The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  “Precisely. The others I can understand.” Brother Paulus looked puzzled. “They are traditional remedies for a great many illnesses, including infections. However, peach pits can be highly poisonous. Fruit pits in particular hold the distinction of having such an ominous duality. The seeds of apples, cherries, plums, and peaches all hold within their pits the poison cyanide.”

  Volmar suddenly remembered a passage he’d read while copying and translating Brother Paulus’s codices, several years ago. It seemed as if it were only yesterday. “Didn’t the ancient Egyptians soak peach pits in water to create a poison to give their enemies?”

  “Poisons . . . break-ins . . . Oh dear, please stay alert and keep me informed, Paulus. Come along, Brother Volmar,” Abbot Burchard said, “we have much to discuss.”

  “Please tell Sophie I’m sorry I missed her,” Volmar added, remembering how striking she had looked in Hildegard’s clothes the night of the enclosure ceremony. He blushed. What was happening to him? Thankfully, neither man noticed his discomfort.

  Paulus gave Volmar, then the Abbot, a worried look. “I haven’t seen Sophie since before Compline last night. I meant to ask you, Volmar, where she might be today. It is so unlike her to leave without letting me know.”

  “This is worrisome,” the Abbot concluded. “Please let us know if Sophie doesn’t show up by this evening. For now, let us all keep our suspicions to ourselves.”

  CHAPTER 7: HIS EVIL SEED

  Window of the Anchorage at Disibodenberg Monastery

  5th of November, Before Nones

  Outside the Refectory, Abbot Burchard turned from Rudegerus to Volmar and asked his young monk, with an imperceptible wink, “Is it not time for your lesson at the Anchorage, Brother Volmar?”

  “My lesson at the Anchorage . . .?” Volmar repeated, taking a moment longer before catching on to the Abbot’s plan. “Oh yes, in all the confusion of the past half hour, I forgot the time. I am truly late for our afternoon recitations. Please excuse me.” He bowed politely and turned from the Refectory’s entrance.

  Volmar hurried away, impressed by Abbot’s Burchard’s insightful thinking. Rudegerus wouldn’t suspect a thing. No one would. An Anchorage would be the last place one would think to look for a disputed, long sought-after Holy Relic. Matthias’s hounds would likely sniff out the Abbot’s belongings and his own meager dwelling in hopes of finding it, once they realized Matthias no longer had it. But who in their right mind would think of coming across it in an Anchorage, in the care of three young women?

  Volmar could see his own breath. The temperature, he knew, was dropping and yet as he walked briskly through the cloisters, the cold did not seem to bother him. He’d never felt better. Samson bounded after him as he passed by the entrance to the store room at the Kitchens for the Poor and rubbed affectionately against his leg. “Found any rats?” the young monk chuckled, scooping up the cat with ease. Samson squirmed and wiggled free, jumping uncharacteristically from his arms and disappearing into the shade. How strange, Volmar thought, Samson had never turned down a petting before. It had been a day full of oddities: First Matthias’s story, then Sophie’s strange disappearance, and now this, Samson’s unfriendliness.

  Why wasn’t he more worried about Sophie, or more eager to go off and find her? It was so unlike him to be careless about a friend’s welfare. Was he suffering under the illusion of the Holy Spear’s legacy, or was he actually being changed by it? Was this part of its entrapment, making him squirm and wiggle free from the bonds of attachments around him? Claiming his soul for its own, parsing it off from everyone else. Was the Holy Relic offering him freedom from the messy securities of relationships and responsibilities towards others? Its guiltless allure certainly was strong.

  Volmar quickened his pace as he headed down the hill towards the Anchorage. Could he really have hidden in his hood the very spear that pierced his Lord’s side? He tried to rein in his galloping thoughts. Hildegard was not expecting his return. In their parting words, they had settled on one morning lesson per day during the short winter hours of daylight. He felt assured that she would be able to care for this precious relic, at least until he and the Abbot decided its fate. But, was it wise to give such a powerful relic to a mere woman, and . . . what of its future? Such a renowned relic would bring travelers from the far reaches of the world to Disibodenberg. Surely these pilgrimages would bring the faithful closer to the Lord’s teachings. Or would it? His thoughts were suddenly arrested by a gentle haunting melody, a barely audible song, coming from the Anchorage. Volmar paused, allowing the music to surround and still his conflicted soul. He dreaded having to interrupt it.

