his attention to other pilgrims.

  My Master has placed a lonely burden on me. My companions believe that this is a pilgrimage of penance, so that is what it will have to be, for sins of pride and avarice and concupiscence. They do not know the purpose of our journey.

  Saint Germanus’s Day

  Germanus began every meal by swallowing ashes. He never ate wheat or vegetables, drank no wine and did not flavour his food with salt. Germanus gave all his wealth away to the poor, lived with his wife as brother and sister, and for thirty years subjected his body to the strictest austerity. He spread ashes on his bed, whose only covering was a hair shirt and a sack. Such was his life that if there had not been any ensuing miracles, and there were many miracles, his holiness alone would have admitted him to the order of the saints.

  •

  I related the life and miracles of Saint Germanus and we stood by the boats at Dover with hands outstretched. Paradise knocks on your door, Brother Bernard said. Brother Andrew is not yet used to mendicancy. He was shy, his eyes downcast, his cheeks reddening. All the same, it was he who received the greatest alms. A pious captain gave us passage on his boat, in exchange for our consenting to lead a service after the boat had got under way, and a promise not to impede or obstruct or beg from the passengers and crew.

  Brother Andrew stood on the prow as we waited for the boat to take to sea. Brother Bernard, who shows an aversion to water, sat in the stern wrapped inside his cloak. Brother Andrew and I watched the passengers climb on board, the pilgrims and merchants, and a great lord, whose passage demanded a retinue of servants and the transport of a score of horses, and carts overlaid with barehide, their wheels bound with iron, and boxes made of iron and wood, and barrels of wood, and bags made of leather and canvas.

  The lord’s chamberlain oversaw the loading of his master’s goods. He was a man of powerful build, who roared out orders to his underlings who followed his instructions as if on pains for their lives.

  They are like soldiers obeying their general, I said to Brother Bernard, trying to rouse him from his dolour.

  When did you ever see a soldier? Brother Bernard said.

  It is true. I have never seen a soldier, or a lion, or a feast on a great man’s table, or a demon or an angel or a nun or a unicorn or a bride or a Jew. But before I set out on this journey I had never seen a cathedral or a man who made a living expiating other men’s sins, and neither had I seen a great lord. This one was a man of small stature and sharp visage. He watched his chamberlain issuing the orders and drank from a small flask.

  Maybe it was this, the possibility of all things now that I am upon this journey, or maybe it was the sight of Brother Andrew stretched forward on the prow, his arms fully extended, his body leaning into the breeze, or maybe it was the gentle motion of the boat rocking beneath me, that I felt touched by something forgotten from long ago, and was suddenly lifted, exhilarated, incorporeal, yet alive with the acuity of my senses.

  The faces of the sailors are marked. One has a scar on his forehead, another is missing part of an ear. My Master, I would question you about this. Is beauty a signifier of virtue? These sailors may have been beautiful once. Does that mean they were once less vicious than today? Is Brother Andrew more virtuous than Brother Bernard, simply because the beauty of his face marks him out as being derived from, or at least compatible with, the angels? Were the sailors more virtuous when they were young, unmarked by experience and difficulty? We are born fallen. An unbaptised baby is not innocent. I would like to ask my Master if it is a blasphemy to think that the sailors are lifted by their travails, if there is an equation between the scars on their bodies and the godliness of their souls, if appearance is the converse of substance, not its mirroring cloak.

  As it is written in Ezekiel, You are the seal of the image of God, full of wisdom and perfect in beauty. You have been in Eden, the garden of God; every precious stone was your covering.

  On the aft part of the boat, the great lord’s priest held a service for his lord and his retinue. Here, below, it was my office to lead the hymns and prayers of vespers.

  Come O Holy Ghost, replenish the hearts of the faithful and kindle in them the fire of your love. We beseech you O Lord, that the virtue of the Holy Spirit may be present unto us: the which may mildly both purge our hearts, and also defend us from all adversities, through Our Lord Je
sus Christ your Son: Who lives and reigns, God, with you, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, world without end.

  We were the only three in orders taking passage on the boat, and Brother Andrew is too shy, Brother Bernard too rough, so I was given the office. My voice was fragile. I am unused to being the focus for so many other people’s attention. I am not a priest nor had ever hoped to be. I could hear my own voice cracked and light. As I spoke the sacred words of prayer, I shut my eyes, imagined myself back in Master Roger’s room, to give my voice, and heart, some strength.

