This gloom, this pall, this thing that hangs over me too heavily still is like some wet filthy rag. It is like some wet filthy rag that has been wrung till not quite dry. It is like some wet filthy rag that has been wrung till not quite free of sin. As if casually tossed over me by malicious whore-child of libertine angel, and Lord, help me as I struggle further with it-
Hush now...
An answer to my prayer? I hear words... Or am I talking to myself?-
Hush.
One word only slips through the denseness of time, yet I hear a million voices. I hear a million answers, and there is no music at all to that unhappy chorus too loosely contained in this musty old skull of mine. But what is a million compared to one when all are silenced? There is one God, after all, for all these millions of prayers. There is one God. I beg you; I beg myself, shh.
Shh.
Not a sound but for these words-these words-that scream too desperately for release from this poorly confining orb, and forgive me. Forgive me, but all these millions crowd and push for their turn, and I've only one right hand. An arthritic one at that, and-
No, pray wait... Wait, I beg... For these woods from which I write are silent, yes. But a baby is crying here. A baby is crying, and that is a voice outside my head. I am sure of it. I am sure. Indeed, Man himself might not utter a word in his lifetime but for that peculiar rasp as cub, and no man is silent.
No man is silent, and that is a weighty thing to be said here. Benedict himself never ordered silence on any man, let alone child-
Yet they wait... Men wait, that is.
A brotherhood bound by silence, and what else is there for these men? Speak one to another, and the world is different, no? Neither a question asked nor a favor begged, and pray, make no mistake. This is a bond, this thing we share, and a cherished one. Fragile, yes, but unbroken among those generations who choose to remember-
Shh...That is the sound of escape from this hollow globe of mine, and let the waiters wait-
A baby is crying, whether because of or in spite of the gloom, and from womb to forest the child has already known darkness an entire lifetime. Days old, weeks maybe, and ask any fasting man. Weeks can be a long, long time...
Be it a day or a week, however, they have arrived at last. It is a man who has been carrying this baby, and the forest watches them both now. The forest has been watching these two as if for centuries, and the thing watches like a blind man. With that curiously indifferent craving. Aye, the forest watches with that too patient pining. Like a man who waits-
Men wait the world over, but it takes only one man to place a baby upon the ancient rust of that creaky swivel that alone serves as portal from his world into theirs, into ours, into that of the brotherhood, that is. A stupid man here, and there but for thousands of miles in all directions is his world. There is a baby in his hands. A boy in idle hands. A son but for want of parent, and the child has no title. `Boy', at best, and no man is a father. Every man is a son, however, or so logic would dictate, but I have come to doubt even this-The baby cries.
This is a silent place, and a baby crying is quite a thing here. Tears are like broken waves upon such a place, and they may as well be the sea for all their racket. Over centuries a forest, too, comes to terms with its creatures, and a race of silents engenders compliance. All but the birds are mute here-
The swivel turns with a humble cough. In a second, less, a boy is made orphan, and a father is bereft of that very title-`father', that is. Tragedies are performed the world over. The humblest creature in the world-but for his father-is now inside, and though the cries are muted here, they are thunderous yet to the ghosts of wood nymphs freshly wakened. These yawn in discomfort, and a leaf less falls than crashes murderously down upon the comatose earth-
A stupid man walks, and it is a wonder he has mastered that much. He plods through a forest returned to its reverie. His hands are clasped. Something like a prayer in that, and the dullard, too, has occasion for God-
No. I should know better. God spares nothing for the stupid man. Hell may just as well be Heaven for all that, and God laughs at a stupid man walking. A forest may well be a garden but for the trees, and not a temptation in the world exists here. This is not a good man, only stupid.
A stupid man walks. He walks in time with a thousand other stupid men, and by God, there is a rhythm in that. A thousand orphans for it, and by now there is an art to abandoning the baby. It is not a thing, after all, reprimanded against in the Bible, and this is the unfortunate oversight that now overburdens the monastery. An intended omission? Perhaps. But irrelevant. When all is done a stupid man walks, and a baby cries amid the silent. A house of men, and yet their population grows. Women long forbidden from even the forest, and yet the monks conceive-
The man walks. A million men in the world walk, and they may as well be monkeys for all their witless chatter-Lord, give me silence... Shh... Yes, there is silence here in this place. There is silence because God loves silence most of all. God loves silence, and there are silent men most beloved in this world. The vow of celibacy is implicit in silence, for seduction is the craft of words. Not a wit of artfulness, of cunning, exists in the language but that what remains unspoken, that what remains unread. Between these very lines there are things the reader cannot see. A thousand stories at least for every story on the paper, and no illusions about it. The things are right here before him. Silence is the fundament. All that follows is noise. I wish for a silent book. Art over craft, and I do seek outcome from this. I demand it, in fact. One does not write but reads only. A word written is a word first read, and this is a race that cannot be won. Every story has been read, heard, at least once before. Stupid men tell stories by the dozen, and worse, they walk-
Aye, they walk with clasped hands, some of them. Empty hands? No. God is in those hands, and the empty-handed man is careful not to look at his hands-Yes, yes, I know. Hands, hands, hands. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Silence, silence, silence. But iteration was a favorite device among the ancient scribes, and it is a peculiar thing of late that the author should fear repeating himself. After all, a man, be he dim, dull, or half of wit; be he dolt, moron, cretin, or simpleton; be he blocked or thick of head; be he downright hebetudinous even, then the man is just plain stupid for all that, and enough said.
