John the Pupil

Saint Epimachus’s Day

The winding blue lines of the scribe’s demon entered my dreams last night. They became a river in Eden, branches of the Tree, our Beginning as well as an End. I wonder what takes place in Master Roger’s dreams, whether he permits himself to imagine figures without end.

There was trouble in the dormitory again. But I watched without attention. The day was so similar to the previous day, as it will be to the next. We beseech you O Lord, that the virtue of the Holy Spirit may be present unto us: which may mildly both purge our hearts, and also defend us from all adversities, through Our Lord Jesus Christ your Son: Who lives and reigns, God, with you, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, world without end.

• • •

Saint John the Silent’s Day

The scribe’s hand shakes, the pages are almost filled. His escape is close at hand. Master Roger is almost merry. His Great Work is nearly made.

And now, he said, we must talk about how we are going to deliver it.

We? I said.

The proscription is absolute against his leaving this friary which is his prison. For a moment my heart had leapt at the thought of accompanying my Master on a journey; but then I took his meaning as being abstract, that he was generously acknowledging my small part in his Work’s manufacture and kindly including me in a conversation about the method of its delivery.

You, he said.

Perhaps he mistook my silence for misapprehension, or fear, or simple stupidity.

You, he repeated. You are the only one I can trust. You will take it to the Pope.

A special mark of favour, an answering heart, or just the fate that the Lord bestows upon us somehow miraculously accords with what I most yearn for.

You will go in three days, he said. The day and the stars are propitious. Ten plus seven.

Numbers of perfection, I said.

You will have companions, Master Roger said.

Companions?

The journey is too difficult for one boy to complete on his own. Do you have friends here? Whom do you trust?

Despite my exhilaration, I was suddenly sad. I felt friendless, alone. Other than Master Roger, whom it would be an awful presumption to claim for a friend, I have no intimates, no ties of true affection. I have lived in this place for seven years and more and established no bonds of love. Maybe the journey will not be the thing of glory I have dreamed of, maybe there will just be the perpetual here and now, we carry with us the stain and the mark. And I was jealous too. This mission is too grand, too enormous to share.

Who are your friends? There will be three of you.

I thought of the dormitory I sleep in, the novices at play. I looked at the faces my recollection brought to mind, the companions I would not tire of, the friends I would like to share my adventures with, and my heart.

Brothers Andrew and Bernard, I said.

It shall be done, he said. And you will proceed with your writing to make a chronicle of your journey.

How he knows of my secret writing, I do not know. I bowed my head.

Yes, I said.

And you will collect these treasures along your way.

He gave me a list of the things I will be seeking. He also gave me a stack of parchment and three pens and a pot of ink for my writing.

But do not tarry. If it is a choice between the speed of your journey and the search for these treasures, stay on your road.

Yes, I said.

The way will be hard. You have so little experience of the world. The Devil extends his power into unlikely places. There are demons who look like men.

Yes, I said.

And women, he said.

Yes, I said.

God will direct you.

Yes.

He saw there was something that I needed to say. He asked me what it was.

My father, I said, who lives in the village. I have not seen him in five years. I would like to take leave of him before I go.

My Master did not say anything. He turned away.

Downstairs, life proceeded as it always does, as if the world had not changed. Vigils, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Nones, Vespers, Compline. The sun rises, sets, rises again. We pray, give thanks, eat, drink, purge, sleep. God is good. The friary walls are cold against the skin.

Saint Brendan’s Day

Saint Brendan, the holy, sailed west with fourteen monks to find the island of paradise that prophecy had promised him. They sailed, in God’s name, and found the Island of Sheep by the Mountain of Stone, and they sailed on to an island on which the sailors lit their cauldron to prepare their food, but the island began to move and it was no island, but the great fish Jascoyne, which labours day and night to put its tail in its mouth, but may not, because of its great size, and the sailors fled and sailed fast away.

And they landed on a fair island full of flowers and herbs and trees in which were great birds that sang all the hours of prayer; and they sailed on through tempests and trials to the island of holy monks who do not speak, and in mark of their great holiness have an angel to light the candles in their church; and they sailed on and fought great beasts of the sea and, through God’s will, escaped an island of fire inhabited by demons who strode across the water to assault them with burning hooks and burning hammers; and they met the great traitor Judas, naked, fleshless, beaten by the winds and the sea; and they met Saint Paul on the island on which he dwelled for forty years, without meat or drink; and on they sailed, through a dark mist to the fairest and most temperate country a man might see, all of its trees charged with ripe fruit, and precious gems scattered across the ground, and a river which no man might cross. They plucked their fill of the fruit and they gathered as many gems as they would, and all was replenished, for this was Paradise; and they sailed back to their abbey in Ireland, from which they had been gone seven years. Shortly afterwards, Saint Brendan, the holy, the mariner, full of virtues, departed from this life to the one everlasting.

