Hurdy Gurdy Page 8

  I consider this in silence. I doubt how much he might teach me, and whether he is as conversant with so many sins as he brags.

  He asks me my name.

  I tell him my name is Jack Fox.

  I do not reveal that I have recently been elevated to become the Most Reverend Abbot of the Order of Odo, from the monastery at Whye. For I neither want to alert him to my wealth, nor present myself vainly as his better, and unsettle him from his evident ease.

  He says his name is Simon Mostly.

  I observe that this sounds a fine, unusual name, and ask if Mostly was the village of his birth.

  No, he says. His acquaintances call him that because, over the years, he has been harshly whittled down by life. Yet, although he has lost an ear in a brawl, been taxed a hand by a vengeful squire, and had left his right foot snapped off in a steel man-trap, and so is several parts less than he has been, still he remains mostly himself.

  Then he turns his curiosity back to me. He enquires what I bear in my sack.

  I make no mention of the crucifix and pyx of silver, the master copy of The Book of Life, and the bones of Saint Odo. I simply say I carry some small belongings and some food.

  He remarks that he is pleased to hear of the food. He says a man grows tired of snails and slugs, leaves and lichen, gut-ache and hunger.

  ‘There’s not much,’ I explain, ‘just some cheese. Some boiled duck eggs. Some smoked sausage. Some dried fruit. Some salted fish.’

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes swivel and sparkle. ‘That would suit me well. Thank you for sharing …’

  Perhaps I sense a threat. For I close my eyes in momentary prayer. A psalm comes to mind.

  Lord, rescue me from evil people;

  protect me from cruel people

  who make evil plans, who always start fights.

  But I have no clear recollection what happens next. For oblivion grabs me there and then, and squeezes me hard in its tight black fist. Then holds me there for many hours.

  When I woke the sun was low. There was a storm breaking in my head with dazzling flashes of lightning and deafening claps of thunder. It felt as though an eager stone-mason was chiselling my forehead from the inside.

  I felt a thick crust of dried blood on my temple, flaking off like rust.

  Looking to my side, I saw that Simon Mostly was gone. And a thief had made himself free with my bag and its contents.

  The sack itself lay flat, open-necked and empty on the ground.

  It seemed that all my food was missing, although I saw fragments of egg-shell, duck-blue, and a discarded herring tail, and some silvery fish-scales, lying alongside a cheese-rind.

  The crucifix and the pyx were gone, but both the skulls of Saint Odo remained, resting calmly on the mossy earth, turned to face me, the eye-sockets staring vacant, pondering life’s unresolvable riddle, but with the teeth smiling broadly my way.

  The Book of Life was mostly reduced to flaky ashes. Its pages had been torn out and used to feed the flames of a fire. Only the charred binding of the book remained, together with seven pages detailing the Pygmy People of Sicily. So, as a work of universal reference, its use was lost.

  Simon Mostly was nowhere to be seen.

  I saw his retreating, hopping footstep in the soft earth and trampled leaves.

  He was gone.

  After feeling the lump on my scalp, and the crust of blood flaking to the touch, and surveying the reduced belongings laid before me, I concluded I had been hit upon the head with a club, then robbed.

  I was not slow to heed this as a warning, and as a caution for the days to come.

  I must be less trusting. Clearly, not all men in the wider world behaved with the gentle manners of holy brothers in a monastery.

  At least I still retained my six gold coins and Abbot’s ring, which I had taken care to stow in a lamb’s leather drawstring purse, in a dark recess, a private place where a stranger to my person would need be unnaturally curious to look.

  Steal not that book, Mostly, friend,

  in fear damnation be your end.

  For if they burn you to a cinder,

  it’ll be for taking truth as tinder.

  XI. I Chance upon Woman and Find Her Good

  We do not yet know how the angels talk to each other, whether in Latin, Aramaic, Greek, or some Angelic tongue all their own. Or if they simply know each other’s thoughts, even without speaking. For the Bible neglects to tell us which. But it does reveal some shapes and sizes of angels, and their works and places in Heaven and Earth.