And I walk along with this stupid man. He would tell me of his son, and what is one more story after all?
Brother Leo would perhaps have been a kind man. Tall, he is nonetheless plump, and a bit stooped, and the jolly disposition would have likely suited him well. A bit of heartiness, perhaps. A bit of craggy tenderness thrown in. But what, after all, do I know of the man? It is not in my character to pry, and the poor fellow strikes me oddly as a fat man gone too thin too fast. A man only half there in the most physical way possible, as if he might disappear with a turn to the left or right. There is something menacing in that, and perhaps I am correct. He is a holy man after all, and it just may be that he is already half-saved. I do not know the process.
He sweeps. There is human hair at the end of that thing with which he sweeps, and is this poor use of that stuff the novices contribute first of all? Once regarded as a clever, albeit trivial, example of genuine monastic thrift, the times are of course different. Brother Leo's broom is wearing thinner than his cloak. A novice may be sixty today for any novice who may be twenty, and Brother Leo smirks. Bald by age twenty-two he had given up nothing upon his arrival. Tonsured by the grace of God, he is yet indebted to Him. And God knows it.
Brother Leo sweeps. There is dust in this place despite the moisture, and the task is as mundane as it was a thousand years prior. The monastery stands at least back to that age, and might another Brother Leo have stood on this very spot five hundred, one thousand years ago? Might he, too, have swept these very same rocks barely eroded since but for the lonely scrape of broom over these thousand years? Most assuredly, yes. Only then the broom would have fairly bloomed with the tangled thickness of a lion's mane. For dust settles less upon disused stone than disused men-Oh, and believe me, Brother Leo would love to dust some heads. He has not a wit to spare for a thousand-year-old namesake. No. For though, like its very stones, generation upon generation comprise this place, there is certainly no blood. No heritage, no lineage, no brotherhood other than the vow exists here or has ever existed here. Women have been banned since before time, yet one generation succeeds another. This is a magical thing to the simple man, and Brother Leo smirks. He can well remember some things since before time-Yes, he spits into the dust and studies the spittle. Aye, that curious act of spewing forth that which is inside fascinates him still, and parts of him lie all about the place, sure.
He sweeps, and he has been sweeping over thirty years now. At age twenty-two he had taken to the broom with a stubbornness to rival the passion with which others of his brethren had taken to copying books. But make no mistake. It was neither consuming passion for cleanliness nor irresistible desire for order, nor was it the unbearable weight of submission what bound Brother Leo to his stick. Rather, it was the inexplicable stubbornness of an ass. Indeed, Brother Leo has always possessed an extraordinary store of patience. Too much so to be admired, it is the patience of a retarded child. Time exists not at all for this man, and he will at times stare for hours into the darkness of his cell and pray earnestly for sunlight. Every day the sun appears is a prayer answered, and Brother Leo invariably cannot believe his good fortune. Should the day arrive only dimly among the clouds, Brother Leo will wait. He has been known to lie in bed for weeks waiting for clouds to break-But what are weeks without time? Brother Leo waits, and twenty minutes may as well be twenty hours, twenty days, twenty years for all that. And be it stubbornness or patience, Brother Leo has been sweeping stones for over thirty years now-Mind you, he has no particular attachment to the tool of his trade. He'd just as soon exchange the thing for something better tomorrow. No. Things are even simpler than that. Sweeping is his task, and he has been shown what to do. In this place no task is more important than another, and Brother Leo is a master craftsman.
He sweeps. Dust whirls and settles.
