The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  “You’re keeping them warm and well-nourished.”

  “They’re proud, those two.” Brother Johannes gave a wide grin. “That’s why they never want to show their faces . . . that, or they’re scared of me. Don’t know which as of yet.”

  Volmar acknowledged that with a grim twist of his mouth. Given the stories told in the villages, someone like Brother Johannes could be perceived as something of a frightening ogre.

  “The eldest boy calls himself Michael, and his younger brother’s name is Gabriel . . . two feisty little archangels, eh?”

  “God have mercy on their poor souls.”

  The last of the morning mist was rising. The clamor of the bells in the tower announced Terce; their relentless clanging calling everyone to prayers. Brother Johannes suddenly stood, staring at the flames in front of him. He grabbed Volmar’s sleeve and spoke eerily. “Don’t you smell it, little brother?”

  “Smell what, Brother Johannes?” Volmar queried, noticing how the old monk’s voice quivered uncharacteristically.

  “It’s in the air, little brother. Been there for several days now, I warn ye, that ol’ woily devil is up to no good. Be careful, Brother Volmar, watch your back.” Then he whispered. “As a favorite of the Abbot, you have many enemies.”

  CHAPTER 4: RUDE STATUES

  Cloisters and Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery

  Sunday, 3rd of November, Terce, Around 9 a.m.

  Reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire behind, the two made their way to the rusting Iron Gate. There they were joined by their other brothers, also interrupted from their morning chores, filing in from various parts of the monastery. Light streamed in through the high and dramatic arches of the cloister, turning the black hoods of the monks a shimmering grey as they lifted them over their heads, obscuring their faces. It was an orderly, quiet processional. Even the center stones of the pavement reflected this ritual with their well-worn patina.

  Volmar had time now to think through Johannes’s warnings. Was he, in fact, a favorite of the Abbot? Could jealousy exist even amongst the holy brethren? The monastic life wasn’t meant to be overly severe; yet, its imperatives certainly were. It was an unnatural way of life, solely devoted to meditation and contemplation. No wonder those who turned to the cowl thinking it was a haven of tranquility were disillusioned. Everything inside Volmar rebelled against such artificial restrictions; and yet, here he stood with his hands clasped, following the usual rituals. Why?

  Impulsively, Volmar whispered to Johannes, “Dear brother, you have given me an idea.”

  From under his hood, Johannes shook his head, a black hole where his face should have been. He began in a low voice, “Now, now, little brother . . .” then he saw a mischievous glint in Volmar’s eyes and trailed off uncertainly. “Huh, what sort of scheming have I seeded, eh?”

  Volmar lifted his hood over his head, joining the end of the line with Johannes. “Don’t worry. I will be careful.” At that moment, he made a personal pledge to find a suitable psaltery and wax tablet to give the sensible young lady who desired only to stimulate her mind with God’s words and teachings. His sense of what is just and right felt relieved.

  The sanctuary seemed darker and cooler than Volmar expected, especially after the warmth of the bonfire. He followed after his holy brothers in silence. In the house of God they came together as a unified community. No longer were they individuals. Here they moved together and sang together; dark, shapeless, identical shadows with disembodied voices that rose in complete harmony, in unison and in prayer to one God. Reverently, the monks passed the marble font where, each in turn, dipped their fingers into the cool pool of holy water and muttered a prayer, giving the sign of the cross. Such comforting rituals, Volmar knew, kept the mind and the spirit submissive to God. The brothers took their assigned places in the choir loft. Few villagers at this time were in the nave,75 where the congregation stood. Volmar recognized Reginald, the Bishop’s entourage and their servants, but also noted Atif’s absence. He must have already left, Volmar reasoned, and as a free man. The bound codex was the legal confirmation of having satisfied the last of his indentured requirements; though under what circumstances, Volmar wasn’t sure. The Bishop stood beside the Abbot in the chancel at the altar. It was to be the last Mass they would share together before the Bishop left the next morning to return home. They nodded to one another before taking turns reading the scriptures associated with the Crucifixion. Terce commemorated different moments in Christ’s Passion.

