The Hour Before Dawn

by Penelope Wilcock

  The cheese was doing well but had a way to go yet. In the morning he would be expected to be at his studies in the novitiate schoolroom, which probably meant handing over responsibility for the midday meal to Brother Cormac. Conradus thought it would be wise to have his pepper and oatmeal mixed in anticipation of this, and left with written instructions.

  He needed to grind some pepper for the soup anyway, so he thought he’d do it all at once, which was quicker than two smaller lots.

  He measured out a goodly amount of black peppercorns: these were valuable and not to be wasted. It was quite a luxury to use this amount just as a garnish for cheese, but Conradus thought the delicious blend of flavours would be appreciated. He wanted to make a poultry marinade as well, and a dressing for the salad leaves they would serve with the cheese and scones; and all of this must be done today and set aside for Brother Cormac’s use in the morning. He took the larger stone mortar and half filled it with peppercorns, then took it to the lower of the two tables, where he set to work briskly, pounding expertly and rhythmically with the pestle.

  He reflected with satisfaction on the acquisition of goats’ milk as he did this. The community’s cows gave enough for their own use with surplus to sell, so they had no need of keeping any other milk animals. Besides Brother Stephen had no fondness for goats, regarding them as troublesome beasts needing constant watching. So goat’s cheese did not often come their way, which Brother Conradus regretted. He liked its piquancy and considered the light, tangy taste to be pleasing to the palate and an ideal accompaniment to oatcakes or newly made bread.

  This batch Father William had brought to the kitchen, having taken it in lieu of rent that a tenant could not pay. It did not cover the deficit. Neither lenient nor harsh, William simply assessed that (by the look of her) she would have no means to make up arrears, so there would be little point in carrying the debt over. The abbey was a merciful landlord, and neither Brother Ambrose nor the abbot wished to see the poor woman homeless; so William asked her what she had if she had no money. She had brought some herbs, a pot of honey, and the morning’s milking from her goats. He satisfied himself with that and wrote off the remainder. The woman had been relieved and grateful and sought to bless him for his kindness, at which William looked surprised and faintly irritated.

  “God bless you, good Father!’ she exclaimed. “God will reward you for this kindness! Your reward will be in heaven, Father, sure it will!”

  William looked at her. Neither kindness nor reward had been in his sights at all. He wanted the money now, and if there was no money to be had he would have to take what he could get. That was all. Had this been St Dunstan’s and he still its prior, he would have turned her out of her cottage without a second thought. He found her gratitude both unwelcome and uncomfortable.

  “Be sure you get your situation sorted out by Michaelmas. Thank you for this,” was all he said. He brought the pail of milk across to the kitchen himself: “Can you use this?” he asked.

  “Oh, wonderful! Goats’ milk! God reward you! That’s welcome indeed!” Conradus swooped upon the snow-white milk with delight, and William marvelled that the merest glance at the pail was enough to tell Conradus what he had—he needed neither to inquire nor taste it—the colour was enough. He felt uneasy with this expression of gratitude as well: it seemed beyond justice that God should reward one man twice for the same pail of goats’ milk, especially as it hadn’t come because of his effort in the first place. It crossed his mind to say as much, but he thought it might be too complicated to explain his train of thought, so he simply said, “She’ll need her bucket back. Don’t get it mixed up with ours. Here’s honey and herbs too. I hope you can use them.”

  Contentedly Conradus pounded the peppercorns into a coarse powder, not too fine. The fiery, crunchy little pieces that escaped complete pulverizing made the perfect foil to the fresh flavour and crumbly consistency he was aiming for with the cheese. He stirred the half-ground pepper around in the mortar and continued to pound it.

  As he worked, though he watched carefully to ensure he achieved the right consistency, his mind wandered from Father William to Brother Cormac, who would be along in a while to prepare the supper with him. Both of these men puzzled him, and of both of them he was more than a little afraid.

