The Seer and the Scribe

by G. M. Dyrek

  In the distance he heard the sound of bells struck by a monk’s wooden mallet announcing Vespers. Volmar trudged off obediently, promising himself that after prayers he would go to all the familiar places where he might expect to find Sophie.

  As soon as the last “Amen” concluded the ceremony, Volmar turned and questioned all his holy brothers temporarily assembled in one place. Slowly, he pieced together the fact that no one had seen Sophie since the day before. Her sudden disappearance did not make sense. He left the sanctuary, noticing that already the sky was leaden, a sure sign that Brother Albertus’s aching back was correct. The sky was heavy with snow.

  Why would Sophie leave the monastery so abruptly, telling no one of her whereabouts or her plans? Volmar was deeply troubled now more than ever. He left the rubble of the stone pile where often he would find Sophie watching the builder’s son, Thomas, mixing mortar and annoyingly counting aloud the number of scoops of sand he’d put on the board. When the weather was warmer, Volmar would often see them talking amicably, taking turns simply drawing in the sand with a pointed stick. He kicked at the board, dried and hard from an earlier than expected winter. Could someone have said something hurtful to Sophie that angered her enough to make her want to leave? Outside the Apiary86 were stairs leading to the forest, a vast expanse of scrub and rough woodland, cascading sharply down to the road. Volmar stood at the ledge and gazed into the woods below, knowing the birds, weasels, foxes, rats, and other creatures were warily watching his movements. He held Sophie’s red hair ribbon to his cheek, wondering if she had left unwillingly. He recalled the two missing warhorses, appalled by the turn his thoughts had abruptly taken. Could Sophie have been kidnapped?

  With his hands on his hips, he stared across the Monks’ Cemetery. In the distance he could see the twin towers of the Porter’s gatehouse. Perhaps, he thought with some hope, Brother Cornelius would know if Sophie had left of her own accord.

  Never had the high stone walls surrounding Disibodenberg seemed more in opposition to him than now as he scrambled downhill. Like a fortress they kept the monastery separate from the outside world, yet in doing so, they also provided sanctuary for all God’s people. The monastery was a haven for outcasts of one kind or another, especially the widows and orphans, of which one very special orphan was now missing.

  Volmar made his way past the iron gates and into the Lay Chapel. It had a vaulted ceiling and a stained-glass window at the far end over a more modest wooden altar. He knelt before the image of the Holy Mother and lingered on the all-knowing eyes of the Christ child. The thought came to him, as he prayed for Sophie’s safety, that if everything were easy, men would no longer need God’s guidance.

  He rang the bell to announce his need to speak with the Porter. The bell’s deep baritone voice reverberated down the empty, drafty corridor. Volmar blew on his hands, trying to warm them while he waited for the Porter’s arrival. The temperature was dropping fast.

  Brother Cornelius was a thin man with a wispy white beard and dark, belligerent eyes. His position suited his personality, Volmar thought, pacing back and forth, dreading the encounter. Brother Cornelius preferred his own company apart from the other brothers. He did not like people and treated rich and poor alike . . . with utter, unapologetic disgust. Volmar would have preferred not to have awakened him, but felt he had no choice.

  Cornelius arrived, carrying a lamp. His hair sprouted in every direction like weeds. “What do you want, brother?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me if a young girl with long blond hair, about thirteen summers old, left the monastery at any time since yesterday afternoon?”

  “No one of that description came or went, alone,” he muttered, turning to leave.

  “Wait!” Volmar rushed forward to stand in front of him, blocking his passage back to the comfort of his hearth and cot. “How about with someone—did you see a young girl answering to that description leave in the company of others?”

  Brother Cornelius thought a moment and responded. “I did.” He rudely turned to push the young monk out of his way.

  “Please, Brother Cornelius, I need to know more. Who was the young girl with?”

  For one so old, his recall was undeniably clear. “There were two well-dressed gentlemen. One wore leather boots with a cruel spur on the buckle. Both were on fine warhorses. May I?” he grunted.