  Volmar knew most of the Mass by heart, so he was looking up from his service-book when two soldiers under the command of a knight dressed in the Emperor’s colors entered the sanctuary from the forecourt.76 The massive wooden doors had creaked open and light now flooded into the dark entry. But it was the unaccustomed sound of metal rubbing against their scabbards that brought everyone’s eyes to the back of the sanctuary where these soldiers stood immovable, like rude statues, their swords drawn to block the exit.

  Volmar turned and watched as the Abbot and the Bishop leaned forward, ready to rise from their stalls, as they exchanged questioning looks in the dimness. Seeing that the soldiers respectfully stood their ground in silence, the Abbot nodded for the Mass to continue. No one would argue the reality that the Mass was said in a more hurried fashion than usual, or contradict the fact that few if any of the brothers were able to ponder what was being said, knowing full well that they were all under the oppressive scrutiny of the Emperor’s soldiers.

  At the end of the Mass, the holy brothers rose and exited the choir stalls, chanting in unison about the promise of the Resurrection. Reluctantly, they filed by the soldiers, exiting into the Cloister to return to their work, wondering what would bring the Emperor’s men to their humble monastery. Volmar broke line and, keeping a reasonable distance, went and stood in the shadows to be within earshot of the exchange as the Abbot and the Bishop approached the soldiers.

  The knight bowed formally to both holy men before handing to the Bishop a parchment. “By order of Henry the Fifth, I present ye with this message.”

  The Bishop broke the wax seal of the letter, imprinted with the Emperor’s own insignia. For a few embarrassing moments, he held the letter first close, then far away, trying to bring its tiny script into focus. The Abbot understood the failure of old eyes and quickly motioned for Volmar to come out of the shadows and over to read aloud the letter’s contents:

  This is to inform you that Adalbert, Archbishop of Mainz, has been arrested by imperial troops and is being held on charges of treachery and intrigues. He is imprisoned in the castle of Trifel and has formally requested the presence of his son, Reginald of Mainz. The Emperor, Henry the Fifth, has graciously conceded to this arrangement and is providing safe escort for his son to the castle.

  Volmar returned the letter to the Bishop, searching the empty nave for Reginald. During the reading of the message, Reginald had approached the altar, knelt before it and prayed. Stoically he rose, crossed himself and then turned to face the others, with no visible signs of distress. It was, the young monk thought, as if he’d anticipated such an arrest and was somehow relieved that the endless waiting was over.

  “Is that all?” said the Bishop, as he sternly addressed the knight.

  The Abbot piped up, equally incensed. “Has there been a trial? Has the church been notified?”

  For the first time, Volmar saw how quickly the Bishop’s smile could turn ugly, into a malicious sneer. “Burchard, this sounds to me like a trap! I insist that Reginald stay put.” He turned to the knight and declared so all could hear, “Tell your King that Reginald of Mainz chooses his right of sanctuary and will not move from Disibodenberg.”

  Reginald came forward and put his hand on the Bishop’s shoulder. “It is I who will make such accusations, and will do so in person.” He turned to the knight, who already seemed somewhat flustered by his lack of knowledge. “Do not torment the messenger, my friend. I am ready to face my enemies, those who see my f
ather as a traitor to the crown. In the kingdom of God, motive matters. I will go with these men willingly, and inform the Emperor myself of his foolishness.”

  “Reginald,” the Bishop said, clearly worried. “Are you sure you want to take your orders from this King? I’m sure Abbot Burchard would not mind you seeking sanctuary until we have the support of the church. I will take this to my superiors right away, and we will all plead your father’s case together.”

  “Thank you, Bishop Otto and Father Burchard.” Reginald nodded to the Abbot, “But no. I will not rest on my hands in here while my father rots in a dungeon.” Reginald kissed the Bishop’s ring and embraced the Abbot before being led outside into the bitterly cold morning air, cut off from the safe confines of sanctuary.