  Amen.

  Let the mercies of the Lord give glory to him: and his wonderful works to the children of men. And let them sacrifice the sacrifice of praise, and declare his words with joy. They that go down the sea in ships doing work in the great waters, these have seen the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.

  Amen.

  Simeon the Palmer brought himself towards me from out of the congregation of sailors. He complimented my sureness and my voice. He told me I spoke very well and assured me that the angels would smile upon our journey.

  Brother Bernard is not enjoying the crossing. He sits with his head towards his knees, hugging himself as if desperate for the consolation of mother-love.

  • • •

  The tumult on the harbour, the wonder of a different land, almost like ours, almost familiar, but so new and strange and barely known. We took such timid half-steps on land, as if expecting, after the solid earth of England, succeeded by the liquid of the crossing, that France should be composed of vapour. Brother Bernard does not understand French; I see this place through his eyes, as if the day has been slightly turned. The butcher wears a different hat.

  As it says in my Master’s Book, We expect things to be different in different places: manners and intellectual interests vary according to the diversity of regions; the body is altered by the heavens and when the body is changed the mind is aroused.

  Brother Bernard stays close to me. Brother Andrew has to be admonished to remain with us, his attention is scattered upon the sights and sounds and smells of the harbour.

  Here, I tell him, it is your turn to be the donkey.

  Our load will tether him to the earth. We already carry too much. Our spoons and knives and bowls, my Master’s Book in its shining sealed box, the apparatus for demonstration to the Pope, our breviary, the secret thing in its humble container that we may not open. According to the rule of our Order, we are not meant to carry bags; each of us carries two.

  It is not hard to find our way. Pilgrims, jabbering, creeping, praying, mark the way in a slow penitential caravan. Until, suddenly, we are driven into the mud at the side of the road by the train of the great lord, riding four abreast on black chargers. His carts and oxen fill the road, as we try to restore order to our garments and our possessions. The seal on the box is unbroken. The apparatus is intact. My bag for the collection of treasures was emptied and I had to gather them from the road, combined with mud.

  Brother Bernard hurled clots of mud at the oxen and the lord’s servants, while I gathered my writing implements. I had thought I had chosen him for his strength and protection. Perhaps it was his soul I was concerned for, its safety, rather than that of my Master’s treasures or my body. I smoothed out my scraps of parchment, wiped off as much of the mud as I could with the sleeve of my cloak. I write this through the dirt of the road.

  Saint Hubert’s Day

  Hubert was a beautiful and courteous youth, noble-born, loved by all, whose single passion was for the hunt. On a Good Friday morning, when the virtuous were all inside church, Hubert was giving chase to a magnificent stag. The animal turned, and Hubert was stupefied to see a silver crucifix between its antlers, while at the same time a voice spoke these words, Hubert! Unless you turn to the Lord and lead a holy life, you will go quickly down to hell.

  Hubert gave all of his wealth away, entered holy orders, and for the rest of his life, he was diligent in fasting and prayer, became famed for the eloquence of his sermons, was a friend to the poor and a scourge of idolaters, whom he sought out with the same passion that once he had brought to his love of the chase.

  Our first night in Gaul, a night spent on the straw of a pilgrims’ hospice, the snoring and dreams of the sleepers, the straw beneath us never still, rustling and shaking with the movements of mice, while the sleepers scratched at the fleas and lice that assailed them like an army besieging a town.

  This is purgatory, Brother Bernard said shielding his eyes against the sunlight.

  That is heresy, Brother Andrew said.

  My throat and head were sore. I longed for my own bed, a less foul air, for a ministering remedy prepared by Master Roger.

  In the men around us it was hard to identify God’s pilgrims. The only sin that did not seem illustrated was the one of Pride.

  Our goods were safe. I untied the rope that bundled them together. Some of the pilgrims were sleeping. Others were praying. Two men scourged themselves in the foulest corner of the room.

  We recited matins on the road. And our hearts lifted as we sang,

  Blessed is the man who hath not walked in the counsel of the ungodly

  Nor stood in the way of the sinners

  Nor sat in the chair of pestilence.

  But his will is in the law of the Lord

  And on His law shall he meditate day and night

  And he shall be like a tree which is planted near running waters.