  Volmar stepped aside, and watched in dismay as the disagreeable old monk took his leave. He was observant but otherwise not much help. Only then did Volmar discover the impossibility of shedding just one tear. “There will always be a companion,” he muttered, brushing the dampness from his cheeks. Even after recovering the red ribbon and finding the strangers’ two horses missing, Volmar had refused to let his mind process the evidence. Now he had no choice—here was irrefutable testimony that Sophie had been abducted. Volmar knew of the hearts of men like those two; if given the chance, they were capable of much evil.

  The bell to the Iron Gate suddenly started clanging wildly. This time it went on and on with such vehemence that Volmar wondered if it might be announcing the end of time. He heard the thick door to the Porter’s room slam shut down the long corridor followed by the scraping sound of the Porter’s sandals on stone. The young monk hurried to see who could possibly be arriving at such a late hour and on such a dismal night.

  There, dressed only in her nightdress and blanket, stood the most incredible sight. Volmar ran to Sophie and lifted her high into the air.

  “You’re alive,” he said, pushing the tangled hair from her face and cradling her chin in his palms as he placed her gently back on the ground. “Did he in any way defile your innocence?” As he asked this, he recalled that man’s lecherous intentions towards her the first time she had encountered him.

  “No, but he wanted to,” Sophie answered, allowing—only now that she was safe—the tears to stream down her pale cheeks. “Oh Volmar, I do not know how to be good enough so that this will not happen to me again.”

  Volmar held her back at arm’s length and searched her face with tenderness. “Don’t feel that way, Sophie.” Words failed him. Although he was not her big brother, he wanted so badly to protect her from life’s injustices.

  “I know,” she said with no real conviction. It was a familiar yet maddening refrain. “We are not meant to understand in this life the mind or ways of God.”

  “Humph!” the old Porter grunted, turning around. “Two wretched fools,” he muttered as he disappeared down the long corridor, his lamp showing the way, clearly the only warmth in his solitary life.

  BOOK 7: STARK WINTER LANDSCAPE

  CHAPTER 1: BLOOD ON A ROSARY

  St. Mary’s Chapel at Disibodenberg Monastery

  5th of November, Before Compline

  Volmar found Abbot Burchard in Saint Mary’s Chapel kneeling in front of the altar on a prie-dieu87. The Abbot was alone in the dark, brooding, slumped forward, his chin resting in his hand.

  Silently the young monk went and stared out the arched window, missing entirely the magnificence of the quiet winter landscape. Even the distant mountains, normally visible in the expansive grey sky, had all but disappeared in the whirling mass of snow now falling. “Thank you, Lord,” he murmured, acknowledging God’s hand even in the timing of nature’s fury, “for guiding Sophie home before the storm.”

  After what seemed like an eternity, the Abbot responded to Volmar’s presence. “The Holy Relic is safe?”

  “As safe as it can be in these turbulent times.”

  Brother Volmar turned and passed under the arch separating the small chapel from the Abbot’s private study. He returned his leather pouch to the desk drawer before locking it. He re-entered the chapel and gave the keys to the Abbot, who slipped them under his wide belt. Volmar took a matchstick from the nearby silver brocade holder and lit the wick of the hanging oil lamp. The golden light transformed the heavy gloom. “Father,” he went on, staring mesmerized at the flame, “are you familiar with the Order of the K
nights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem?”

  “I have only heard of their service in the hospitals, helping our injured soldiers and pilgrims. I did not know a relation of yours was a part of the secret Brotherhood.”

  “My father, the devil incarnate,” Volmar muttered, visibly distressed.

  The Abbot lowered his voice. “What people may hear isn’t necessarily the truth, my son.”

  “I know,” Volmar said, kneeling next to the Abbot. “My father left for the war in 1098. I was three.” Although he looked up at the crucifix, his eyes were focused on distant events in the past. “I spilled wine on the floor. My father lifted me up high in the air and was shaking me. My mother rescued me, screaming for him to leave us.”

  The Abbot nodded with understanding. “Frightening memories for a boy of three. Surely son, you do not feel responsible for your father going off to war?”