Consternation in the friary. Murmurs in the refectory, heads bowed in sharp telling. During the service of Vigils looks of pity and wonder were sent my way. After Lauds, I was summoned into the Principal’s rooms. Seldom have I spoken with the Principal. On a few occasions I have performed for him, for my Master to demonstrate my knowledge and, therefore, his pedagogy. I have always disliked these occasions, standing lonely and cold, unfriendly curious eyes upon me, to make recitations of Greek mathematics, of the houses of the constellations. I have never been in his rooms before. The Principal is a large man who has no love for Master Roger. He asked me what I had to say for myself. I had nothing to say because it did not seem opportune to demonstrate my command of tongues, ancient and present, or to recite my recent lessons in geometry and the nature of light.

These are heavy crimes you are accused of, he said.

Of what am I accused?

It would be best to tell all.

When I first made confession, I lied. I could not think of any sins to confess, so I invented some, gaining a consolation that at least on my following confession, I could confess to the sin of lying while making confession. But this was different. Was it my Master? Had the Principal learned of the Great Work, of the Mission to the Pope? Had the scribe reported of his imprisonment and labours? Did the Principal know of my part in the breaking of the Interdiction?

It had been an act of pride to think that I could deliver the Great Work to the Pope. If I was so stuttering and undone with the Principal, it was unthinkable that I might ever presume to be in the presence of the Vicar of Rome.

I have been guilty of the sin of pride, I said.

Never mind that. Let me smell your breath.

The Principal pulled me over to him roughly by the arm. A second time, he commanded me to breathe on him, which reluctantly I did. His own odour was not good, it tasted like neglected meat.

Again, he said.

I breathed on him again. He thrust me away.

This proves nothing, he said. You will have to perform penance. You and the other two.

I did not understand the purpose or meaning of the test by breath. But his reference to my two associates further strengthened my assumption that he was referring to Master Roger and the wretched scribe. We had broken the rules of our Order, of the blessed Saint Francis, of whom the Principal is a shadow. I was not concerned for myself. Happily, I would have taken all the blame but it could hardly be believed that it was I who had led my Master astray.

I will be taking counsel in prayer now. Tell the other malefactors to visit me after Prime.

He looked at me. I said nothing, deciding that in silence I should least harm my Master.

You will tell them.

Of course, My Lord. But, who?

Brothers Andrew and Bernard. Tell them to visit me.

I returned to the dormitory, gathered my writing materials and went into the shadow of the far wall that stands closest to my former village, where I write this now. I thought I detected the hand of my Master in this. I had not thought him malicious or vengeful. Was it because I expressed a desire to take leave of my father? But I could not believe he would take this kind of action against me, or threaten the mission to deliver his Book to His Holiness the Pope, or indeed make martyrs of Brothers Andrew or Bernard, sacrifice the innocents as well as his Great Work on a spiteful altar.

Incline, O Mother of Mercy, the ears of your pity unto my unworthy supplications, and be unto me, a most wretched sinner, a pious helper in all things.

My Master was delighted. He rubbed his hands together. His eyes shimmered.

So, you have got yourself in trouble, he said.

I do not know what I am supposed to have done.

You have been stealing wine from the cellar.

But I did this for you.

You did not tell them that.

I did not know what I was accused of, and nor would I have betrayed you even if I had.

You are a good boy, he said.

And then he beat my head with his hand, an action which hurt me but did not grieve me because I understood that it was an act of tenderness and acts of tender affection do not come easily to Master Roger.

Because you are my charge, I have been permitted to decide upon the penance that will be required of you to expiate your sin. I believe that they think it right, perhaps restorative, that one under an Interdiction be put into the position of a judge. They have even permitted me to determine how to dispose of your fellows.

But they are not guilty.

Are we not all guilty? Did we not all participate in the sin of the Fall?

I have never known my Master like this, so light and careless.

Be that as it may, he said. I am going to make an unorthodox judgement in your cases. The Principal will accept it. I have decided that this crime is so great, its cupidity, its incontinence and greed, the gluttony it indicates, the treachery against your Franciscan brothers, these sins are all so large that nothing less than a pilgrimage would suffice to pardon them.

My Master was smiling. His beard parted to reveal the paleness of his tongue, the yellow of his teeth. He reached his arm towards me but I was quicker this time and prepared for it and able to escape it this time.