  He found William’s manner terse, aloof, and chilly, and enigmatic, too. As a novice, Brother Conradus had little to do with the solemnly professed brothers in their separate world of full commitment to the order. But as a kitchener he worked closely with Brother Cormac every day and frequently encountered William, who had reinstated the required regular counting of the cutlery and inspection of the kitchen furnishings and implements. Brother Cormac usually went across to the checker with orders and lists, happy to leave much of the cooking to his capable novice, but Brother Conradus had plenty of opportunity to observe Father William when he came to the kitchen with word of deliveries or, in the case of small packages, brought them over himself.

  Conradus saw the unreachable spirit, the shield of irony in William’s eyes that were the colour of the North Sea on a winter’s day. He saw the tension in William’s body, taut and quick like a fox and as cautious as a hunting cat, and he found no place for connection, no small welcoming chink that might permit any kind of friendship to establish.

  But he had also observed William in conversation with their abbot and had seen a change in him then, as though an opaque screen drew back, revealing both love and respect and also an indescribable softness that Conradus would not have imagined was there if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. It was certainly not evident when William looked at Conradus.

  In Brother Conradus’s opinion, Father William was alarming, and so was Brother Cormac. Chiefly what he feared in Brother Cormac was his legendary temper. Cormac himself would have been more startled than amused to know he had this reputation; “mildly irritable at times” is how he would have described himself. But tales and reminiscences had worked their way down to the novitiate, ascribing to the kitchener a volcanic predisposition to uncontrollable rage. The fact that Conradus had seen no sign of it thus far made that buried layer of molten fire even more terrifying to him. How might one know what would kindle the smouldering wrath to a blaze? How vulnerable would he be if he unwittingly broke open the door that kept the savage beast confined until now in Cormac’s more or less stable exterior?

  Certainly Brother Cormac could be irascible when the pressure was on, but that was normal in a kitchen. Brother Conradus expected, and got, peremptory instructions. He understood that; the work was hot and fast and complicated and had to be accurate. It brought out whatever was there in people. But so far he had seen no glimpse of the volatility he had heard about in Brother Cormac in connection with the previous kitchener, an old man who had died some time ago, whom it was said Cormac loved and fought and once had hated. Even so, Brother Conradus thought it well to keep a long way on the right side of Brother Cormac.

  Because of this, a nagging anxiety clouded the afternoon. He had asked no permission to make the little savoury tarts for his abbot; he thought it likely he would have been denied permission if he had asked, so he did not. Other people, he noticed, so often failed to grasp the almost magical power of food to comfort and restore, especially if they were indifferent cooks themselves. The ingredients he had used were plentiful, but he had no business to be making anything at all without permission—frankly, that was theft. He felt glad he had done it, but he also knew he would have to confess it; and if he faced the prospect with courage, he knew that it must be to Brother Cormac, not Father Theodore, that his confession be made. This gave him a bad feeling in his belly. He was frightened. He tried to console himself with the reflection that he could expect to have the kitchen to himself for another half hour, in which he could enjoy seasoning the soup to the peak of perfection; but he still couldn’t help feeling jittery.

  The pepper being now exactly as he wanted it, Conradus thought he would take it to the pantr
y and leave it there out of sight of Brother Cormac. He wanted to make the salad dressing and mix the pepper with the oatmeal, but he wanted to oversee the proportions and mix his ingredients gradually. He thought at this stage things would go better without Brother Cormac’s interference, but he had no authority to say so. He must manage the outcome with prudent circumspection.

  He laid the pestle down on the table and, on his way to the larder with the pepper, remembered that he needed to put some in the soup. He retraced his steps, carrying the heavy stone mortar across to the kettle of soup, which gave off a promising aroma as it began to heat up. The soup kettle was large and very stable, standing on its own legs over the fire in the pit beneath it. Conradus rested the stone mortar on the rim of the pot, holding it steady with his left hand while he took a small handful with his right to sprinkle into the broth.