There is a noise-
Brother Louis writes. He has been writing for over forty years now, and his days turn less like the pages of a novel than those of a dictionary. Thousands of pages under his belt, and not a single word has ever been composed by him. Every page, every word is that which has come before. But make no mistake. This man, too, is a craftsman. He is a craftsman, yes, but he is not an artist. For though he has written the Bible a thousand times over and more, he cannot read a single word of it. Every letter is a picture still, and his is a very ancient mind. Every scratch of quill to vellum is a thing rich near to bursting with secret meaning, and Hebrew may as well be Greek for what the translator knows. He has rewritten the Bible backwards and forwards his entire life-
Brother Louis writes, and it is more than the ancient tongues that escape him. Abandoned to this place as a baby himself, he was raised in its peculiar silence, was immersed in its peculiar language. Upon this earth over fifty years now, he has never uttered, nor has he ever even heard uttered a single word. He has seen words, to be sure, mostly as a child, but one word in the ancient tongues can hardly be distinguished from two words. Where does one begin and another end? All are merely fragments of that book, That Book, That-Thing-So-Sacred-It-Must-Be-Rebuilt-Time-and-Again. Writing is simply the technique. And Brother Louis writes with a passion to quell the ardor of a saint-No. I am unjust. The man does not write at all. Writing entails knowledge of language. Rather, the man paints-nay, sketches. Rather, he draws words-No. He draws letters. And not even letters. Those things even tinier than letters. And more. Those things even tinier than those things even tinier than letters-
A quill for a brush, and do not be misled in that some artists have been known to seclude themselves. For again, some artists have not. And somewhere in there is a remarkable fallacy. I do not know. But Brother Louis has no more chosen this life than a tortoise chooses its, and-By God, there it is! Fate, be it sanctioned of the divine or remnant of the myths, is what stands when all is said and done, no? Brother Louis is God's creature as much so as the tortoise, no? All God's creatures, and the consequence is that the Devil has created nothing in this, yes?-Oh, and I fear I am getting ahead of myself. But blast it, the Beast manipulates only, and should the artist make conscious choice, he then stands manipulated-`Seclude yourself!', and therein is a sin greater than great. `Seclude yourself,' and there is left only one thing for it. You would create your own, and is there any sacrilege greater? Alone, one grows too aware of oneself. I know this well. One creates nothing by this. What is crafted is a self-indulgent self-portrait, and that is nothing. Alone, the artist envisions himself most of all, and common sense will tell you that this is a thing that has already been created-And yes, even I have heard it said that the human body in and of itself is a magnificent and worthy creation. Perhaps. But consider that the human body racked by disease is naught but a putrid machination. The secluded artist then should be likened more to a sick man in love with his disease. Greatest self-pity in the world, and not a thing emerges from such. Illness begets illness, and there is no strength at all in weakness. Bare the soul, and the soul itself will wither. The work of God has already been done. Thousands of years old and more, and think the artist to add to it? He would be prophet of a king long since come and gone, and we have all seen it all before. The artist is ridiculous, really. His thoughts turn to himself, and his trade has been dead since the birth of God. Luckily, Brother Louis understands not a wit of seclusion. As the solitary mountain goat chews its grass with that forbiddingly lazy intensity, so Brother Louis gently but purposefully scrapes his quill against mute vellum. And down here one has the disturbing impression that the man would do just as well with his fingers, that vellum may just as well be human flesh, that his stone table may just as well be the rack. Tucked too deeply within the bowels of this place, and for him who would spy there is a terrifying moment of uncertainty as to whether this creature, dressed like a holy man, serves God or Devil. Yea, and whether it be for the duplication of Bible or Necronomikon, this man-the loneliest man in the world, mind you-badly hunched now, has both twisted his bones for his craft and never known an inspiration. He works only, and his body, but for that peculiar thing it does, is not a magnificent creation. That said, this man is nevertheless a magnificent machine. He has written more words than any man has heretofore written, and more, he has written the greatest book ever written. And thousands of times over at that. Seventy Brothers Louis in seventy different cells, and no doubt there would appear at last the definitive Word of God-Yes, God speaks through men, and He speaks through this man especially. Abraham, too, was illiterate, and the Word of God is a very fragile thing.
Brother Louis writes, and he is no longer a copyist. He knows the stuff by heart, and given voice, he would likely be hailed as a great scholar-Oh, but listen... Quill to vellum, and shh, there is more... Shh, he works... He works, and look closely. There... There, see? The man is blind. Pay no mind to that suffocating candle. It is there for warmth only, and for years now Brother Louis has done this work in the dark. The holy man has made himself blind, and shh... Listen closely now... Do you hear?... A hymn? A prayer? Perhaps. But there is a voiceless chant nonetheless in that breath that emerges like smoke from those overparched lips. A holy man his entire life, and what is this music like breath from a mouth otherwise unburdened of words? A holy man his entire life, and he has never heard played, nor has he ever heard sung that which might be called music. Yet, listen... Unmistakable. From deep down that gullet, that gullet made scarred and scabby by vindictive twitch of that nervous quill hand, emerges the Word of God Himself. A song, a psalm, sung too softly, it is the Thing-What-Surely-Guides-That-Gnarled-Claw-More-Ancient-Than-That-Body-What-Wields-It. Ay, herein, therein, resides the Word of God. Written too many times over, the secrets of that Book have escaped one by one. Brother Louis may well be the holiest man alive.
Brother Louis writes, and there is a noise. Though not completely deaf, he does not hear much, and so...
