Startaker

by Marian Goddard

  The boy looked doubtful “Yes, but I cannot understand the use of this instrument. What is an astrolabe?”

  Andre seated himself on one of the wooden benches and gestured to Christian to come closer. He placed the astrolabe reverently on the table in front of him. “The Arabs say that with this, they can call down the heavens.” He laid the device, the size of a small serving plate, in the palm of his hand. “See here a disc within a disc that is turned by the hand?” He moved the inner wheel around. On its surface were imprinted numbers and fine lines and as it was turned, delicately engraved symbols on its surface changed position to align with others.

  “It was an invention by the Greeks before the birth of our Lord, but it was in Arabia that it was brought to perfection.” He handed it to Christian who looked at it in puzzlement. “It measures the distance between the horizon and the sun, or the moon or the stars in the sky. The sages of the East use it to calculate the time of day and the seasons, and the phases of the moon for planting. And they use it to find the Quibla…the direction they are to pray. With this you can find your way, across land, across deserts and, if you are blessed with calm seas, the mighty oceans themselves.

  Christian’s eyes widened, his interest truly evident now. “Do you know how it works?”

  “Yes. And I will teach you how to use it.” Andre’s smile faded, it was time to tell the boy of the decision he had made.

  “Before I go.”

  For a moment Christian did not react, his gaze concentrated on the unfamiliar mechanism in his hands, but Andre’s eyes never left his earnest face and he watched as tears began to form in the boy’s bright eyes. He wished there had been another way. But there, it was done. Andre felt a surge of relief. At last he had told Christian of his leaving, a task he had been avoiding these long months.

  He sat quietly, knowing the boy deserved an explanation, formulating in his mind the words he would use to tell a child there really is wickedness in the world and he had played his part in it.

  That there was always a reckoning and his was due.

  *

  Christian willed himself not to cry. He was almost a man now. He did not know exactly when his natal day was, but he knew that he had been at the abbey for ten years. The monks had told him he was about five when he’d arrived mysteriously on their doorstep. That made him more than old enough to work for his living and old enough to go to war.

  Weeping was unbecoming in a young man such as he, but Andre had been like a father to him, so tears crept into his eyes anyway, exposing his heart. He found it difficult to make the words. “You are going away?”

  Andre nodded. “Yes, Christian. Jerusalem has been much in my mind.”

  “But you will return?”

  Andre looked at the boy and shook his head. “No my son, I am not coming back.”

  Christian lowered his head to hide his tears and suddenly there came a memory, one so strong he staggered, clutching at the table edge to keep from falling… His father, dragged through the door of their small hut, a city guard at each elbow, shouting. “I will go, I will go! But leave the boy. He is not my child. Do you not see he is a peasant? He fetches firewood and works in the fields.” Father looking at him, his gentle eyes boring into his own, filled with terror, not for himself, but for Christian.

  “Go back to your family, boy! There is no more food for you here!” He’d watched his father’s bent back as he was shoved through the door, the guards not caring for the whimpering boy huddled by the sputtering hearth. A small child was worth not a farthing in a time when Satan slithered among the people, filling them with heresies, cramming the Church’s coffers with gold.

  He did not know how long he’d travelled, his bare feet bleeding and raw, hiding in the hedges on the side of the road, eating the windfall apples under the trees and eggs from the nests.

  He’d made his way to the next town, to father’s old servant Pierre, who would not take him in, for fear of being accused of harbouring a heretic. Christian handed him the last of his father’s coins and begged help to get to Bebenhausen, as he’d been instructed.

  And then alone in a hide tanner’s cart, galloping through the night, the cracking of whips and howling of wolves, cold, hungry and afraid.

  The pain he was feeling now was the pain he felt all those years ago, seeing his father dragged away, lost forever. He loved Andre like a father was loved and it was happening all over again.

  He flung the astrolabe into Andre’s lap and ran out of the door, blinded by his tears.

  He ran on, not thinking where he was going, not caring. The monks called after him good humouredly as he rushed across the quadrangle, unaware of his pain.

  Then he stopped, panting, at the monastery gate and looked back at the arched doorway of the scriptorium. Andre was standing on the steps, his hands hidden in the folds of his habit, his mouth turned down in sorrow.

  Christian knew that Andre loved him. Their long years together had forged a bond between them and in the distance between them now, Christian could see pain in the monks blue eyes.

  He walked along the path toward the town, seeing no-one, his heart aching. He looked back to the looming walls of the monastery, at the place where he had been received with love and kindness, from Andre most of all.

  And there came to him an understanding, one that in his dreaming nights and thoughtful days, he too had made a decision.

  He walked slowly back to the scriptorium thinking, not as a child might think, of abandonment and loss, but as a man might think, of things needing to be done and only the short years of a man’s existence to do them.

  *

  It took a long time for Christian to tell Andre of his plan to leave.

  They worked together in the infirmary, Christian’s skill apparent even in his tender years.

  He’d been helping treat the festering wound of a young mason’s ‘prentice who’d caught his leg on a rusted iron spike and been too frightened to stop work to tend to it, his master being known for harshness. The boy had the care of his widowed mother and lived in fear of them both starving.