  In the first sphere of Heaven, around the throne of God, the Son Incarnate, are the fiery Seraphim, too dazzling to gaze upon. They surround the Divine throne shouting their praises – ‘Holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts. The whole Earth displays His glory.’

  Every Seraph is possessed of three pairs of wings – one pair to conceal their face, a pair to hide their feet, and the other pair they use to fly.

  Below the Seraphim are the Cherubim, who guard the way to the throne of God and the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden. You would never mistake a Cherub for anyone else. For they have four heads – of a man, an ox, a lion, and an eagle – and four wings. And each wing is covered in eyes so they can see in every direction. They have the body of a lion but the legs of an ox. This much is well known from the Book of Ezekiel.

  Below these are the Lordships, the angels that rule all the lower angels. They take the form of humans but possess a wonderful beauty. Lights shine from their heads. On their backs are large feathered wings.

  The angels called the Powers order the movements of the heavenly bodies so the world moves as it should. Because they are warrior angels who fight evil spirits, the Powers wear helmet and armour, and carry a shield for defence and a weapon to smite the demons and the Evil Ones. It is said that Satan was supreme amongst the Powers until he fell.

  In the third sphere are the Rulers and Archangels. Every nation and every force has the guardianship of a Ruler angel. They carry the conscience of the world and are the guardians of history. They share the power out between the nations and races.

  But it is the plain, common angels who appear to mankind and help us in our daily lives. Every one of us has a personal angel who watches over us. But you must believe in that angel to gain his help. They may appear as ordinary people like you and me. Except they are often tall. They speak clearly but quietly. And their sweat smells sweet and polleny as honey. Still, it may happen that you meet your own angel, yet never know.

  For two days I had kept my own company, trudging through woodland, observing the Liturgy of the Hours, and at dusk building myself a cover of branches strewn with ferns.

  I did not make a fire for fear of showing myself and drawing company.

  I welcomed the solitude. The encounter with Simon Mostly and my sore head had cautioned me. I needed to clear my mind, tidy my thoughts, and prepare myself to meet my fellow man, to defend myself from sinners.

  On the third day, with the sun straight overhead, I wander into a glare of sunlight. I have come upon a pond in a clearing, and there see a figure kneeling, head to the water, pursed lips to the surface, lapping like a cat taking milk from a platter. They stand abruptly at the sound of my steps, as I break twigs underfoot, crunching the dry fallen leaves.

  It is a slim, shortish being in a long dark woollen cloak, wrapped tight to the body, the head hooded. As I take a step closer, the figure takes a step backwards. I stop still. The figure pauses. We stand and watch each other, perhaps ten strides apart. I see the cloak, drawn tight to the chest, quiver to their quick breaths. I sense their squirrel twitchiness. I hear the rasp of their breath, sounding their fear. Of me.

  When they speak it is with a shrill, trembly, breathy voice.

  ‘I have a knife,’ they say, ‘and I will use it.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘To dig your heart out of your chest, and roast it on a stick for dinner.’

  ‘Peace be with you, friend,’ I say, ‘and God’s ble
ssings too.’

  ‘And cut off your bollocks too. Then boil them with lovage and wild garlic.’

  ‘And may Our Lord Jesus Christ watch over you.’

  So, having made good our wary introductions, we continue to stare at each other in cautious curiosity.

  The pink, fresh face of this wild cannibal is framed in coils of straw-coloured hair. Their hazel eyes glint in the sunlight. They dance fast as they look me over. They flicker over my face then take a downward tour of my frame.

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ the figure says. ‘You’re just a boy.’

  ‘And I know who you are,’ I reply promptly. For now I have the stranger’s measure.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say.

  For I have dreamed of people of this kind. And heard of them in travellers’ tales. And witnessed them hand-illustrated in the manuscripts of Saint Odo.

  ‘Who am I, then?’