  As he did so, Brother Cormac entered the kitchen with a quick, light step (even the way he walked sounded impatient), glanced across at the novice balancing the mortar on the edge of the soup kettle, and said, “What the devil are you doing it like that for?”

  Already nervous of Cormac’s arrival, Brother Conradus started violently, his hand shook, and the balanced mortar tipped and slid neatly into the soup, taking down with it enough pepper to ruin upwards of five kettles of broth. The wasted expense of the luxury of the pepper and the prospect of the entire community doomed to eat the soup for supper hit Brother Conradus simultaneously with such force that he did not even notice the greasy liquid dripping down his linen apron and coating his hand. The colour drained from his face.

  “Sorry, did I startle you?” Brother Cormac came to stand at the side of his motionless novice. “What’s the matter? What did you have in there?”

  “About four handfuls of ground pepper.” The toneless horror in the novice’s voice, the pallor of his face, and the fact that he had begun to tremble made it clear to Cormac that this was very bad. He looked at Conradus with sympathy.

  “Never mind. It’ll be a bit spicier than usual, that’s all.”

  Conradus shook his head. “It’ll be unfit to eat,” he said.

  Cormac shrugged. “Well, we don’t have that option. That’s what’s for supper. We can’t just waste it. What did you want all that pepper for anyway?”

  Brother Conradus knew that such a significant quantity of something so expensive must not be taken twice. The cheeses for tomorrow could be rolled in the oatmeal and maybe chopped herbs, but replacement pepper would be entirely out of the question. And then there was the other matter. Slowly, still uncharacteristically pale, like a man in a dream, he turned to face Brother Cormac. Cormac took two hasty steps back. It would not be the first time one of his brothers in community had hit him. He felt greatly relieved, though surprised, when his kitchen novice fell to his knees before him.

  “I confess my fault, Brother Cormac.” The novice was unconsciously wringing his hands, consumed by his dread. “I made Father Abbot some sorrel custard pastries to comfort him because he hasn’t been eating; and as well as that, I ground all that pepper to make a crust for the goat cheese for tomorrow.”

  Cormac waited. Nothing else seemed to be forthcoming. “Er… thank you,” he said. “So… what have you done wrong?”

  This experience was a complete novelty to Cormac. Though he’d had more occasions than he could count to beg forgiveness of his brethren, on not one solitary occasion had anyone seen the need to beg Cormac’s pardon for anything during any of his years in monastic life. He gave more offense than he took. There had been a moment, years ago, with Brother Andrew—but even then, Andrew had not knelt before him; he just said he was sorry. Cormac had never given the matter any thought; it had certainly never occurred to him that when someone finally did kneel in contrition and beg his pardon he would be unable to identify a reason.

  “The pepper,” mumbled the novice, “and the other ingredients. I didn’t ask permission, in case you said no. It was a disobedience. I should have asked. And such a waste, too. Such a dreadful, dreadful waste.”

  Brother Cormac began to laugh. “Oh, mother of God, that’s what the stuff’s for, isn’t it? Look, get up off your knees. No, I’m sorry, what I mean is, if you have offended, which I cannot see you have, then God forgives you, my brother, and so do I. Nay, don’t distress yourself; get up. There now, come and sit here for a minute, and tell me about Father John. Did he eat what you made him? Yes? Well, there you are then. If I had said no—which I doubt—I’d have been wrong, wouldn’t I? God bless you, none of the rest of us have managed to get past the wall he’s built around himself; it’s well done if you got through. What was it you said you made for him?”

  Conradus told Brother Cormac about the little pastries, and that Father Abbot had seemed not eager to be disturbed but they had talked a while. When he looked back on what had passed between them, it seemed intensely private; to even think of relaying it to another would be a betrayal.

  “He asked that we should pray for him” was all Conradus volunteered. “And I said we would, and we do.”

  Brother Cormac read from the young man’s hesitation that there had been more to the conversation than he was willing to say, but he had no wish to pry into what he sensed must have been vulnerable territory.