There is a scream, and though clearly that of a child, it is a sound surely not to go unnoticed in this place. A scream may well be a whisper, as a scythe may well be a fingernail for what both do to a blade of grass. It is the sheer foreignness of voice that is so compelling as to make the silent heart itself hurt. The young man is most susceptible, of course, and there are a young man or two as well in this place. There is, in fact, Brother James, for whom it was indeed an affair of the heart what lent his soul soulward to this place. And make no mistake, more than one woman has been in thoughts here. This whole region had at one time been especial shrine to That-Woman-Deemed-Mother-of-God. A shrine to the Blessed Virgin among a thousand shrines to the Blessed Virgin, and it was an old, old priest turned abbot who dutifully occasioned the temerity to believe that the world had grown too afraid of God Himself. Grown men at obeisance before an apron, and he could find no model of monasticism among the tales of the Virgin. What profit a holy man after all to gain the favor of a woman before God? To gain the aid of an intercessor, true. Yes, of course. For the sinner. But what then for those men pure of heart? For those men in search of that like-minded fellowship? `A man must kill his parents', is how the venerable abbot had cleverly turned a particular phrase of the Greek scripture, and those who would worship Woman fear God too much. The shrine to the Virgin was walled up and hallowed, and no icon at all has since been permitted. `There is one God, and worry thyself less o'er the trilogy than o'er God Himself.' So went the newly scribed catechism, and I should add, `And God help thee the day thou wouldst learn it-'
Brother James shivers. This place is less cold than damp, and the holy man is very afraid of God at this moment. Yes, yes. You see, Brother James has recently taken ill, and though his constitution has improved considerably these past several days, his temperament remains as sallow as his features. He has lost his appetite utterly. An uncommon fever, and the boy has found himself longing for his Savior with that sadly ridiculous ardor of a lover too far off for far too long. Solace sought by a man who just may be dying, and his own Lord has proffered none-Not a whit of succor does his faith provide, and this at his most trying time, and it is a hard, hard thing to come to know too soon that you are not to be saved. And even harder, to come to know that you have come to know the thing. Faith never had is faith not lost, and Brother James may well have sold his soul for his shadow. His face draws, too finely pained, in that gruesome way of the freshly castrated, and Brother James indeed just may portray that victorious but wounded Crusader returned crippled to his still virgin wife. He himself can scream, `My God!' For God is right there, and perhaps those not chosen see Him most clearly of all.
Brother James does not so much fall to his knees at these times as purposefully genuflect. He crosses himself from the breast up, panting, mocking Christ and Peter both, and his obeisance is turned upon his own face. Nose to the dust, he eats the stuff blindly in submission. He eats the stuff miserably, and I have seen this before. For it was not the image of God what poured the poor man a proper draught of solace just now, but the image of that lover he had known-A village girl most likely, so stupid she would daily probably have to follow her own cows home so as not to get lost herself. Indeed it was a sin more than sin that thing they did. God destroyed in a kiss, and think ye on that. A faith lain aside is a faith therein died-There is no love at all in the making of it, and if a poor boy should wake with a stupid girl, then God has already long forgotten them both.
Brother James prays with a heart too full, and he is spewing forth in all directions. He rocks back and forth in the dust, and his very soul bleeds. Not a monastery in the world is big enough to hide a single sin. He mouths prayers that schoolchildren recite by rote. Prayers he himself committed to memory as a schoolchild, and the man has learned nothing new in the past twenty years-
Brother James pants. He is still sick, most likely, and there really is too much moisture in this place. Once taken ill, one never really heals here, and men have lain ailing for centuries. Every sickbed is a tomb, and funeral rites are practiced here daily. Brother James himself has received last rites over two dozen times, and the sacrament may as well be holy communion or holy penance for its taunting frequency. Every reprieve is that much more the sick man owes his Maker, and these debts have become far too high. Yes, the monastery at times is no more than a debtors' prison, and what then is Hell for all that?
Brother James swallows. Prayer sucked right down the gullet, along with wit and dirt, and God is everywhere but inside him. Like meat, the old dirt, and the holy man has been fasting far too long. And even that is naught but a malicious parody. No, Brother James has been fasting not as recompense for his sin, but as symptom of that illness that allows not the digestion of food. Even the novitiates here know that without appeasable hunger there is no fast, and though he is thirty pounds the lighter for it and more than twice that the weaker, the poor lad's repentence remains yet before him.
And he weeps. A mountain upon a mountain stands before him now, and the young man has lost his restlessness much too soon. The thing is no longer a challenge but a chore, and Brother James may as well be a corpse. He stinks both from his disease and his hunger, and there is that-thing-about-him-cautions-even-the-animals. Dogs neither wag tail nor snarl at the holy man. They walk backwards. The soulless, too, avoid the soulless, and this is the hardest thing in the world right here. That is, the holy man condemned.
