The Hour Before Dawn

by Penelope Wilcock

  Michael nodded thoughtfully. Then, as these words sank in, he glanced sharply at William. “Are you… you’re not thinking he might despair of life are you?”

  William did not reply, and Michael answered his own question, shaking his head emphatically. “Oh, no. No, no! John would never attempt to take his own life! He is a man of God, a man of faith. He would hold such a thing—well, we all would—as serious sin! He would not even permit himself to contemplate it, whatever life threw at him, whatever depths he plumbed. He—Oh God, have mercy—William, I’m so sorry!” Michael stopped short, flushing red in embarrassment. William’s own self-inflicted brush with death had been completely driven from Michael’s mind by his present concern for their abbot. “I am so sorry,” he said again.

  William shrugged. “No matter. It’s not me we’re thinking about. And I’m sure you’re right. And moral fortitude was never my strong point. I make no claim to it. I am a coward, and I am used to sin, and our abbot is not: he has a sturdier soul than mine. This will not get the better of him, where it might have finished me—if guilt and family love had ever much concerned me, I mean, which they did not. Besides, an infirmary is the place for watching folk suffer. I cannot imagine but Abbot John must have had enough opportunities to consider how best we might make space in our souls for pain and sorrow.”

  Michael looked at him anxiously. “William, truly, I ask your pardon for my insensitivity.” He moved to kneel, but with the sudden speed of an arrow William’s hand shot forward to detain him, grasping him firmly by the arm.

  “Brother Michael, I beg you, do not kneel to me. I cannot bear it. There is nothing to confess and nothing to forgive. I take heart to see that my own failures of courage had completely slipped your mind. Please stop thinking about me. Keep your mind on Father John. His plight is what we’re talking about, not me.”

  He released his grip, but cautiously, acknowledging Michael’s compassionate grin with a dismissive shake of the head.

  “He will try his best,” Michael asserted. “John always gives of his best to any endeavour. Our part will be to trust him and have patience. He will surely weather this storm. It grieves me to hear of the way things went with Madeleine though. Was it still so when you left? Did she not soften toward him?”

  “We saw her but the once. I think, to be honest, he was afraid to ask to see her a second time, as so would I have been. He did not have the heart for another drubbing, and I would not have recommended it if he had. The thing’s still a fresh wound in both of them. Besides, Motherwell is within a day’s ride, and in time the shock of this will subside. They’ve been close and good friends until now, so everyone tells me. Sometimes these things harden into lifelong estrangements, but there’s good hope she may come through to a kindlier view of him than she held in the encounter of these last few days.”

  Brother Michael considered these words. “God grant it be so. It would break his heart to lose his sister’s kind regard. But you’re right; the griefs we think we shall never come to terms with, in time we do learn to live with. Well, and Father John has said often enough himself in this infirmary, people are but simple really. Whatever befalls anybody, so he thought, if you can reassure them they are safe with you, keep their bowels moving, and find them something they enjoy eating, they will sooner or later come around. So”—Michael smiled—“provided we ensure he has evacuated his bowels and we feed him such delicacies as take his fancy, he’s safe enough in these walls, in this community; in time he will heal.”

  Brother Benedict appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat discreetly in advertisement of his presence. “When you have a moment, Brother Michael…”

  “I beg pardon, Brother Benedict! I’ve left you with that poor soul waiting for his ointment! Is that all, Father William? Yes? I’m sorry to hear how it went, and I’ll do what I can. Thank you for your good care of him. He will mend, I have no doubt of it, but for sure he will need our patience a good long while, as well as our prayer.”

  Later in the novitiate Brother Benedict recounted to an intent audience what scraps he had gleaned of this exchange.

  “Brother Michael looked quite downcast, and Father William seemed mighty fed up as well. I think it was about our abbot, and they were saying the journey had not brought comfort or any kind of peace. It sounded as though Father William was telling Brother Michael that someone was angry with Father John, but I don’t know why or what had happened. His sister, I think. Anyway Brother Michael finished by saying we must be patient while Father Abbot becomes more himself again and pray for him as we wait. And Brother Michael said that Father Abbot himself had always thought if a man keeps his bowels open and has appetizing things to eat, he’ll get better from most things given time. I wonder if he’ll come to chapel tonight and tomorrow, or if we’ll still have Father Chad at Chapter in the morning.”

  “Were you listening at the door?” demanded Brother Robert, not usually held up as an example of ethical rectitude himself, but assailed by twinges of jealousy that Benedict’s position in the infirmary secured him the centre of attention.

  “I was not!” Brother Benedict responded with indignation. “You can’t always help overhearing what’s said, can you? Besides, nobody made you sit here and listen to it yourself!”