  “Sister Hildegard,” he called through the window. “It is I, Volmar. I am truly sorry to bother you at this hour; however, I have a request to make.”

  The music from within stopped and a shadowy face, pensive and pale, looked out to where the young monk was standing. Volmar checked to make sure no one else was around before he slipped his hand into his hood and held the wrapped Holy Relic for the first time. He remembered how Matthias had said he felt invincible with the relic in his possession. He stared down at the unassuming pouch, thinking how its humble leather exterior belied its true significance. He knew legendary treasures were always protected by tests of worthiness. Was he a worthy caretaker? His mind was racing wildly with plans of stealing off into the night with this holiest of relics. He could leave Disibodenberg and become a great leader under the Holy Spear’s influence. Who hadn’t heard the legends of how Constantine and Charlemagne conquered their ancient worlds while in possession of this very Holy Spear? After all, it had been willingly given to his care. He was the rightful heir to its powers, was he not?

  Then, just as unexpected, his mind’s eye diverted his attentions to his past. For a brief and terrifying moment he relived that fateful night long ago, the sobbing of Anya, as the two clutched their lifeless mother, trying to find warmth in her cold arms. Anya’s face was contorted in anguish. What was happening to him? It had been years since he had allowed that ghastly memory to intrude and surface. Could this mystical object also be stirring up all his dormant emotions?

  Brazenly, Volmar looked down and gazed at Hildegard’s upturned face, lit only by the single candle she held. He admired the soft curve of her chin and the delicate balance of beauty and wisdom etched in her features. His eyes wandered further to her neck and thoughts of how delicious it would be to trace its gentle curve with his lips intruded, and then . . . he smiled without shame.

  Hildegard’s graceful features hardened under Volmar’s lusty look. The candle’s flame flickered as if caught by the draft of her cold, knowing stare. When she spoke, her voice clamored for control over his wayward attentions and his thoughts of ambition, lust, and power. “I will keep safe the Holy Relic, Brother Volmar. It has had a long and bloody history.”

  “How do you know that’s why I’m here?” Volmar was caught off guard by her foresight.

  “Don’t you remember? We see in our dreams, even though our eyes are closed, do we not? Don’t worry, Hiltrud and Jutta are sleeping. For their own safety, they will know nothing of our encounter or the Holy Relic’s presence.”

  “Yes, of course. I will come for the Holy Relic when the danger has passed.” Volmar was still feeling overwhelmed by his heightened senses. He lifted the leather wrapping from the Spear of Destiny, and gazed longingly at its most precious blade, unimaginably old and believed to have been lost to the world for centuries. This blade of iron had drawn blood—and not just anyone’s blood. This blade had borne testimony to the greatest crime ever committed by man.

  Solemnly, he draped it again with its humble wrapping, his hands trembling, as he passed the Holy Spear through the small window and into Hildegard’s outreached hands. “Sister Hildegard, you are now its caretaker. I give it over freely to you. I should warn you, the Holy Relic has a curse on it.”

  “I know,” she answered softly, cradling the Relic gently in her hands. “But it is
cursed only when the power it radiates is used for selfish reasons.”

  For a wordless moment, Volmar stood very still, feeling the sudden loss of the Relic’s power. He felt awkward, vulnerable, and very weak. Volmar drew himself up to his full height and reached into his leather pouch. “Sister Hildegard, you may read this parchment. It is the conversation the Abbot and I had with a soldier named Matthias in the Infirmary. In his own words, he explains how this Relic came into his possession. Please guard it as well.”

  “Brother Volmar, this man, Matthias, I fear his life is in grave danger. He must leave Disibodenberg at once.”

  “Matthias is planning on leaving as soon as he is well enough. He is tired and wants to return home to his family.”

  Hildegard’s piercing pale grey eyes searched the young monk’s weary features. “Something else is troubling you.”