Still, he prays, and Lord, help me for these things I write-
The baby screams mutedly in the swivel, and this won't be the last tarnished jewel set loosely upon that mangled brooch. Designed to magnify, the centuries of rust have blimped the thing more than a bit. But any human sound, be it turned up or turned down, may as well be earthquake for the disruption in this place. The cry of a child, and pray, Lord, at least let the thing be a boy-
Abbot Rufus kisses his tattered purple stole and forgets to slip it over his head. Indeed, there have been a girl or two abandoned to the mercies of the monks here, and these of course are quite forbidden. All know that. Even those stupid women who leave off the things. Yet baby girls do appear in this house of men, naked and unbaptized, and it is the duty of the abbot himself to deliver these misfortunates to the convent. Not so horrible a task perhaps merely to be read, but the nunnery at Saint Catherine's is the closest such place to this place, and that stands as a two week journey at the least. Two hard weeks at that, and more baby girls have died than have lived through that journey, and even the dead girls must be delivered to those grounds-
The baby cries, and Abbot Rufus kneels first in prayer. His cell is the largest in the place, about the span of a man both across and back, and a tiny crucifix hangs plastered to the stone wall in defiance of the order's own rules. But to be fair, this abbot is an intelligent man, and he had not invented those rules. Once a priest himself, Abbot Rufus knows the value of the icon. And though he can live very well without the Church, he cannot live at all without Christ, and Abbot Rufus prays more than any man alive. Once a papal inquisitor, the holy man was long ago torn ceremoniously from his frock, and we shall get to that. Devout in that way that truly impresses another by his own example, the good abbot has never been a stupid man. Nor has he ever lost his faith. Trained as a lawyer in his youth, there had been at one time talk of the Bishopric, even an early Cardinalship among the city parents. Counselor to the Bishop, and then to the Cardinal, it was the Inquisitorship the brilliant young priest had sought most of all-Politician for the Church, it was a longing to save the soul and nothing more what drove the holy man. Too many dying unbaptized in those holy wars, and the Church was damning before it could save. Father Rufus was the first to take census of the enemy dead. `Morbid,' they said in response. `Heresy,' they eventually accused. And Father Rufus explained his work as a means of conversion, a means of gathering record of those lost souls, so that though the wars necessarily kill, they need not condemn. I have not that eloquence myself associated with the ancient orator, and not a transcript remains of those trials, but by all accounts the holy man had the Grand Inquisitor himself in tears. Words to save the most heinous criminal, and to the jury comprised of those-just-slightly-smarter-than-stupid here was an unproffered insight unfortunately gained. To wit, a defense suited to a brilliant criminal must in fact hide a brilliant criminal-Guilty of heresy, it was only the unsought favor of the Cardinal himself what saved Father Rufus from the stake. A holy man saved not by the grace of God but by that of Man, Father Rufus wandered off into exile as he had once, in a nightmare, imagined Christ in such wise come down unexpectedly from the cross. The most failed man in the world. And he had been a priest not even ten years. Younger than Christ, in fact, and the holy man, too, suffers for sins not committed, and somewhere a baby still cries.
Another prayer, from Abbot Rufus, and he blesses himself with arthritic hand. Every joint aches these days, and this second prayer may indeed be buying time for his swollen knees. A heave, and... the legs unbend much too slowly. The relief is nearly sinful when at last he is standing. Another quick prayer, to atone for that, and he coughs. Silent cough in this place, and even the dying men here scream silently-Abbot Rufus blesses himself three, four more times, and this ritual has become far too compelling over the years. The holy man must bless himself these days. Three times upon waking, four tomorrow. Five times before the morning meal, six maybe tomorrow. Seven times before morning vespers, eleven at evening vespers, and so forth. There are marks upon his forehead, sternum, and shoulders. False stigmata, these, self-inflicted, and the abbot is unaware. There are no mirrors here. But the others believe him to be even holier now, and they bow reverently before him. Not a few among them have convinced themselves that their Lord and Savior had been in fact properly run through the skull and chest, and that that story of the hands and feet was a right Jewish hoax. For Abbot Rufus is undoubtedly the holiest man among these holy men, and at that, quite near the holiest man alive-You see then the addling of the monastic brain here. A man is either holy or he is not, and be one man holier than another then God help us all. That blasted Italian poet would be right, and we are all doomed-
No, no. I intrude too much already, and forgiveness begged is hopefully forgiveness earned, and I shall have to be presumptuous on this point else lose my tale forever. But the reader should consider himself properly begged of pardon. We are, after all, all men of God here-
A baby cries, and Abbot Rufus stumbles from his cell. There is a hallway down here. Too low, the stones cast permanent shadow, and it may as well be midnight for midday in this spot, and there are monks responsible for the keeping of the candles. Donated sconces, the things are downright terrifying in the dark. Marble molded into ridiculously dense human arms, they once adorned at proper intervals the long corridors of some Lady's summer estate. Now they crowd together as if the arms of some madly flailing mob along this stunted stone connector. They wave their torches angrily, and this would certainly be macabre illusion of the arms of the damned grappling desperately for passing soulmeat, but for the tender flames in their care. Indeed, place a brute in petticoats, and at least the illusion of brutality is softened-The fires of these hallways have burned for centuries now, and their unsettling way is something grown accustomed to. Abbot Rufus limps by them now, only grateful for their light. Dimmer in the eyes as well these days, and the rows of sconces may as well be a gauntlet to the blind man. See the permanent bruises that scar the flesh of Brother Louis. This place is unforgiving to the bumbler. And there just may be some moral in that-
A baby cries, and Abbot Rufus pauses upon the threshold of the corridor. Another prayer, and the poor man is consumed by prayer in these, his latter years. Prayers so well known they, too, would be rote, but that the good brother stands concerned lest they lose their efficacy. He cannot bring himself to compose new ones. There is something inexplicably sacrilegious in the art of composition, and this especially so to the scholarly mind-The ancient tongues drilled overmuch into the child's head, followed too fast by the means of interpreting them, and the result is no beauty at all to the language. But to men such as these, a prayer composed a thousand years ago is a beautiful offering. A prayer composed yesterday is an affront. There are ways of doing things, and there have been since Christ and before. Abbot Rufus is well aware that the ancients were of a mind greater than his, and woe to the intelligent man who would refuse wisdom-The venerable abbot pauses at the threshold and blesses himself. He blesses himself. He blesses himself. He blesses himself. He blesses himself five times, and then another and another, and then he shoves his hand into his robe as if to hide it. This is an unseemly thing he does. He knows this vaguely, and his arm convulses from shoulder to fingertips. God is in that arm, and He is furious-
Brother Thomas is possessed.