  Brother Robert could think of no answer to this and was relieved when the talk turned to a discussion among themselves as to what the snatch of conversation Benedict had heard might mean. Those who had glimpsed Abbot John about the place on the day he left (none of them had seen him since his return) offered gloomy predictions of slow recovery. Only Brother Conradus said nothing, but listened to his brothers, a look of slow determination hardening into resolve in his gentle dark brown eyes. He had duties in the kitchen during the afternoon. Brother Cormac wanted to sort through the last of the previous year’s apples up in the store and needed Conradus to take responsibility for preparing the supper. He slipped away from the company of his brothers’ recreation in the novitiate and made his way unobtrusively but purposefully along to the kitchen, deserted now in the early afternoon. Nobody else would come in until after None.

  He scooped out flour from the big crock and fetched three brown eggs from the bowl in the pantry; one still had a tiny, fluffy, brown feather attached, which Conradus took a moment to marvel at. So soft. So light. So impossibly downy.

  He nipped quickly into the garden and selected with care just the growing tips from the nettles and sorrel in their patch. He paused only briefly to watch the wren go to her nest tucked under the eaves. Back in the kitchen, he chopped his herbs finely and made the pastry with deft, economical movements, using water cold and fresh drawn from the well. While it rested, he lit a fire of sticks in the bread oven—hot and fast was what he wanted on this occasion. As the oven heated up, he went for cream out of the cloth-covered bowl on the stone shelf of the dairy built against the north wall. He gathered it all together with focus and speed: he was ready to make his miracle in pastry.

  Just fifteen minutes in the hot oven was all it required, and then Brother Conradus paused to inhale the aroma and appreciate the glorious golden perfection of what he had created. It was a profound relief to him that he met no one in the cloister as he carried his fragrant gift of love and restoration along; he would have been so disappointed to be turned back now.

  Abbot John crossed his room to answer the knock. Weary beyond measure, he had no wish to see anyone. All he wanted was to be left alone. He knew that from somewhere he must find the strength to begin again, to take his mind off his own sorrow and find a generous heart in loving those who needed him once more. He was not sure how he would do that. At the moment it felt beyond him. He did not want to open the door, but he did it.

  On the threshold, definitely quaking, stood Brother Conradus carrying something wrapped in a cloth.

  “Come in,” said John kindly, he hoped, if not enthusiastically.

  With a look of determination, Brother Conradus intruded himself into this space
of palpable pain. He went to the table and set down what he carried.

  “I made you some of those little tarts you especially like, Father,” he said, “with sorrel and nettles in a savoury custard.”

  John nodded and willed his features into a smile. The two of them looked at each other. “Thank you, Brother,” he said.

  He expected then that Conradus would have the sensitivity to withdraw. But the young monk, though he would no longer look his abbot in the eye, obstinately stood his ground.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” he said. “I have two brothers and three sisters, and I well know what it is to long to be left in peace. And I know the look on the face of somebody who needs to be left alone. But the only thing is—how will you ever know how much we love you if we cannot come near you? We have to bother you a bit to let you know how much we care.”

  With great courage, as time passed with no reply forthcoming, Conradus stole a glance at the other man’s face and was startled to see that his abbot looked completely mortified. Before the novice could think of any good means of stopping him, John got down on his knees before him and kissed the ground at his feet.

  “I confess my faults of ingratitude and self-absorption,” he said humbly, “and I beg your understanding in this difficult time. Please pray for me. I ask forgiveness of God and of you, my brother. Please be patient with me.”

  A terrible feeling came over Brother Conradus. He felt as though his chest had contracted and his scalp had shrunk. His belly filled with wild panic. His mouth went so dry he couldn’t speak. He had absolutely no doubt that if anybody chanced upon this scene and asked any questions, they would despise him utterly for troubling his poor superior with his trifling stupid pastries in the poor man’s hour of grief. And as these thoughts assailed and condemned him, his abbot waited, kneeling on the ground as every monk must until his brother—whoever he may be, even the newest novice—absolve him of his sin with honest forgiveness.

  Then Brother Conradus found his second wind. He thought what he wanted to say might be too impertinent to be countenanced. He wondered briefly what his novice master would think and wished Father Theodore, whom he trusted implicitly, had been on hand to ask. But there was nobody but himself and his abbot, kneeling ashamed and contrite before him, waiting to be forgiven.

  “John,” said Brother Conradus, and all the love he surely felt was there in his voice. “John who loves to heal—of course God forgives you, my brother, and so do I, with all my heart. John, please come back to us.”

  Hindsight is a wonderful thing. When Conradus said that, with his characteristic kindhearted sincerity, he had no idea in his mind at all of a likely outcome. He certainly hadn’t expected to make his abbot cry.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, shut the door!” said John, tears pouring down his face as he stood up. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I can’t help this; it’s not like me, but it’s just how I am at the moment. No—please—it’s not your fault; every little thing knocks me off balance.”

  Conradus hesitated. “Did you mean shut the door with me outside it or inside it?” he said uncertainly. And then despite his tears John began to laugh.

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake, inside! Look, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to subject you to this. Come and sit down for five minutes. I am so sorry.”