  He was seated on a stool by the open door of the infirmary, the reek of the inflamed leg too overpowering to allow him a bed in the hall. Christian tried to comfort him, making light of the injury as men do, even in extremis. He pointed to a pretty girl passing by and both boys giggled and snickered as she raised her arms to lift a heavy basket of linen and the outline of her small breasts showed through the thin fabric of her smock. She’d tossed her head at them, an older and world-weary woman of fifteen disdainful of the attention of boys her own age.

  It was a short-lived diversion for the feverish lad, as Andre began, in the light of a sputtering candle, to clean out the pus and dirt from the deep wound, then when the agonising treatment became too much, Christian cleaned the wound as Andre used his strength to hold the boy still.

  When it was done, Gaspard made a poultice of comfrey root to aid the healing, if the boy stayed alive long enough to heal. Christian knew that even a small wound could be fatal in this unclean place. Most were ignorant of the need for cleanliness, or the dangers of superstitious remedies. A week ago, the boy’s mother had prayed to Saint Ursula and her ten thousand virgin martyrs for aid and then bound it with nettle leaves, only serving to drive the infection in further.

  After the boy had fallen into a fitful sleep, they sat on the steps outside the infirmary, watching the stars shooting across the summer night sky, the small fireflies of light blinking out as they arced gracefully through the heavens.

  Andre took the astrolabe from the folds of his tunic and handed it to Christian. He was readying himself at last to begin his journey to the Holy Land.

  Christian noticed the lines etched deeply in the sun-browned face, the once thick hair thinning around the neat tonsure. He was a strong man still, but the years were showing and the boy could see something else in the kind and open face…longing.

  Andre smiled; he was always smiling “Yes Chr
istian?”

  “May I come with you to Jerusalem?”

  He was so surprised he could find no answer. All the objections of a concerned father flashed through his mind: The privations of the journey, the solitary desert nights, danger. After his own father died, Andre’s inheritance had gone to the Order, in accordance with his oath. He was a penniless monk. It would be a hard journey.

  And then there was the risk of entangling an innocent in his own guilt.

  “Why would you travel to such a place? Did you not tell me that you wish to heal the sick? What better place than here, where all around come for succour?”

  Christian nodded solemnly “It is true Brother, I confess my soul takes wing when another’s suffering is eased, such as that fellow in there.” He pointed toward the door, to the now snoring mason’s boy. “You have taught me so much and I am grateful beyond any words I can say. But there is more I need to learn.”

  While treating the sick in the infirmary, with Christian by his side, Andre had always talked of the difference between skills learned on the battlefield, such as his, and healing learned in the great schools of medicine. He nodded, but his thoughts were far away, with the mysterious satchel and the strange items they contained. He remembered the desperate letter written in a doomed man’s hand …’I beg you; do not hinder him in this……’

  This time Christian could not read Andre’s expression, but he trusted this man more than any other. He thought of his clear and persistent dreams and the work he was destined to do before he could be with his mother and father again. “I have read that those in the East possess greater knowledge than we, in the art of medicine and the sciences, that they can conjure with numbers and …” He lifted the astrolabe and sighted it at the night sky “…measure the heavens.”

  He hoped that Andre would believe that he too must be on his way.

  “Brother Andre if I take journey with you to the East, I might find those that will help me discover this knowledge.” There was pleading in the boy’s eyes…and determination.

  Andre, still smiling, asked gently “Have you spoken to the abbot?” He understood the longing for knowledge he had fostered in the boy and understood also that the time had come. He put his hand gently on Christian’s shoulder. “I was much your age when I left my home and family. We lived in a small village and I wanted to see the ocean.” He didn’t want to tell him that at fifteen his dreams had been of battle glory and slaughter in the Holy Land, low aspirations indeed in comparison to these lofty ideals of healing.

  “My mother was sorely disappointed in me. She thought I would stay and tend to my father’s trade.” He felt a leap in his heart as he thought back to that day, his mother standing on the path, weeping as he rode away, enlisted as a page in the Order of St John. He didn’t know it then, but an infant lay rotten in her womb and she would be dead before Yuletide.

  He shook away the memory and brought his attention back to the boy. “Our beloved abbot is very old now and his health is poor. What will you do if he refuses to allow your journey?”

  It was Christian’s turn to smile now. “Father Abbot has told me much about the sages of the East. He says that they will welcome one such as I, as long as I am humble and of a willing mind.” He pulled a small volume from a pouch at his waist. “He gave me a book. He said it was given to him as a gift by a Templar knight who fought to protect him from robbers in the Holy land.”

  He handed the book to Andre. “He said that the book saved his life…that it was respected by all who looked upon it.”

  This time Andre laughed out loud, the abbot’s wisdom apparent in dealing with hot headed young men. “Tell me, did he tell you to keep it close, that its face was unwelcome here?”

  Christian nodded… “How did you know?”

  “I was once given such a book, but I was very much older than you and not so wise.