  Around us, God’s creation, the fields and trees, the birds, the stream we drink from. Let the friars take care not to appear gloomy and sad like hypocrites, but let them be jovial and merry, showing that they rejoice in the Lord, and becomingly courteous.

  More things have gone into my bag of treasure, which, if God decrees this journey prosperous, I hope to return to Master Roger full to overflowing, the bounty and reward for my Master’s trust in me.

  • • •

  Fires on the hillside at night, the lodging ground of a company of vagabonds and pilgrims, an unnatural band of wolves and sheep, who stare at us as we approach.

  Brother Andrew had no desire to proceed. Brother Bernard drove him on, we climbed the slope towards the fire. And as we approached, we heard a clinking, the dull repeating sound of his process, Simeon the Palmer amongst us.

  Light flickered on the faces around us, as Simeon the Palmer in his noisy costume acted the host in this fairy supper.

  You have eaten? You have food? I know, God will provide, and He has, His ways are many, and always marvellous, it is His work to look after His servants, a Father’s strength, a Mother’s care, sit with us, you will eat with us.

  Mindful of Brother Bernard’s suspicions (but he is always suspicious, he would interrogate the motives of an angel), I said that first we would need to make our own ground for the night. I have not yet collected many treasures for my Master, but the bag is not empty, and the work is a sacred one. And there is the bag with the Book, and there is the bag with the parts of the model for demonstration, and the secret package, for when hope is abandoned, and all of these I must keep secure. If I had just one bag to save, it would be easy to decide which it would be. The model is the fruit of our labour and study, but it is merely a thing, the Book is pure Thought, containing the wisdom of all times.

  I looked for a place to lay our goods, I looked for a place that was a soft place to be, a leafy bed between trees, free of slope or stones, where I might cover our precious things with soft earth, a landfall of fruit, a canopy of leaves and twigs. And I looked for a place where the eyes of the vagabonds would not follow me. The place was not to be found.

  You are very modest, Simeon the Palmer said mistaking the nature of my precautions. We are all men, which is the same as saying that we are all God’s creatures. There is a ditch away from the fire where we perform our necessary acts. No shame is attendant upon them.

  Even for a friar, said a raggedy fellow sitting near the fire.

  I left my bags with Brothers Bernard a
nd Andrew (eyes downcast, skin reddened by the fire, the very image of the modesty that I was being accused of) who were already sitting by the fire with their expectant bowls. I walked down to the ditch, where I lifted my cloak and, unable to perform the act of voiding (my belly too empty, so many eyes upon me), waited in that position until I judged sufficient time had passed.

  Sit with us, brother, Simeon the Palmer said. Tell us about your journey. Did you ride?

  We are not meant to ride. Our Order forbids it.

  Our redeemer rode on a donkey. Are you saying you are better than He?

  The Palmer was in high spirits, joking, drinking, ladling soup into my bowl. He asked me what had brought us to our pilgrimage, but while I was still composing my answer, he pointed out men around us – that one had a vexatious wife, that one a smoking fireplace, that one a leaking roof, another had become a monk to avoid the punishment of the civil law.

  And you? Brother Bernard said. When you make penance for your clients, do you repent your own sins?

  I am the lamb, Simeon said. Chaste and clean. But you, you carry so much. I thought members of your Order went unburdened. Some bread? Have some bread. It is fresh.

  He leaned towards me, and as he handed me a piece of bread, he whispered,

  Hard to believe that you three are ordinary pilgrims.

  I had no reply. I stuffed the bread into my mouth and chewed.

  If you are in trouble, I can help. I have travelled this way many times. Where are you going?

  As if helpless with the food in my mouth, I chewed.

  Are there men in pursuit after you? Do you carry relics of the saints? Or maybe you are transporting monastery treasures that someone might mistakenly think you have no right to?

  I finished the bread. No, I said, it is nothing like that.

  He patted my arm, like a brother.

  Of course not, he said.

  When we were lying upon the ground, after Brother Andrew had preached – and it was marvellous to see, the softening of the rough company before Brother Andrew’s beauty and God’s truth – and after we had prayed and we were waiting for sleep, with its nocturnal temptations, to take us, and the world was so loud around us, louder than the hospice, because this time there were dark birds in the branches of trees, the rustle of beasts in the woods, I grew afraid.