  He turned and led the way to the chairs by his hearth and fumbled for his handkerchief to restore some order to his running nose and tear-stained face. Conradus joined him but picked up the plate of crisp, golden tarts cooked to perfection and brought it with him. He took off the covering cloth. They smelled wonderful.

  “Please just try one,” he begged. “It’ll make you feel less wobbly if you eat properly.” In saying this, Conradus was merely echoing a belief held firmly by his mother; but he had never known her to be wrong. Brother Conradus could imagine no circumstance of life, no matter how bad, that could not be comforted by a nice cup of chamomile tea and a light snack.

  And John, penitent, accepted a pastry. It was delicious. He ate two more. And he could not help noticing that though nothing had changed—his mother had still been savagely murdered, his sister still seemed to have shut him out of her heart—the simple, friendly companionship of this young man, and the delectable little pastries he had so lovingly made, did make a difference. John did feel comforted.

  For maybe twenty minutes Brother Conradus sat chatting to his abbot, feeding him his works of art conjured out of wild sorrel, the tips of nettles, butter, fresh-milled flour, crushed peppercorns and salt, and cream risen from yesterday’s milking, and he watched John being led slowly out of complete despair into something that could be called neither contentment nor peace but was an observable improvement. He talked to him about the kitchen garden and all that had flourished there, how the long cold winter and the slow wet spring meant the cherries would be especially good this year, now that the warmth had come. He talked to him about the infirmary and how he’d had a run on cinnamon eggnog with heather honey, which the old men liked so much that Brother Michael had to ration them to one a day in case they got too fat for him to lift. He told him about the morning he had helped Brother Mark capture in a linen bag a swarm of bees that had gathered on a low bough of the old yew tree—the one by itself down by the river—and how scared he had been of the bees but determined not to let Brother Mark see at all. And all the time as he prattled away comfortably, he watched John’s face; then when he judged he had managed the change he’d hoped to try for, he sat forward in his seat and said, “It’s been grand to have the luxury of a chair, Father, and I’m more grateful than I can say for you giving me your time like this when you have so much on your mind. I’ll let you be now; but you’ll stay with us, won’t you? It’s… it’s a decision to slip down the black pit or not; it doesn’t just happen.”

  He said this in the same peaceable conversational tone as the rest of the quiet flow of talk he had poured gently over his abbot, but John raised his eyes to him, considering those words.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” Conradus asserted simply. “Truly it is. I know it is. Our griefs and sorrows, our dark night—they are like a well. And whether to fall down it or whether to draw upon it as something of value is a choice we make. My mother told me this, and I have found it to be true.”

  Despite the intensity with which his abbot regarded him, now that it was said, Conradus did not feel nervous anymore. This is only John who loves to heal and needs my help, he told himself.

  John nodded slowly. “I think my mother would have said the same,” he said.

  “Well, there you are then. She might still guide you through this. Maybe you haven’t lost all of her after all. Perhaps it’s still possible to be the lad she would have been proud of.”

  “Oh, don’t! Please don’t! You’ll set me off again. But I do hear you. And please pray for me; I’ll be doing my very best.”

  “I pray for you every day,” said Conradus shyly. “I always have, ever since I entered. Actually, it’s not just me. I think we all do.”

  He took his leave then and set off with all haste to the kitchen, a little bit worried lest he had stayed too long with his abbot and left himself without the time he needed for the supper preparation.

  He set to work peeling onions and meticulously washing leeks of the mud that got into every fold and crevice. The dried peas he had soaked and boiled already. He hurried into the garden to gather fresh herbs and took the time to close his eyes and inhale the fragrance of marjoram, rosemary, thyme, sage, and bay. Especially the bay. He held a leaf between his fingers, using his nails to puncture the hard surface and release the scent from the veins of the leaf. Conradus thought the God who made anything smell so glorious could be trusted to heal and renew good hope in anyone; then he recalled himself to what he was supposed to be doing and hurried back into the kitchen.

  He took the slotted ladle with the longest handle and carefully scooped out the poultry bones from the kettle of stock that he had left to simme
r over the embers the previous night, after skimming off the hardened fat that had congealed on the surface as it cooled through the day. This he scraped into a smaller pot, in which he would sauté the field mushrooms he’d picked last week and left drying in the pantry.

  There was plenty of bread from the morning’s baking. Later he would apportion butter from the big bowl into the smaller dishes to set out on the table. First he must light the fire, because it took a long while to bring the stock back up to a boil.

  He did all this mindfully and methodically. Conradus put all of his soul into his cooking; it was his heart song to God.

  Once he had satisfied himself that the fire had taken well and he could put his attention elsewhere for a while, Conradus thought he should check the progress of the goat’s curds dripping into a bowl in the pantry. He intended to set aside the whey to make scones for tomorrow’s midday meal and planned to shape the curds into small cheeses rolled in pepper and oatmeal. He had used nettles in starting the cheese, and they added a pleasant green flavour of their own.