Slowly, the grace of understanding was being granted me.

And where are we to go? I said feeling an answering smile on my own face.

For these extraordinary crimes, my Master said wiping his mouth with his hand, it is deemed that nothing less is required than for you to travel abroad to his Holiness to ask forgiveness of the Pope.

How? How did you order this?

But my Master was laughing, and when he had stopped laughing, his mirth had been discharged.

You will set out as we discussed. We have some preparations to make for your travels.

I am going to Rome?

Not Rome. The Papal court is in Viterbo. There is strife in Rome.

And then he looked at me and around the room, the books, the crystals, the boxes of herbs, the scribe’s table bearing the drips of his ink and the scars of his pen, the four packets wrapped in heavy cloth that contain the seven parts of the Great Work; and then he looked back at me again and reached for me and held me to his breast and stroked my hair in a powerful and strange charity and whispered that there was strife everywhere and he wished me good fortune on the road I had ahead of me.

Saint Restituta’s Day

It is said that, From a clear spring, clear waters flow. A man is estimated by the company he keeps. Brothers Andrew, Bernard and I stood outside the friary. Master Roger kept reiterating the details of my mission. You will tell the Pope this, and this, and you will demonstrate the device to him, and you will insist upon the need for a more satisfactory translation of the Bible.

The details of my mission are written on my memory. I had no need to be instructed in any of them.

And you will take this bag for the gathering of treasures. And here is parchment for you to write on. If you find the opportunity, send communication to me. And you remember the details of your itinerary?

I remember.

Our Great Work is in this box. Do not dare open it.

The bag for treasure is a heavy cloth one, the sort the villagers use to gather the harvest of apples. The box is made of wood and stained a dark red colour like blood. A single green stone is set into its lid and green wax seals it shut.

Do not open it. Promise me you will not open it.

I will not open it.

And you will carry this also.

He gave me this final load without care, wrapped in linen and tied with twine.

You will open this only when you have given up all hope. You understand me?

The extra packet is heavy at the bottom of the sack I carry, further cloth around it with my bowl and spoon and knife and parchment and styluses wrapped inside. The device I am to demonstrate to the Pope and the box containing the Great Work are in Brother Bernard’s sack.

I implore divine mercy that He Who is the One, the beginning and the ending, Alpha and Omega, might join a good end to a good beginning by a safe middle, my Master said.

Brother Bernard is eternally phlegmatic. He stood there, ox-like, bearing the burden of our load. Brother Andrew looked as anxious as I must have done. He shivered, his eyes closing and opening and closing against the sunshine. Suddenly, the prospect of a journey was a matter of trepidation. I had never been outside the village and the friary, except on the wings of Master Roger’s knowledge, and during my imaginary journeys. The friars gathered at the gate, Master Roger wiped away something that was occluding his eyes, and the Principal gave the blessing of the Sarum Missal.

The almighty and everlasting God, Who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, dispose your journey according to His good will; send his angel Raphael to keep you in this your pilgrimage, and both lead you in peace on your way to the place where you would be, and bring you back again on your return to us in safety.

And so our journey began. We walked past the village on the way to the river. I fancied I saw my father in a field beating a goat.

Saint Helena’s Day

The wood of the cross was a vile wood, because crosses used for crucifixions were made of vile wood. It was an unfruitful wood, because no matter how many such trees were planted on the mount of Calvary, the wood gave no fruit. It was a low wood, because it was used for the execution of criminals; a wood of darkness, because it was dark and without any beauty; a wood of death, because on it men were put to death; a malodorous wood, because it was planted among cadavers. After Christ’s passion what had been low became sublime. Its stench became an odour of sweetness. Darkness turns to light. As Augustine says, The cross, which was the gibbet of criminals, has made its way to the foreheads of emperors. As Chrysostom says, Christ’s cross and his scars will, on the Day of Judgement, shine more brightly than the sun’s rays.

After the murder of Our Lord, the Romans built a temple to Venus on Golgotha, so that any Christian praying there would be seen to be worshipping Venus. When Saint Helena, wife of the first Constantine, mother of the second, came to Jerusalem to find the True Cross, she commanded the temple to be razed, the earth to be ploughed up, and three crosses were disinterred, because Christ had been crucified beside two thieves. To distinguish between the crosses, she had them placed in the centre of Jerusalem and Saint Helena waited for the Lord to manifest his glory. At about the ninth hour, a funeral procession was going past. The dead man’s body was placed beneath each of the crosses, and beneath the third cross, the dead man came back to life.