Yes, and a genuine demon haunts those ragged bowels of his. Voices in there, and it is not the epilepsy what spurs these tongues, but some random creature unmade by creation. A beast. A thing. And it is quite another thing to be inured as such. In these parts especially it has been quite a rare thing, in fact. The demonists have plied their trade elsewhere in the main, and the monks here have been unusually undisturbed by the Devil himself. All but for Brother Thomas-No, untrue. There was Brother Gregory, and somewhere Abbot Rufus blesses himself. Abbot Rufus himself had performed the rites upon Brother Gregory, and that is a thing unspoken of since. A thing of God undone by the hands of priest, and do not think for a second that there are not prices paid by these men untried of trade. Brother Gregory owed right into the grave. Demons are tax collectors, and God does keep His hands clean. Abbot Rufus himself could have spit -
Oh, and blast it, here it is. Forgive me, but I have delayed, and up till now I have written nothing. Machinations only, the motions of the pen, and these alone are not worthless, to be sure. But there is more. There are things here, and these are things like things enlodged too high in the bowel, these my confessions, and I need pass them. I need pass them now else die, and you've no idea the urgency of this pen at this moment. But I've only a pen after all in this frigid hand of mine, and the quill itself quivers with anxiety-I've things to say. Lord help me, I've things to say! I should shout, but I've little voice left at my age, and God help me for trying. I write this thing for illiterates, and I am made lower than the pornographer. A curse is a curse most of all when incomprehensible. The ancients knew this as well, and forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Father, these words and the last, and every word more from this pen. Forgive me, Father, and know that this is the most sincere request ever put to the ear of God. Forgive me, Father. Forgive, forgive, forgive, and -
No. The mind is not right, and I must wait...
Too much the interlude that last chapter, and there is space enough upon this parchment to beg forgiveness. I have allowed too much rope to this pen hand, and I've even briefer confession to set forth here. It has become obvious by now that though there be a vow of silence what binds me, I yet speak through this quill, and there would be whisperings about it throughout this place were the brothers any less devout. Yes, but gossip spreads in all places, and even silent men have means of chatter. There is quiet debate, I know, of whether to confiscate my quill and paper. I myself should have to vote `yea' were it to come to that, for I am yet a man of logic. Silence is silence, and I can discern no sound argument against it. My quill each day grows louder in my own ears, and it must be near devastating to the overpricked hounds' ears of those here who resent me more than the others. I have been branded a man of learning somehow, though my education, to be honest, has been middling at best. Knowledge of the pen makes fester that in these times, I'm afraid, and I bear no grudge. I love my brethren here. Like a priest loves his flock. Should it come to it, I shall concede my pens and paper. I make no secret of them, and perhaps their sacrifice is what I need after all to make life hard once again. Oh, and though this speech is not touching in the least, I am overcome with tears for it. I weep now as my pen overturns.
I am not the first priest to set aside orders for the cloister, but there has been inordinate suspicion about me here ever since my vow of silence. This is what follows a priest upon tonsure. For though not forbidden, this is not the way these things are done. Nevertheless I am afforded even more privacy for it. I am also responsible now for consecrating the bread at our silent masses, and the administering of the unctious rites. There is as well the occasional silent confession, and even more rarely, the occasional baptism. For though monk now, I am still priest. In the main, however, this is a thing, my being a priest-and my being here-that somehow pollutes this place. Father Rufus is the abbot. I hold no office. If in fact there is to be further purpose for the likes of me, it will have to come in this place, and that is a thing quite difficult to imagine. But a necessary thing, I fear.
And why all this bluster of myself in the first place? I have lost my run of thoughts in the madness of my pen, and oh, yes. It was the telling of Brother Gregory-Or was it the telling of Brother Thomas? And, as I review these scribblings, there may well have been a moment of the telling of Brother James-I have known all these men, and the confusion among them is nothing more than evidence of my own gradual loss of mind. Please forgive me, but I cannot even now make straight these names to their persons. I beg deference of him who would read this a hundred years more from now. There is nothing in a name, and there is still one man here, in this place, possessed. I shall call him Brother Thomas, as I began this lengthy digression. Abbot Rufus would know the names proper, for it was to him that I confessed deeds both done and undone of a too fateful journey that I shall not recount here. Indeed, those were my last words-Yes, of course I have thought this selective dementia perhaps to be subtle penance of God. But this would be a punishment too easy, and worse, too ordinary. No. It is merely age upon the brain now, I believe, and I do hope that Abbot Rufus has scribbled his own notes on the matter. But that man cares neither for science nor poetry. That man is a holy man, and I love him dearly. He absolved me of a sin too great, and this is my penance. I have repaid the man with the service of my life in this holiest of places. All monasteries have need of a priest, and I have lent even greater status to this place-Yes. I am here. I am here, but I am not wholly satisfied. Even as the years run by I am not satisfied. Life is hard in this place, sure. But not too hard, and I am irked by it. Such vows of privation, unbearable to some, are frankly not much sacrifice for me, and I've sense of myself as criminal hiding. Perhaps I am. This would explain the peculiar feeling at that, and enough of this now.