  ‘You must be a woman,’ I say, unmasking her, ‘of the female persuasion. Or something very similar.’

  ‘Yes …’ She blinks, then regards me sharply through narrowed eyes. ‘It’s true, I am.’

  ‘I guessed so,’ I say, ‘soon as I saw you. For I am a keen observer of Nature in all Her manifestations, and I can read the signs anatomical.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Indeed. And I am happy to meet you. It has been my life’s ambition to keep the company of a woman. And converse with her. And learn of all her customs. And hear her speak her mind. And find out all that makes her different from an inky scribe or common monk of the male tendency, and in whatever respects.’

  Here, I keep silent on my false starts – with the intangible Succubus of my dreams.

  This solid woman of my wakefulness puts her head to one side, and squints at me. She nibbles her lip. She eyes me hard and long. But as if she is looking downward, with curiosity, from a higher perch, the way you might regard a stubborn, wayward piglet, or a wilful chicken.

  ‘Are you a simpleton?’ she enquires.

  ‘Au contraire,’ I say. ‘Je suis un savant.’

  She screws her face in puzzlement. ‘Never mind. You may be simple as a donkey for all I care. But your looks are comely enough.’

  ‘Comely?’

  ‘You have a fine face, and a kind look to you. I trust your eyes of blue. If you were not a braying ass, I would call you handsome.’

  ‘Handsome? Me?’

  Now she has the advantage over me. She’s taken me by surprise. No one has ever mentioned before that, judged in a kind light, I present a pleasant appearance.

  But if a man is willing to listen, he can learn something new every day, even about the things he thinks he knows best, including his very own features.

  I resolve to test the truth of her observations, when opportunity next arises, and take a good look at myself, and examine my reflection in the water for any signs of comeliness and nobility such as I have failed to notice before.

  She seems to trust me better after a while. For though she keeps a few paces of distance between us, she consents to sit and talk.

  She says her name is Cecilia, from the village of Ware. She had taken eggs to market in Chanse but found the town streets strangely empty. Then she learned that people were in hiding from each other, for the plague had come amongst them. So she had rushed away, to return home. But when she reached the outskirts of her village, folk came out to meet her, at a safe distance, and shouted at her to stay away, for fear she was tainted and brought the pox back from market with her. And they threw lumps of wood and stones her way, and shouted that she was a harlot and unclean, except her father who kept silent and turned away. And the loudest warned that if she came any nearer she would regret it, and feel their anger in earnest.

  So now she is an outcast, alone in the woods. But she thought she would return soon to her village and, showing she is clean of the pox, be welcomed back, except she has heard that now the church bell is ringing often, and she has seen from a distance that there is much digging in the grave-yard. And wails carry on the breeze. So now she is afraid to return.

  I tell her my tale too. But I tell it briefly. And prune many of the barbed briars of the story, so as not to strangle it with emotion, nor distract from the narrative, nor laden truth with useless baggage. I say that I worked as a scribe at a monastery but fled the plague, so now am homeless, and friendless too. I say a pair will be safer than one, and, God willing, we can find the ways to be strong together and help each other.

  I felt myself oddly drawn to Woman. For some left-handed reason, which I could not name, but which drew me achingly, with the semblance of an itch I could not reach to scratch.

  So I had resolved to pass some time with her, and she, for her reasons, never had me leave. Perhaps we both felt a kind and gentle, unspoken friendship, such as can form between brothers of the cloth, just passing silently through the cloisters, without thought of gain or advantage.

  I spoke frankly to show her my good-will. I let her know I did not condemn her for her sex. For it was never her fault to be female, or any cause for blame, being merely the unfortunate, unchosen accident of her birth.

  I remarked that, although Eve was made of Adam’s rib, and tempted him to eat the forbidden fruit, so committing the original sin, and causing mankind to be thrown from the Garden of Eden, still this was never the dismal character of all women.

  I observed that Mary, Mother of Christ, could be seen as the second Eve who redeemed woman, and made ample reparations for the sins of the first.