  Volmar sunk his hands into his sleeves. “I am not used to having someone read my thoughts so easily. I did a foolish thing. I asked Matthias if he knew my father, Symon of Bermersheim.”

  “And did he?”

  “What he knew of him was not flattering. Apparently, my father is one of Brother Gerard’s closest companions. He belongs to the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem. Rumor has it that they have become more militant over the past few years. They are no longer the noble healers they once were.”

  Hildegard spoke reassuringly. “I would question, Brother Volmar, a son’s responsibility for his father’s failings.”

  “Perhaps so; but a son possesses the same tendencies as his father.” Volmar spat on the ground, as if trying to get rid of a bad taste in his mouth. “I carry his evil seed. My earliest memories are of him slapping my mother and making her cry. I remember him with hatred, not kindness. The feeling must have been mutual, for my mother often protected me from his explosive temper. I am the reason he deserted us for the battlefields of the Holy Land.”

  “This is in the past, and told from a very young child’s eyes. Dear Volmar, I sense in your temperament a strong desire for the truth. Evil cannot consume a life bent on serving justice. Remember that.”

  “I am forever indebted to you, Sister Hildegard.” Volmar bowed formally, nearly tripping over the stool. He smiled at it and then at Hildegard’s smirk. “Until our next lesson . . . .sleep well.” He picked up the stool and rounded the corner before taking off up the hill. The chill in the air was invigorating, as well as Sister Hildegard’s expressed warmth towards him.

  Once inside the common room of the Anchorage, Hildegard listened to the rasping, irregular breathing of Jutta and the even less harmonious snoring of Hiltrud, reassured that what she was about to do would go unseen. She walked over to her exquisitely carved glass-fronted bookcase. From underneath her plain linen undergarment, she took a key hanging from a gold chain around her neck. Quietly, she turned it in the lock, opening the secret drawer where she kept her writings, drawings, and paintings, as well as the silver-filigreed clasp given to her by her parents. In reverence, she bent and kissed the Holy Relic, before draping it in its leather cloth and concealing it among her few worldly treasures.

  CHAPTER 8: THIS UNHOLY FIEND

  Village of Staudernheim

  5th of November, Afternoon

  Donato recognized the look in Ulrich’s eye. After years of traveling together, he knew the signs. Never though had the old man chosen one so young and so inexperienced before. The thought of Sophie in this man’s embrace troubled his conscience, what little he had left of one. Ahead he saw the village tavern’s lamp. The wind knocked it against the sign cut out to resemble a frothing wooden mug. There were rooms for rent in the attached inn, and he knew that was where they were headed.

  “Buy you a drink,” Donato proposed, as they slowed the horses into an easy saunter.

  “What about the girl?” Ulrich said, inclining his head towards Sophie, who had already loosened her grip around his waist, fearfully anticipating the worst of what lay ahead.

  “She’ll keep with the horses in the stable. If you like, I can tie her to the basket. That way they’ll both be fine while we eat and drink in preparation for tonight.”

  The stable reeked of stale ale and human feces. It was cold and damp, and as black as the night. Sophie huddled under the blanket Ulrich had wrapped around her after he had tied her snugly to the basket. He leaned over and kissed her mouth, briefly but hard. “I’ll be back,” he said hoarsely.

  Sophie turned away, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks. Never had she felt such pain; it was as if he had slapped her.

  Donato squatted down beside her, making the final twist of rope around her ankles. He couldn’t bear to make contact with her terrified eyes, but he whispered instead in confidence. “I’ll see to it that he’ll drink too much. Nothing will happen this evening, I promise.”

  Ulrich traipsed off, his arm around Donato’s shoulder. Outside, Ulrich blurted out a verse to some vulgar ballad Sophie wished she could not understand.

  It was a long while before her entire body stopped trembling. By then, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The basket was next to her, like a mooring anchor in the straw. It was a half-sphere in shape and at least four hand-lengths across. The top side was made of very open wickerwork woven around flat strips of iron.