A baby cries once more, and this is the same infant who opened this thing. All have set to scrambling now. There is movement about this-place-too-much-suspended-of-life, and one might at this moment suppose that there are indeed live men who live here.
Brother Leo comes and knocks at my chamber-Excuse me. My cell. I do betray myself, and this is probably not the first time. Indeed, I yet bear the stubborn stuff of my early youth. A time far away, and a time of extravagance, indulgence. The time of my childhood-My father made well in the mercantile trades, and my mother had even garnered her own small fortune. Indeed her leisure-induced doodlings of a most maudlin world had unduly enamored her to an art-starved, art-ignorant society too new to its own place. A village of idiots made too wealthy too quickly by the coming of the sailing ships, and it is the first generation afterwards what suffers most by it. Children plagued with the ambitions of stupid parents, and inevitably does this unfortunate generation come to be fashioned of rather mediocre intellects. They have less the Lord's intelligence than the Devil's capacity for turning money, and I have known many a stupid man of means. This would elsewise be a harmless thing of course but that what makes a man stupid most of all is the firm conviction that he is not. Wealth blinds the stupid man to his own limitations, and I should not rant too much on this. Aye, for it is this stupidity after all that just might save the wealthy man from eternal damnation. Any man graced with a wit of wit understands quite easily what is proscribed in the New Book-Aye, but the camel itself will likely lead the rich man right through the needle's orb into Paradise, and it will be quite the sight I'm sure for those too old saints installed too long upon Heaven's ramparts-Lifetimes lost in rags and humiliation. Privations to numb the appetites of even the most stalwart of libertines, and would the man of means who has spared even a single thought to it then so much as think to place himself in that company?-What gain the man who gains? Indeed, I myself have dined at the overfed tables of such libertinage. As priest even I have been invited, and they would dare try influence even me with gifts. Indulgences begged as if I am not public messenger of God, but rather their own private messenger to God. A priest is an intercessor least of all, except but by that holiest of sacraments, the Penance. I can do little but pray elsewise for him who would beg favor though remain ill-repentant. These do not see that though Christ is tender and merciful, He answers yet to His Father. And His Father is hard. After all, His own Father killed Him. But neither priest nor preacher will convince the stupid man. It is his wealth, or lack therewith, and every man, when all has been done, needs come to his own realization, needs face God alone-God does indeed exist, and that is the least bit of faith. It is the rules which, though easy, are hard, and the man is wisest who comes to know that the Word of God begs of no interpretation. His Word leans toward all men, and therefore proffers no adornment. It is Man who has grown too enamored of words, and he would place his own in the mouth of God Himself. Believe not the priest who would dare explain Scripture. Believe only the priest who would read Scripture. Take my example. I have become silent priest.
And when all that is said, Brother Leo stands still, waiting outside my chamber door. A ghastly sight in the torches' dim light, and these monks, with their sunken faces and tonsured heads and silent tongues really can be terrifying apparitions when come upon unexpectedly. And Brother Leo most of all. I do not doubt the sincerity of the man, nor do I doubt his faith. But the man is a dimwit for all that, and therein, I believe, lies the difference between the brotherhood and the priesthood. The brotherhoods, especially those of the vow, receive almost any who would beg admittance. They remind me overmuch of the mercenary crusaders in that way. Good men and bad, poor and wealthy, and the premise is that all are men of God. The priesthoods are selective. Some are elitist even, and these require significant influence. And there is no hypocrisy here from my diatribe of a minute ago. Aye, there are wealthy priests to be sure, and more, wealthier bishops and cardinals. And though it may shock, I confess to this parchment as well that, worst of all, there are even libertines among the clergy-I have known these-But all this is to say what I have been saying. That priests are men as much as any men, and it is not the divine exhortation of God what drives men to the offices of the Church these days, but the pressure of families to boast of a son or two in the clergy. Heaven's favor curried by society matrons, and though a faithless priest is no more despicable than a faithless merchant, it is the man of faith who becomes priest who then shines forth over men-That is to say that a priest is a man, and I should expect no more of a priest than of any man. Should I come across an exceptional priest, however, he is to be regarded as above men, and this is the way of the saints before him. And this is why I am myself now found at this advanced age among the tonsured. It is a harder thing to be monk than priest these days, and no one brags of her son among the brotherhoods. May as well be brigand as holy man for all that, and there are reasons for those terribly thick walls what surround us day and night.
