Hurdy Gurdy Page 7

  I drink down a bucketful. I raise my head from the barrel. I shake the water from my head. I sit on the stone wall of the garden and calm my heaving breath and thumping chest. I close my eyes and join my hands.

  Angel of God, my guardian dear,

  to whom God’s love commits me here,

  ever this day be at my side,

  to light and guard, to rule and guide.

  Amen.

  There are no brothers to be seen, no smoke from the kitchen chimney, no prayer bells, no chant from the chapel, no clatter of wooden buckets from the dairy, no chopping of wood, no calls to the beasts.

  I fear things are bad.

  But I find them worse.

  When I return to the sanatorium, I find my brothers Fulco and James there at their stations.

  Fulco sits bolt upright in his chair by the dead grey ashes of the fire. In his lap rests the hide-bound tome Tacuinum Sanitatis by Ibn Butlan of Baghdad, in the Latin translation. It is open at the section on the seven sure cures for plagues, scourges and pestilences. My brother’s red-veined eyes look upwards to the heavens. His gaze is tired and discouraged. He is very still, and there is no pulse from his cold wrist. His curled talon-fingers are blackened at the tips. His soul has long since left its lodgings.

  Brother James is there in body, too, yet departed in spirit, sprawled upon the slate paving, his head splayed sideways, as if trying to watch his back. His fingers and nose are purpled with rot.

  Brothers Andrew, Franklin and Mark lie in the cots down the sanatorium wall, contorted tangled limbs, as if the pox has tied the string of them into clumsy knots.

  Many flies, bluebottles and wasps have come to keep them company. And they sound a happy, busy, harmonious buzzing, as their small battalions swarm across their faces and exposed skin.

  The smells of it all are warm, rich, putrid and pungent. The air stings my eyes, burns in my nose and scorches my lungs.

  I retreat once more to the herb garden.

  A long deep grave has been dug, perhaps ten paces by eight. The area and depth of the excavation shows that the digger was expecting a large harvest of cadavers, to be buried in haste, on top of each other.

  At the base of the pit, two bodies show under a scatter of earth. Only their feet protrude. I believe I recognise the sandals of Brother Michael and the cow-herd’s boots of Brother Aubrey splayed to his flat-footed gait.

  In the chapel, the Abbot is sprawled sideways in the pulpit, sunk to his knees. His eyes are closed in prayer.

  He was addressing fifteen brothers, spread wide apart on the benches, as if afraid to be close to each other, or lacking common feeling, who then chose the occasion to rest there, in prayer and chant, until death chose another place for them.

  I did what I could. I paid all the respect I should. But I am not a large or strong man, and it is tiring work dragging a large stiff corpse by the feet and lifting it onto a bier.

  The labour was made harder still, for the sickness had taken its toll of me. I had become scrawny and bony-ribbed. I still had intermittent fever with blinding headaches.

  Small lumps came and went in my groin, as if some remnant of the pox.

  My skin carried the sulphurous taint of the rot.

  While I had suffered and defeated the pestilence, still it somehow clung to my side.

  So I saw in thirty-odd forms how this pestilence used a human being, and ate it away from the inside out, a blue rot reaching through like the veins of a cheese, till it erupted in purpled bubbles on the skin, and squirted out the lifeblood in black clots from the mouth and nose, and tied the body in tangled knots, and contorted the faces in gurning grimaces of pain, and turned warm, live, loving flesh into cold rancid meat, and gave off its sick, sweet stenches of putrescence, shit, decayed eggs and rotted teeth.

  It took me the best part of two days of sweaty, limb-deadening, back-aching work to carry all my brothers to their final resting place. I thanked the Lord someone else had had the foresight of catastrophe, and dug such a monstrous large hole in advance of my need.

  At first I buried my brothers by the place of their death. Emptying first the sanatorium, then the chapel.

  I felt forlorn, lonely and melancholy, and was many times moved to hot, heavy tears. I felt myself poorly used by my fates, to lose so many friends and family all together. Yet I saw that, since I was still alive, my fortune was better than theirs.