  She spoke softly, more in an effort to calm her own nerves than the beast she heard scratching incessantly from inside the basket next to her. “Hello there, my little friend,” she said as gently as she could.

  The basket pitched violently from side to side. Whatever was inside must have sensed her fear and was responding aggressively.

  Hesitantly, she peered inside through a gap that appeared from the burlap being thrown off to one side. All at once, a beak the size of a grown fist shot out and snapped at her. She jumped back, unfortunately moving the basket closer to her rather than gaining any distance from it. Whether she liked it or not, she had to somehow rid herself of this unholy fiend.

  Regaining her nerve, Sophie leaned forward, noting the creature’s reddish comb and wattle. “This is no ordinary rooster,” she muttered. The rooster lunged forward again, making an unearthly guttural cry of war. Sophie then saw a large metal spur the length of a man’s finger attached to a talon on one of its feet. This claw scraped frantically at the rope fastening the lid on the basket, savagely trying to claw its way to freedom. The sharp spur had already left huge gouges, splitting the willow branches. Sophie backed away slowly, thinking of how that talon was certainly sharp enough to free her ropes. If she could only maneuver her wrists so the rooster could claw through the rope’s knots and not her skin, she would be free!

  In the distance, she heard the coarse noise of men’s voices, rising and falling in bawdy unison, carrying on under the influence of heavy drink. She knew there was little time to make her plan work. She remembered listening to her Grandda’s stories about fighting cocks. “Fighting cocks are bred to be mean and are trained to be dangerous, attacking anyone who invades their territory.”

  She remembered questioning such cruelty and having Grandda laugh at her for feeling sorry for the rooster. “I do not understand the reasoning behind such savagery,” she had said.

  “There, there, my little friend,” she cooed softly. ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you? Here, I have some bread crumbs for you.” With great discomfort, she managed to reach up her sleeve with two of her fingers and pinch off enough bread to get the rooster’s undivided attention. She then tossed the crumbs into the rooster’s basket and watched as he feverishly clawed away, shredding the straw even after he’d eaten all she had given him.

  “That’s it,” she said, taking more crumbs and this time sprinkling them over the rope that held the two of them together. “I have plenty, don’t worry.” She added more crumbs as the rooster pecked and clawed furiously.

  The rope became the plate upon which she poured more and more bread crumbs. This went on for several long minutes. With each feeding, the strands on the rope beca
me frayed and then, finally, the silver claw cut through the very last strand and the tautness of the rope around her wrists relaxed.

  “Well done, my little friend,” she said, pulling her small hands through the last of the knots. Deftly she untied the rope around her ankles. At last she was free!

  Sophie stood, having trouble regaining her balance in her wooden clogs. The burns from the rope around her wrists weren’t all that bad, she reckoned, feeling a rush of optimism. In silent exultation, she wrapped her blanket snuggly around her shoulders and took off into the night. Her only thought at that moment was to put as much distance as she could between her and the tavern.

  CHAPTER 9: THE RED RIBBON

  Disibodenberg Monastery

  5th of November, Dusk

  Samson caught up once again with Volmar and trailed behind him, following him to the stables. This time the cat warmed to his touch and allowed Volmar to pet him. “Let me know when you come across Sophie, will you?” Samson purred in response.

  The stables appeared deserted. During the winter months, the animals were kept closer to the kitchen, where Brother Johannes’s rubbish fires could warm them and the kitchen scraps could feed them. The young monk peered in and saw now only two fine horses tethered in the stall; curiously, the two oversized warhorses were gone. Also, there was no sign of Brother Hugo. Relieved, Volmar quietly circled around back, being careful to avoid stepping into the steaming compost heap beside the wall. It was as if it were breathing.

  The flood of memories faded as he approached the water trough. It was covered with a thin, cloudy sheet of ice. Volmar went back inside the stables from the rear entrance, wondering where best to leave the milking stool. Only then did he notice something red in the straw. He went over to investigate and found, to his dismay, a red ribbon. He recognized it immediately as the ribbon Isabella had given to Sophie in the Infirmary. He tucked it into his leather pouch and suspiciously looked around for other clues to suggest what may have happened.