  Volmar continued, ignoring the wisdom of the Abbot’s words. “Over the years, I’ve questioned many travelers returning from the Holy Land and have learned a little of this organization through these conversations. The Knights Hospitaller chose the shape of the cross as their emblem, to represent the spiritual qualities blessed by Christ in the Sermon on the Mount. And so the four arms of the cross stand for the four Virtues: Prudence, Justice, Temperance, and Fortitude. The eight pointed star represents the eight Beatitudes, and the color white is for the purity of the soul. I’ve been wondering, though, about Matthias’s suspicions towards Brother Gerard. Other travelers, too, have mentioned how militant he’s turned over the past couple of years.”

  “Forgoing their Christian heritage is a serious accusation, my son.”

  Volmar rose from his knees and began pacing the room. The Abbot remained kneeling, closed his eyes and listened intently. “Father, earlier this morning I noticed four horses in our stables. Two of the horses were warhorses and each had the Order of the Knights of the Hospitaller insignia; two did not. I checked before Vespers and now only two horses remain tethered in our stables, the two unmarked horses.”

  “Go on.”

  “Don’t you see? The two horses with the emblem of the Knights Hospitaller belong to Ulrich and Donato. Paulus told me their names, after I had the misfortune of sword-fighting with the older knight, Ulrich. Also, we know from our conversation, Matthias wants to have nothing more to do with the Brotherhood. So, I reckon, one of the unmarked horses must be his. That leaves us with an unclaimed, unmarked horse. And according to Brother Paulus, Atif left yesterday morning. And yet, how could he, if his horse remains?”

  “You do make a point, my son. Rarely do we get travelers this time of year, and who would leave on such a dreadful day, especially with a winter storm brewing?”

  “There’s more, Father. Forgive me, I hesitated to show this to you in the Infirmary, but I found this at the base of Matthias’s bed.” Volmar handed the rosary over to the Abbot.

  The Abbot turned it over in his hands, knowing his old eyes were hopeless in making out its tiny inscriptions. “Knights Hospitaller?”

  “Yes.” Volmar nodded. “Father, you can see the cross and the eight-pointed star. Atif had such a rosary in his possession, or one just like it, the night of the enclosure ceremony.”

  “Go on,” the Abbot said, peering at it more closely. “How did it get these red stains?”

  “It was like that when I found it. Father, also, a letter ‘S’ was scrawled on the floor, next to it in red. I suspect it is dried blood.”

  “Hard to tell, could be wine,” the Abbot said, sniffing it.

  “The facts do not make sense. We know Atif rescued Matthias the night before last. Matthias had a nasty bite wound on his ankle. But why would there be blood on a rosary Atif kept close to his heart in an inside pocket? And why would there be other bloodstains on the floor next to it?”

  “Other bloodstains, my son? Now, now—we mustn’t let our imaginations take over. Somehow we must find a way to reconcile our observations with the dictates of reason.” The Abbot handed the rosary back to Volmar dismissively. “Besides, you would expect to see blood stains on the floor of an Infirmary.”

  Volmar gave a helpless shrug as he slipped the rosary back into his pocket. “If the rosary belongs to Atif, and I believe it does, then, why would he scribble an ‘S’ on the floor, in blood, next to where he left it? All Atif said to me was that the rosary was a gift from a monk who brought him to Rome. He said that he owed him a great debt and that he was kind to him when no one else cared.”

  The Abbot laced his slender fingers together. “And you think this kind monk is none other than our Matthias?”

  “Well, it does seem likely. Why else would Atif risk returning to Disibodenberg? He must know there’s danger here because his part in the arrest of the Archbishop has now become known. And you heard yourself, Matthias admitted to belonging to the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem. But, Father, why an ‘S,’ of all letters?”

  “Sin, Savior, Salvation, comforting words of redemption for one torn in his allegiance and affections for an old friend. Maybe it is some sort of ritual, a Persian religious belief, perhaps?”

  “I wish I could be as certain, Father.” Volmar paused before announcing, “There’s more. Sophie has returned.”

  “Well, that is a relief, son.” The Abbot made the sign of the cross. “How is she? Tell me, where did she go, and why did she not tell Paulus of her absence?”

  “Brother Paulus has given her a sedative, and she is resting now. Father, Sophie woke last night and observed two men, Ulrich and Donato, searching through Matthias’s travel bags. It was dark, but, from where she was, it looked to her like Ulrich killed a man with a knife. I think the man killed was Atif.”