  Volmar stepped aside and watched with a growing sense of admiration as Reginald and his servants were escorted out and led into a waiting carriage marked with the imperial crest of King Henry the Fifth.

  Abbot Burchard muttered so only the Bishop and Volmar could hear. “This is proof of the King’s determination to drive one more nail in the coffin of the church.”

  The driver whipped the horses, the carriage rocking from side to side on the uneven cobblestones as it made its way past the Anchorage and further down the hill to the Porter’s house. Volmar thought back to the freedom papers of Atif. Were they a gift from the crown for one more dutiful mission? He couldn’t help but feel that Atif was the Emperor’s pawn used to seal the fate of this troublesome family. Volmar doubted that this would ever be achieved. Both father and son had a cause and a stubborn determination that prison would only strengthen.

  As they watched the carriage amble away, the Bishop turned to the Abbot. “Burchard, my friend, I will need to leave within the hour.” He turned to his entourage, and with a swift and decisive wave of his hand he said, “Go on. Prepare for our departure.”

  The Abbot hesitated for a moment longer, then gestured for the Bishop to follow him. “There’s an abbey close to Trifel Castle, isn’t there?” The two walked side by side back into the church and down the aisle of the sanctuary to the Abbot’s private chambers. Their steps seemed more measured, less confident about what the future might hold.

  Volmar had a terrible premonition of what would come next. The Emperor was not known for compromising and neither was the church for that matter. “God preserve us,” he prayed.

  CHAPTER 5: SHADOW OF THE DEVIL

  Infirmary, Disibodenberg Monastery

  Sunday, 3rd of November, Terce, Mid-Morning

  The lengthening shadows of the cloistered walkway chilled Volmar to the bone. He felt torn, wondering if he should wait to visit Brother Hans to request a psaltery for Sister Hildegard until this disastrous development faded from everyone’s memory. As he turned the corner, he ran into Paulus coming from the Abbot’s garden, carrying an armload of various bottles. Volmar felt he owed the man an apology after the sword fighting incident. “Can I help you with those?” Volmar offered, taking several of the cruets, flasks, jugs, and pots from him. “By the way, I am truly sorry for the sword fighting spectacle yesterday morning.”

  “Don’t worry, it is all forgotten.” Paulus sighed. “Thank you for helping. I know I should not be carrying so many at one time. I suppose my thoughts are elsewhere.”

  “Is it one of your patients?”

  “No, thankfully everyone is recovering as expected. It’s probably nothing . . . nothing at all.”

  “Nothing?” Volmar said with disbelief, knowing full well that whatever was troubling Brother Paulus was not trivial. “If it distresses you, there is a reason.”

  Brother Paulus paced along the cloister walk, head bowed, watching the paving stones pass under his habit as he went on. “For the past two mornings I’ve discovered that someone has entered my laboratory between the offices of Compline and Matins and has helped themselves to some of my herbs and potions.”

  “Who would do such a thing? I will be sure to mention this to the Abbot.”

  “I have just come from discussing this very thing with him. In the past fifteen years, I never felt like I needed to lock any of the cabinets in that room.” Paulus sighed deeply. “Perhaps it is time to reconsider. It will take several days to change out the doors and place locks instead of latches on them. As you know, in the wrong hands, these concoctions can be quite dangerous. The distinction between poison and medicine is very narrow. More often than not, it is simply a matter of dosage.”

  They took the shorter route around the kitchens and together crossed the road before entering the other world, the Infirmary.

  Volmar couldn’t help but notice a woman with disheveled red hair sitting on a stool by the hearth of the fireplace, rocking back and forth humming. Her face was painted bizarrely with black charcoal, a sign of mourning. Sophie sat close to her, trying unsuccessfully to feed her.

  Brother Paulus motioned for Volmar to follow him into his laboratory with the bottles he was carrying. The acrid smells, the gurgling sounds of liquids boiling over small flames, and the amazing array of labeled pots and urns furthered Volmar’s sense of suddenly being transported into another world. It was a room like no other. During the winter months, Paulus spent most of his time in this room investigating new combinations of various herbs and potions and reading through his large leather-bound tomes, the exhaustive observations of healers who came before him. There was even whispered speculation that Paulus was working on a remedy for sleep, so he would never have to waste any of his time.