  Then, fearing that the communal grave would be full before all the dead were housed, in which case I should need to dig another hole, I sought to arrange them by a pattern, to a principle of best fit.

  In this, I remembered Fulco’s lessons, and took Pythagoras of Samos as my guide, in his theorem of the triangle, as proved by Euclid.

  (a x a) + (b x b) = c x c

  where a is the height of the middlemost brother, b the measure of the little-most, and c the length of the tallest, otherwise known as Brother Hypotenuse

  This way, I laid them out on the grass, in triplets of ascending size – tall, medium, short – and moved them to and fro, and spun some around, and in my mind’s eye imagined the different shapes their triangulations might make together. For there is an economy of space in laying one’s loved ones head to foot to head to foot to head, with two or three bellies centremost, especially as some are fat, and all are set so stiff.

  Between each layer of brothers I scattered a thin cover of soil. This way, each had his own grave, yet had the comfort of the close proximity of his own kind, his fondest friends.

  So frugal was I of the space, and so ingenious at fitting all those very different shapes and sizes together, that at the end, when I had buried thirty-two brothers, there was still ample space left in the north-west corner of the pit.

  I knew I should keep the Abbot’s ring, chain and crucifix. For these belonged not to him or his dead body, but to the living Order of Odo, which now consisted of … me alone.

  I tried tugging the gold and emerald band from his fat finger – with the help of duck fat from the larder – but the band was too narrow on his plump sausage finger that I was required to seek the cutting advice of a knife. Then a thought came to me of great significance and clarity. And that concerned me most particularly.

  In the long history of the Order of Odo, whenever death fashioned a vacancy, the Abbot was selected by his brothers as the individual of highest spiritual merit whose example they could respect, and whose authority they could thus accept.

  Of the thirty-nine brothers of the order, thirty-two were slain by the plague, dead and buried. Six were missing, presumed dead, or fled from their sacred vocation. Only one monk remained within the order, to carry the tradition and take on authority as leader of the community and bearer of the faith.

  Thus, I eased the ring upon my finger, and acknowledged myself as the new Abbot of the Order of Odo, of the monastery at Whye, not because I was vainglorious or ambitious for personal advancement, but because it was my solemn duty, having been selected by circumstances of God’s devising, and appointed without any dissenting voice by all the surviving monks, which were myself.

  Thus, to observe the due formalities, I said a short service, in order that I might bless myself, and placed the Abbot’s cap upon my head, so elevating myself. I returned my original name to myself, declaring that henceforth I should be known as Brother Jack Fox, Abbot of Whye.

  I addressed a few words, to history and myself.

  I swore to do my utmost for the Order of Saint Odo. I prayed for God’s aid, and the support of His angels.

  No sooner was I elected Abbot – by the will of God and assent of Man – than the Lord moved me. I began to assume the eyes and mind of authority, and plan for the future well-being of our monastery.

  If the Order of Odo was to survive, it would need to gain new members in a time to come, when the plague was abated and fears quelled. Until that time, I should need to preserve the heritage and the items of utmost value from the hands of jackals, thieves and passing wastrels, and from
the depredations of time and weather.

  Amongst these valuables I counted – the reliquary boxes containing the skull-bones of our founder, Saint Odo; the written works of Saint Odo, being The Book of Life and The Great Unhappened, and all copies of these; the silver altar furniture, including the crucifix, the pyx and paten; the ciborium, together with the painted triptych of Our Lord Jesus; the Great Bible of Whye; the funds in gold and silver coinage held in the Abbot’s chest.

  With all these, the order could build itself again, on the foundations of its past. Without these, it was lost.

  I was mindful, too, that I should need money and valuables to fund the re-establishment of the monastery and support the chapter of monks, however many it should come to be, though currently it numbered only me.

  But, realising I was to be the root of this tree, I recognised I must be well nourished, if only for the sake of posterity.