  I mentioned that there were several holy and wise women well regarded by history, including Eleanor of Aquitaine, Hilda of Whitby and Hildegard of Bingen.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Cecilia. ‘And, alongside your many rare wisdoms on dead women, do you have the common sense to gather wood and make a fire?’

  I said yes, and continued that I had heard stories of women who were as skilled as men at all manner of tasks – tending crops, minding animals, weaving cloth, brewing and baking – that drew upon craft, practice and custom rather than just cleverness, invention or strength.

  ‘Yes?’ Cecilia said, absent-minded. ‘Can you go catch some food too?’

  I said I could. For Fulco had taught me to tickle trout and snare small game.

  I made several nooses out of twine that would tighten on an unwary foot, and set myself to wait.

  But it was a while before I heard the shrieks of the hare, caught by a front foot, and found it leaping forward then jerking back, then leaping again, frothing at the mouth.

  So I dispatched it with the blow of stone to the head. Then I blessed it, and thanked it for its gift of supper, and praised the Lord for His Creation.

  Then I skinned and gutted it. I took the pieces proudly back to the girl – I handed them over, wrapped in large fern fronds – the ruby kidneys, the dark liver, the pink-speckled brains, the frothy lungs and the endless stringy bowels, together with the pearly bollocks and the eye-balls which returned to me a cold, harsh, shocked glare.

  She looked to my offering then back to me.

  ‘What?’ she said. Her face displayed surprise, then annoyance, before moving quickly on to distaste.

  ‘Hare,’ I said, ‘all the softest offals, fresh for cooking.’

  ‘And the meat?’

  ‘I left it where I caught it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was only the flesh and bones.’

  ‘Yes,’ she remarked, ‘that’s the bit I prefer.’

  ‘Yes? In the monastery we only eat the offal. We cannot eat the meat. We must sell it to the rich or give it to the poor.’

  ‘Says who?’ she snaps.

  ‘The Abbot,’ I say.

  Then I remember. All is changed. Now the Abbot is me.

  ‘We are not sheep, grazing in a monastery garden,’ she said. ‘If you want to please me, you’d best go fetch the meat.’

  And when I had retrieved it, she put the carcass on a stick and hung it
between two wood props, over the flames of the fire.

  It dripped its juices onto the embers, sparking and smoking, giving off a hazy incense more beguiling than rosemary, richer than cardamom, more teasing than musk, exotic as cloves.

  ‘Mmm …’ I savour the air. ‘Just suppose it could taste as good as it smells.’

  ‘Try it, then …’ she said, handing me a scorched back leg.

  It might be that I had eaten roast meat in my childhood, before I joined the monks. But I don’t remember it.

  And that day that woman, in the woods, gave me as much pleasure as I had ever embraced in my life before.

  They say that tripe sausage is good, that blood pudding is very savoury, and molten cheese is unctuous, but I swear nothing better had ever passed my lips than that moist, fat-dripping, gravy-bleeding, flame-licked, smoked, roast hare.

  All praise to the cony. Thanks to the woman. All glory to the Lord.

  But it was not just her cooking that pleased me. With her hood down, and her head revealed, quite naked from the neck up, I had begun to notice aspects to her person that, though strange-looking, were strong and stirring.

  When she was not looking my way, I watched her closely, to graze my eyes upon her form. I found myself regarding the small details of her face – the curlicue of an ear, the swell of a lip, the fine line of lashes, a coil of hair, the sheen of a cheek. And these brought pleasure to my eyes, and drew a smile to my face. I saw her features anew, as phenomena of natural interest, and possessed of odd beauty.

  I was entranced.

  Just as a doe, or wolf, or swan shows grace and beauty, in its cover, shapes and proportions, so did she. Then I came to note the music of her voice, for just as the nightingale, mistle thrush or blackcap sound fine melodies, so did she. Then I came to savour the scents of her when she was close, for just as cloves, and coriander, and garlic fill the nose, and entertain the palate, so did she.