  “Ulrich killed Atif in the Infirmary?” The Abbot rose and stepped into the light, taking Volmar’s shoulders into his hands. “Are you certain, Volmar? Sophie saw one of the traveling Knights of the Hospitaller kill the Persian spy?”

  “All I can honestly say is that Sophie saw the glint of a blade, and the man slumped forward. Then the man, Ulrich, with his traveling companion Donato, took her as a captive to Staudernheim, fearing she was a witness to the crime. Fortunately, Sophie escaped while the two men were getting drunk in the tavern.”

  “Why, pray tell, is there no body?” Then the Abbot turned to Volmar with a flash of anger. “Volmar, why did you wait so long to tell me of Sophie’s ordeal in all of this?” The Abbot’s face paled even in the warm glow of the oil lamp.

  “Forgive me, Father. It was unintentional. I’m only now just making sense of what Sophie blurted out to me. She’d been through a great deal and was in shock when she showed up here a short while ago at the Porter’s gates. The tonic Paulus gave her to calm her nerves had her speaking even more bizarre things before she drifted off to sleep.”

  “How so?” the Abbot asked, his eyes matching Volmar’s quizzical look.

  “Something about a rooster.”

  “A rooster?”

  “When she wakes, I’m sure she’ll make more sense and we can question her further.”

  “This is very strange. We have a witness to a murder that took place in our Infirmary early this morning, but no body. The two suspects are none other than Knights Hospitaller desiring the Holy Relic and are obviously willing to kill for it. And, Brother Cormac has informed me that one of our own brethren had secretively gained entry into the library. Cormac discovered open on the table ancient writings about the Spear of Longinus. Who among us would be privy to such wickedness and knowingly allow fellow brothers to kidnap and terrorize a young girl?”

  “Have you a plan, Father?”

  “I have only one. That is to pray to the Almighty for guidance.” The Abbot stared back up at the crucifix. He waved his hand to dismiss Volmar.

  Volmar bowed respectfully and approached the exit. Before turning the iron handle of the door to leave, he stopped for one more question. “Father, do you really think we have in our possession the tr
ue Spear of Destiny?”

  “I do not know, my son. I do fear, though, that there are those who think we do and will stop at nothing to take it from us.”

  CHAPTER 2: AN ACCURSED BROOD

  A Monk’s Cell at Disibodenberg Monastery

  5th of November, During Compline

  Not far from the Abbott’s study, a single oil lamp burned in a cell in the monks’ dormitory. The troubled holy brother found that he could not attend Compline at 6 p.m., certainly not in the state he was in. He went to his basin, filled it from a pitcher of water, then lifted a small flask and perfumed the water before splashing it on his face and neck. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t rid himself of the stench.

  He started pacing from one end of his small room to the other. The flagstone floor was beginning to show a wearing away from this, his frequent habit of worrying. The monk turned every now and then to his narrow bed where the distinctive shape of a man lay under his own blanket, apparently asleep. The sleeping figure’s hand suddenly fell, dangling from under its meager covering. The monk yelped, slapping his own hand to his mouth in horror of being overheard. He listened to the apparent silence around him. With shaking hands he kissed his rosary and attempted once again to concentrate on saying more “Hail Mary” prayers.

  “Stop laughing at me, Lucifer,” he replied firmly, throwing his rosary to the floor. The delicate string snapped and the tiny carved beads scattered everywhere. He sunk his head into his hands murmuring, “I know I’m of an accursed brood . . .”

  CHAPTER 3: TORTURED SOUL

  Sanctuary of Disibodenberg Monastery

  6th of November, Matins

  The morning was bitterly cold. Snow already lay heavy on the ground and was still falling as the bells rang out announcing Matins.88 Volmar stood in his place in line beside the other holy brothers in the Sanctuary. Bleary-eyed, he was finding it difficult to stay awake with the heady scent of incense and the rhythmic chanting enveloping him. His thoughts drifted, wrestling with chaos. He deliberately tried to organize their randomness. There was Sophie, of course, and her shocking kidnapping, not to mention the distinct possibility of Atif’s cruel death . . . And what of Samson? Although he did not place his relationship with his cat on the same level as that of his two friends, Samson had disappeared, unusual for such a frightfully frigid night. It was his cat’s first night away in seven years.