  “Sounds as though you did well,” he commented. “Anyway, change that apron and wash your hands, and let’s crack on with the supper. Best we say I made the soup. They’d never believe otherwise anyway. Tip some milk in it: that might calm it down.”

  If he had sinned, then sitting through the evening meal watching his brethren struggling through their soup was penance enough for Brother Conradus. He felt ashamed of his cowardice when later, as the servers brought through the dishes, he heard Brother Thaddeus say, “Your turn to cook this evening, Cormac?” and Brother Cormac reply, “What of it? You’ve had good food, and I’m sure you feel you’ve had plenty. Come and take a turn yourself if you can do better.”

  But he thought somebody must have got Brother Cormac all wrong. The warmth of kindness in which he had found himself wrapped had been palpable, for all it was casual and unsentimental. Yes, he could imagine that Cormac might be capable of firing up too quickly and speaking in haste, but he knew for sure that he would never be afraid of him now. Perhaps the cheese and the pepper and the soup were a worthwhile trade after all.

  Brother Conradus had a feeling, as he trod quietly with his community into chapel for Compline, of something in a wider dimension slipping into its socket. This day had held fear and grief, with weariness, anxiety, disappointment, contrition, and tears. But where men suffered, they had been lifted up by ordinary kindness, not by saintly men but by brothers as flawed as themselves who were willing simply to be kind and to try to understand. As the day ended and night folded the abbey down into the Great Silence, its rhythms and the way it chose to follow made absolute sense to Brother Conradus. He was, he thought, in the place where he wanted to be.

  The stillness of the abbey’s night could discover a man’s terrors. In its deep, dark hours, the souls within the silent stone walls found themselves taken down, down with the whole of the natural world into the little death of the small hours.

  Getting up for the first office of the day at two o’clock in the morning was a discipline that took everything a man had. Strange, then, that the brothers knew this as a precious time, when the naked soul wrenched from sleep in the womb of night touched God in a way that had no parallels in the liturgies of the daylight hours. The remoteness of sleep still upon them, as the watchman took the lantern around to ensure that none began to doze, the murmur of plainchant rose and fell against the thick endometrium of dark, a beating heart of prayer that never ceased, never went off duty.

  It was during the night, when all conversation was prohibited, that men had their wrestling Jacob moments: when they struggled, when they knew how bruised they’d been, but also when they were healed.

  Oftentimes when they gathered again for the daybreak liturgy of
Lauds, a brother would seem different from the man they’d seen tread quietly out of chapel after Compline, his face shuttered and defeated as he trudged wearily up the stairs on his way to bed. The God of stars and arcane transformations would have met with him in the difficult passage of the night and pressed a finger to his soul, and there left its print.

  The light came early on a cloudless day seven weeks before the solstice, three weeks on from the nightmare of Abbot John’s visit to Motherwell; and when he heard the ringing of the bell for the office of the dawn, John was conscious that something further had shifted in his soul. He had prepared carefully what he wanted to say to his community in Chapter today, and he had a sense of the wounds in his soul beginning to granulate. All was not well, but his healing had moved along in the passing of time since his equilibrium had been so comprehensively shattered. And he had slept soundly, which made all the difference.

  Father Gilbert read the chapter for that day, a beautiful May morning with the sound of birdsong carrying through the chapter house door that stood open to let in the fresh air and the joy of the sunshine. The chapter for the day was part of Benedict’s discourse on the kind of man the abbot should be, and this section admonished the abbot to have no personal preferences among the brothers and not to elevate any above the others except as a man’s own merit made appropriate.

  Abbot John spoke to them then.

  “Brothers, forgive me if you’d been hoping for some words of wisdom about this morning’s chapter on the importance of your abbot not having favourites. I have no favourites; you all irritate me unbearably at one time or another, as I do you. Um… that was a joke, though I see from your faces that some of you didn’t realize that. Sorry… that means I must look more irritable than I meant to, for much of the time.