  To these ends, I resolved to keep in my possession a few gold groats, the Abbot’s ring and crucifix, the pyx, the skull-bones of Odo, and the original copy of The Book of Life – they being too valuable to leave unattended.

  Then I thought where to consign the valuables I should leave behind, but worried myself that wherever they were hidden or dug under, they would risk discovery, from the signs of dislodged stones or moved earth.

  So I thought to hide them in plain sight, where the world could see a burial, but where none would choose to dig it up.

  I placed it all in the plague-blasted grave of the rotting brothers.

  The reliquary box went in a larger wooden chest. The coins and silver went in an iron cauldron from the kitchen, which I sealed over with a layer of molten wax. The books I wrapped in parcels of oiled hide, to preserve them from the damp.

  I trusted that no one would have the ill, insanitary sense to dig up a mass grave of plague-poxed monks.

  I knew I must leave the monastery.

  It was a dirtied, sick place, blighted by plague.

  Everyone would skirt by, except thieves come to plunder.

  The place must be cleansed by abandonment and time.

  In a year, maybe two, it would be fit to return.

  I considered my appearance. I did not want to go forth locally as a brother from the monastery, for those around would know the plague had reached us and would fear I carried the contagion.

  So I shaved my head, to lose the tonsured ring, so I’d appear a monk no more. And I found a thick blanket-cloak, and russet wool tunic and hose knotted with rope. I thought I should pass as shoddy, as a poor man, to give no suggestion of the hidden wealth I carried, and to attract less interest or concern.

  Imagine my sorrow when I reached into the pocket of my tunic and felt an oddly still, stiff, cold parcel of fur.

  I pulled it out and laid it down on a paving-stone.

  It was Brother Rattus, eyes open, glazed and opaque, with an expression of bewilderment, his limbs stretched out stiff, like the legs of a refectory stool. His underside was pocked with small swellings, dark as blackberries. The only movement was from the flea that leapt out from his belly fur, onto the cuff of my tunic.

  Yes, Brother Rattus, too, had died of the plague.

  My sole remaining friend was gone without warning. I had never felt so alone or abandoned.

  The pox had taken every body I loved.

  I decided I would set out in the early light, with the sack of my valuables slung over my shoulder. The Lord had spared me from the plague. I believed myself charmed, protected, that He had a higher purpose for me. As I planned my journey, I anticipated trials and tests and tribulations. Yet I had no idea that the world should be so very wicked in the ways it proved. For, on this hard road I trod, I was to meet all manner of challenges from unbelievers, hypocrites, liars, blasphemers, drunks, cheats, thieves, fornicators, and men possessed of unclean minds, ugly dreams, ill will, bad faith, foul tempers, violent manners and deceitful ways as, all the while, the Black Pox dogged my steps.

  X. Into the Woods

  I walk out early in the crisp, morning air. I trust God to lead me safely.

  Dear Lord, hear this sorry sinner’s prayer.

  Protect me from the foul pestilence that stalks in the darkness,

  And from the wolves and ruffians that lurk in the shadows.

  And may I find good fortune and kind companions,

  And, God willing, encounter woman too.

  I find cheer on my new path, even if I am not yet fully recovered. I still have bouts of fever and the sweat flows in rivulets down my cheeks. Small lumps sprout in my neck or groin, then shortly disappear.

  It is as if I am suffering from memory of the pestilence, reviving its symptoms in miniature.

  A monk may move slower than a Godless soul, for he must observe the Liturgy of the Hours, pausing to say his prayers, seven times a day.

  There is much to be said, and much to be prayed for. There is Matins at mid-night, Lauds at dawn, Terce mid-morning, Sext at mid-day, None mid-afternoon, Vespers in the evening, and Compline at night.

  The world is a wicked enough place already, and if those in holy orders did not pray so often, it would find itself still worse.

  So it is, I am observing the obligations of my calling, in an acorn-strewn clearing in the Forest of Whye, with the sun flickering through the dancing canopy of leaves overhead, as I kneel, knees damp, eyes closed, my arms resting on the trunk of a fallen oak.