  He opened the small volume “The Conduct of a Physician” by Ishaq Bin Ali Rahawi. “Our beloved abbot seems to have a veritable abundance of hidden works of knowledge given to him by brave knights. It is a wonder that he was able to carry them all across the desert.”

  For the first time doubt crept into Christian’s voice. “I have many times talked of my desire to travel to the East to learn from the wise men there and Father Abbot always seemed very happy with the idea…but…” Andre watched the boy’s eyes as he talked, “It seems to me that sometimes his thoughts are in another time and place now and when I am with him he doesn’t see me at all. I fear that he has forgotten our discussions.”

  It had indeed been noticed that the abbot was becoming forgetful and vague in his dealings with the brothers. His gentleness remained, but there was an absent quality to his words. Andre agreed “He has been preoccupied of late. He is of a very great age I believe. And the apothecary visits him often. In fact I have not seen him for some time. He begs burdensome duties and confines himself in his rooms. I fear that he will not want you to go from him.

  I see a light still, in his window. Shall we go together and beg his leave?”

  Christian’s smile lit up the night-time sky.

  *

  “No, no, my son. I have need of you.” The abbot’s hands trembled as he waved them before his supplicants. “You are the only thing that keeps this crumbling bag of bones on this earth.” His voice took on a plaintive, whining tone “Who will read to me in the evenings? Who will bring me treats from the kitchens?”

  Andre felt saddened at the sight of this once proud man, declining into the childhood of old age. Surely this was not what the scriptures meant when it was written that we must become as children to enter the kingdom of heaven?

  The old man folded his arms across his chest in stubbornness. “No. You will not go lad. Your duties lie here.”

  Christian looked crestfallen although a glint of defiance remained in his eyes. “Father Abbot, could you not let me go? We talked of it last night after Compline. Do you not remember sire?”

  The abbot began to wave his arms about again. “No, my boy, I do not!” He stamped his foot in petulance “Pray bring me something nice from the cookhouse and let’s have no more talk of you leaving.”

  The boy bowed his head in obedience. “Yes, Father. I…I think Brother Wilhelm has made some honey bread for tomorrow. I will fetch you some steeped in milk.” He ran past him with his head still down to hide the sheen of tears on his cheeks.

  Andre had been standing quietly, watching. He looked intently at the old man, noticing the blueness of his lips, the yellow parchment skin, the gaunt frame. He broke the bitter silence at last. “It is very hard Father, to take leave of someone you love. Is it not?”

  The abbot plucked absently at imaginary pieces of lint on his habit, meticulously rolling and pinching away the invisible fluff with knotted, bony fingers.

  Andre had seen this motion before, when the apothecary prescribed syrup of poppy and the patient had need to rely on it. The swellings and nodules on his fingers bespoke of pain but perhaps there was something more. He asked gently “You are unwell, Father?”

  He sighed, and shifted in his chair. The clouded film of age lay in the rheumy eyes now. “Yes, my son. Gaspard tells me it is rotting of the liver and I will be dead before the autumn leaves turn.” He giggled childishly. “I spoke in truth when I told young Christian that it was only he who bound my soul to this world.”

  He let his head fall into his hands “Could he not remain for just a little longer? Can he not wait until I am dead?”

  Andre took a deep breath “We must be gone. The winter will soon be upon us and the boy feels the pull of his calling. Who are we, Father, to stifle another’s dreams?”

  The abbot sighed and in that pitiful exhalation, Andre heard all the disillusionment of a long life. “Ah! The others think I am in my dotage, that I don’t know a turnip from a cabbage anymore, but it is a ruse Brother. I feign madness to cover the true reason for my infirmity.” He scratched absently at the flaking skin of his hands “It is
no rare thing for an abbey to be ruled by a mindless dolt…” and here he smiled, showing more missing teeth and swollen, discoloured gums. “But the loss of my physical presence will be a blow indeed. There is none here who could take my place.” He looked sternly at Andre “And you will be occupied assuaging thy guilt in the Holy Land.” Once again he was struck by the abbot’s perception.

  “I have written in urgency to His Holiness for a replacement.” He pointed toward a small vial on the table. “The elixir keeps the demon at bay, most of the time; I merely need to keep drawing breath until the other arrives. The boy is my only joy.”

  Andre let compassion soften his words. “You must let him go, Father. It is time.”

  He moved closer and put his strong hand on the old man’s thin shoulder. “I have come for the boy’s possessions.”

  The abbot nodded slowly and turned to the wooden chest behind him and in one swift movement that belied his age, he lifted the lid and brought forth a gleaming sword, its blade luminous in the flickering candlelight. His eyes glittered as they bored into Andre’s “And have you come for your possessions also?” He held the weapon perfectly balanced in his bony hand, every emotion playing upon his features. Andre could see that he was enjoying the almost erotic feel of the power forged into the steel blade. He imagined he could hear it humming in the silence. “Is it not fitting that you should die by your own sword?”

  Andre’s gaze moved to the quillion, to the intricate scroll work inlaid with lapis lazuli taken from the deserts of Afghanistan, then down the long wide blade, the best Toledo steel, tempered with a virgin’s water.