  With a western exposure, sunlight was still streaming in through the cracks around a narrow rear door, which led to Paulus’s summer work, the Infirmary garden. Mostly dormant this time of year, it was a living testimony to his tireless dedication. The garden covered nearly an acre of land as it cascaded down the hillside, offering every conceivable species of known medicinal plants, all neatly organized in structured beds, one for each species. Paulus had managed to purchase all that he needed in hospital supplies from selling such things as the seeds of leeks, mustard, hemp, colewort, onions, and grafted fruit trees to the villagers. By keeping such an organized nursery trade, Paulus was also able to purchase new species of plant life that captured his fancy. Often this trade would take place in the guest house, where travelers who knew of Brother Paulus’s reputation would pay for their lodgings with interesting plants and herbs from exotic places such as the Far East and Africa.

  “What miraculous potions are you working on now?” Volmar asked, curiously lifting the lids of a few of the jars and wrinkling his nose in disgust at some of their horrid stenches, placing them quickly back on the shelf. He missed the days when he was Paulus’s apprentice, assisting him in his experiments and helping him record the details of various medicines, salves, and tonics that he had concocted.

  Paulus scanned the top shelf of his laboratory and said ruefully, “That shelf, as you know, represents my failures—potions I’d rather forget. But that doesn’t quite answer your question. I’ve had a couple of recent travelers from the Holy Land who, in exchange for lodging, have given me some interesting seed specimens.”

  “Are they the sword fighters from yesterday?” Volmar asked sheepishly. He hated bringing up the memory but was curious about the new travelers from the east.

  “Yes, I believe they’re the men who nearly put you out cold in my mortuary, Ulrich and his younger companion Donato.”

  Volmar hung his head in mock humility. “I’ll stay out of their way, I promise.”

  “Good. Thankfully they keep to themselves and are gone most of the day. Both of them, however, impressed me with their knowledge of the healing arts.”

  “Really?” Volmar replied, intrigued by this juxtaposition of opposites. “Warriors and healers, an odd combination, wouldn’t you say?”

  “An implausible, dangerous combination if you ask me.” Paulus walked out into the Infirmary’s courtyard and over to his hot house, a lean-to set against the Infirmary’s chimney. Its constant warmth helped germinate th
e more sensitive seedlings through the cold winter. He changed the topic abruptly by proudly pointing out the bounty of his recent trade, a seedling tray where he had planted the traveler’s seeds. “They’re much too fragile to set in the ground. I’ll have to wait until spring. Supposedly, the salve from their seed spores can cure blindness. I’m not sure about that, but it is worth trying, eh, my friend?”

  They returned to the laboratory and Volmar couldn’t keep his eyes from studying the shelf that always held his interest more than any other. It was the shelf of dried specimens. There were exotic reptiles, birds, and other small mammals, including a dried bat. Their shriveled skins, nails, hair, and even tissues provided Brother Paulus with ingredients to prepare his healing remedies.

  Suddenly there was a cry from the women’s infirmary followed by a crash of what sounded like shards of pottery shattering on a stone floor. Volmar and Paulus rushed to the room, aghast at what they saw. The bowl Sophie was holding had been flung to the floor by the redheaded woman she was trying to feed. The woman now stood inches from Sophie’s face, screaming over and over, insisting that the girl “feed my babies.”

  “Providence, I feel, has brought us together,” Paulus said, as he placed his hand on Volmar’s sleeve. “Come, I need your help.”

  The two approached the frantic woman from either side. Paulus quietly and firmly whispered in the woman’s ear. “I’m here to care for your children also.”

  The whispered words of comfort were surprisingly louder than her rage. With the woman’s face purple from grief and anger, Volmar gasped at how hideously the ashen lines accentuated her inner torment. With remarkable ease, Paulus led the woman back to her cot.