  I am aware of the love of God, and His Majesty in the wonders of Creation. Then I become aware of something else besides.

  There begins a melodic whistling behind me, that sounds human, not birdly nor beastly. So I rise and turn with a start.

  There he is. A man sits no more than six paces behind me. He is a scrawny, short man with an incessant twitch to his left cheek, neat, wavy red hair, parted over a broad forehead. His steady gaze engages me, with its strange aspect. For the right eye is the palest blue, while the left is dark brown. He has a dark woollen jacket with broad brass buttons. I observe that he has lost his left ear, somewhere along life’s path, as if it has been sheared clean off with a sharp blade.

  He is seated, cross-legged, whittling the end of a long staff with a knife. He does this one-handed, holding the stick firm between his knees. His right arm is a stump. Sometime, somehow he’s managed to lose his hand, lopped off just above the wrist.

  His left cheek twitches, tugging at the side of his mouth. He wears a reluctant smile, as if he were being tickled against his will.

  ‘You must be careful hereabouts,’ he advises.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s a dangerous place. There are desperate people about. Thieves, murderers, poachers, outlaws, heretics.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So you must not turn your back on the world, as you did just now. Or disregard one-footed people, such as me, hopping along in your wake for miles, hoping to attract your kind notice.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘for the advice.’

  ‘Some men would mash your head in with a club. Or cut your throat.’

  ‘They would?’

  ‘Just to have your fine, thick cloak. But mostly to steal whatever you carry in that fat sack, there.’

  ‘Oh,’ I concede.

  ‘Never mind me,’ he says. ‘Finish whatever you have to do, there on your knees. With whoever you are talking to.’

  ‘As it happens,’ I say, ‘I must move on.’

  ‘You must?’

  ‘At once,’ I explain. ‘I am already late.’

  ‘Have no care for me,’ he shrugs. ‘If I wanted to harm you, you’d already be hurt.’

  Then he asks me if I was praying, and if so, what for.

  I say yes, that I want to repent of many mortal sins.

  He asks, ‘What sins are those?’

  I say, ‘Gluttony. Pride. Avarice. Sloth. Covetousness. Heresy. Idolatry …’

  ‘Yes?’ He looks at me hard, unblinking, and crinkles his brow.

  ‘And murder …’ I improvise.
I guess it would do no harm to warn him that I am a desperate and dangerous man.

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘And perjury …’ I go on. ‘Adultery and many fornications.’

  ‘Fornications, you say?’ His one ear swivels in interest.

  ‘Of many forms,’ I explain, ‘involving unnatural postures, repetition, with lustful looking, on the Lord’s Day, in broad daylight, and at night with candles, with spilling, and with kissing. With and without fondling and fingers …’

  ‘So …’ He whistles quietly and shakes his head in awe of my achievements. ‘For a young man you have made yourself busy.’

  ‘Well,’ I explain, ‘I have not done every last one of these yet. But I surely intend to.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And then I will repent.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘And what then?’ he enquires.

  ‘Then Christ will forgive me,’ I say.

  ‘He will?’

  ‘Oh, yes. For Our Saviour loves no one so much as the repentant sinner. As we know from the Gospel of Luke, and the Parable of the Prodigal Son. For he was lost but then was found.’

  ‘Then you are sinning first, to repent later?’

  ‘Exactly so,’ I say. ‘For now I have nothing to repent, nothing to offer. I have not lived. I have no virtue, for I have never been tested by temptation. I cannot be good until I have been sinful. Then turned away from evil.’

  ‘If you want to sin,’ he says, ‘if you sincerely want to sin, and to sin seriously and sin often …’ He pauses. He frowns. He is carefully planning his words.

  ‘Yes?’ I enquire.

  ‘You could do worse than keep me company. I don’t know every last mortal sin that the Church has devised to condemn us for trying, but I have practised most of the popular ones, and some unlikely ones besides … I can set you on your way, at least.’