And Brother Leo is a fine case in point. Half-wit, who knows what sort of faith burgeons beneath that stupid mask? What in the retarded brain grasps upon the conviction of God? It is the same mechanism, of course, what drives the man of genius to the same conviction, and for those of us in between, it is both comfort and horror to know what we share in common. Brother Leo is a man of God at times as much as I, and that does disturb me. At times. It is like the man too much enamored of the new science, the man who believes that the monkey resembles overmuch his own self. And I do not blaspheme by this metaphor, but illustrate my point. God speaks clearly to all men, and both the imbecile and genius hear Him. Faith is the thing that unites the intellects of men, and the only thing what brings together to common end a man like Brother Leo and a man like myself. Though not of equal station, even in this place, we are of mutual accord, and that is something.
And Brother Leo waits patiently while I write this. The man is illiterate, but then again most men are illiterate. But it is really something to be avowed of silence and illiterate. Not a single pleasure of the word infiltrates that dense, dense skull of Brother Leo's, and how does such a man think? A mind of pictures, of images, of guesses, and it must be devoid of clutter, I'm sure. The man is an artist and a million years from knowing it, and the Bible must indeed be a magical book to him. A book of spells, and it is the silence only what prevents their harmful unleashing. A brotherhood of caretakers for the magic, and what indeed separates us from the Druid?-Now the questions become hard, and I turn my attention to Brother Leo.
He stands apart from my wooden door, as if listening somehow. As if the scratching of my quill maybe speaks? Regardless, mine is one of the few cells that has a door. A luxury afforded the priests, as if our privacy is somehow more valuable than that of the others here. Or perhaps, as if their community-that of the brothers-shuns the corruption of the priest, and who knows what secrets remain veiled in this place? I spend my hours mostly in my little cell, and I have not investigated all the places in which one might hide. And though a resident here for years now, I am constantly made to feel as if a guest. But I do not mind the formality that surrounds me. I quite enjoy respect at my age.
I watch the tall man's shadow. The shade waits beside the man, just as patiently, and fills my tiny doorway. It is like a door itself for its turning of the light, and all the shadows within this place are long. Indeed, viewed from above there would be the appearance of a race of giants within these walls, or else to the timid eye what keeps itself to the ground-These thoughts amuse me, and I am oddly nostalgic. No real memory with it, just that warmth that accompanies such, and it is a moment of affection, of fondness for the poor ungainly Brother Leo. I like the man. Perhaps it is his patience. Perhaps his simplemindedness. Perhaps, I think, it is that too wry smile that shows itself so inappropriately at times. The man surely bears a mask, and there is more to this man than I can place right now. The exterior too often, and sadly so, does reveal the interior of a man. But Brother Leo just may be an exceptional case. I sigh.
Aye, I know why he is here.
The baby.
There is a baby boy among us now, and we are all to mobilize for it. Like an army of peasants summoned by our lord we are all to scramble madly about like newly made fathers. And do not think that just because we live secluded in the monastery that we should abandon as well a child to our own privations. No, no. The band of brothers may as well be a klatch of young mothers for all the doting they will heap upon the hapless infant. Silent doting, to be sure, but great men have been born to mute mothers for centuries now, and it is a process that modifies rather than stunts the intellect. A baby destined to be a man of wit will undoubtedly emerge as a man of wit, whether reared among the snobbery or among the cloister. Speech may mark the intelligence of a man, but voice has never created it, and I have known geniuses with horrible stutters-No, the baby shall not want for parent in this holy place. A child bequeathed to the brethren is a child bequeathed to God, and at this very moment has the Son of God Himself come upon us. All babies are the Christchild, and I must curb my cynicism in this work. Do not believe, I beg, that I am one too cold of heart. Forgive my earlier outbursts, but my soul, too, is strangely tricked into fawning over the newly made ones, and baptism was always my favorite sacrament, and there is confession in here. A priest is forbade to favor one sacrament over another. But this rule is impossible, and all come to know one especially. And mine, the first anointing. It is a thing to me more joyful than the last anointing; that is, the birth of a soul rather than the passing of it. And though He despises a soul or two, God loves all babies-All men are beautiful at least once in their lives, and the baby abandoned to God is the baby offered to God, and this is indeed human sacrifice. A poor man gives what he can, be it his only child, and God Himself did that. The monks play priest in this regard, and the priests are the village elders, and I do love our newfound little brethren. I am being summoned especially that I might lie hand upon him, I am sure. Abbot Rufus has already blessed the child, I have no doubt, but the monastic rules preclude him from the rites meant specifically for priest. An abbot, be he priest or not, is bound by those laws and strictures what govern the monks. I am not so bound. I shall bless the child with blessings of Saint Blaise and Saint Lucy this night, then circumcise and baptize him tomorrow. Yes, and I reach for my faded stole. Once black, now white, it hangs above my ill-crafted desk like an overturned crucifix.
There is a child come among us, or so Brother Louis writes with the comprehension of a cow in addendum to his latest edition of Revelations. Brother James convulses, and I pull my hood tight about my tonsure.
My horns are killing me tonight-
© 2009 by Elliott Fuxon.