•

The way cuts into us. Pebbles and twigs assail our feet, branches lash our faces and eyes. Our stops for rest are more frequent than I should have liked. The sun moves fast in the heavens; our feet go slowly on the ground. After the exhilaration of setting off on our journey when we took too fast a pace, stung by the novelty of strange trees and different faces, our bodies protested the labour. To Viterbo? To Paris? Canterbury, even Rochester would seem impossible. By the end of the day the next-but-one step would seem impossible.

Brother Bernard hardly speaks. He grunts when he walks, our beast of burden, our donkey. It is forbidden to members of our Order to ride. It is also forbidden to carry. We carry and yet refuse to ride, when a passing merchant or farmer offers us room in his cart, as if resisting a second sin obviates the first already committed. We are not pilgrims, or penitents, we are on a mission to the Pope, but my companions, who are ignorant of the true reason for our journey, refuse to break the saint’s commandment. They are both perplexed by their supposed crime and banishment. Neither, I think, is unhappy to have left the friary. Brother Andrew’s good nature emerges in whistling and song and an excited regard of everything he sees.

We walk. We accept alms from strangers who have sins to expiate. We walk in the same rhythm. The road we walked on was wide. And there were others on it too, I had never seen such diversity of kinds. Farmers driving their pigs, merchants in carts, cattle for market grazing by the side. And sometime a fine horseman would gallop past down the middle of the road. And we would gaze upon the finery and the speed and the hoof prints left in the mud and the steam disturbing the air.

Towards the end of the day, we had been singing to forget the pain in our legs and feet, until we had fallen silent, a little chiding, and then silent again, as we listened to the sound of our tread on the way.

People are kind to us. At night we were invited to sleep in a barn, our new dormitory with its friary of donkeys and convent of hens. I was asked by Brother Andrew if I understood their language.

Yes, I told him, they are saying, Please do not eat me. If you spare my life, I will lay you a very fine egg in the morning.

And he looked in wonder at the hens and thanked God for the wisdom that can penetrate mysteries, and Brother Bernard grunted, and I might easily suppose that he is the one who can speak the languages of the animals.

We slept on rough straw and as I fell asleep I felt, for the first time, the desire to be back in the friary where life is understood and I am under the shelter of my Master.

We were woken by a child who had been sent to bring us bread and milk, which was still warm from the sheep. The first taste of the milk was the strongest and the fullest, as if our appetites had shrunk to the shape of their first satisfaction. Rain and sunshine dripped through holes in the roof. Brother Andrew was smiling as he led us through the prayers. You O Lord will open my mouth. And my mouth shall declare your praise.

Our feet were aching to return to the journey. Bernard gathers his load, Andrew laid some stones into the sign of the cross. We stopped for breakfast and then Brother Bernard and I became impatient with Brother Andrew because he took so long to finish his food.

When we stopped again, in the shade of a tree, by the side of a river, stretching our legs, resting our tired, beaten feet, after we had performed our prayers, Brother Bernard and I ate the food we had kept back from breakfast. The bread was stale, the milk was sour, but after the labour of our day’s walking, each bite and sip contained whole worlds. My body strengthened with every mouthful. I felt I had discovered something here today, to do with size and magnitude. If I had filled myself as quickly as Brother Bernard was doing, then I would not taste or feel or perceive so much.

Brother Andrew was looking miserable. He confessed that he had consumed all his food at breakfast. I gave him half of the rest of what I had. Brother Bernard threw him a scrap of bread.

A rainbow is ahead of us, which is either an auspicious omen or a signal sent to direct us by Master Roger. I explained to Brothers Andrew and Bernard that there are five principal colours, black, blue, green, red, and white. Aristotle said that there are seven but you can arrive at that by subdividing blue and green into two halves of dark and light. I could hear my voice above the music of a songbird and how preferable that music was at this moment so I became silent.

We could hear the bird as we walked. Brother Andrew and I looked above our heads for the songbird but we could not see it in the trees, just heard its song. I looked around and saw Brother Bernard’s lips shaped forward, the whistling coming from them. I had not thought he was capable of such game or skill.

We wear the brown robes of our Order and the insignia of two keys on our chests, to signify our pilgrimage to Rome. The orders of angels watch our process towards Canterbury.

• • •

I have committed two sins, close to blasphemy, on the short way we have come. I have found myself wishing we were not carrying my Master’s Book and his device for the Pope and his packet that we are to open when we have abandoned hope or hope has abandoned us. I have even neglected to pick up treasure I saw in the woods. I made my companions stop. We must go back, I told them. Or at least we have to stop and you must wait for me. It was not hard to persuade them to drop themselves down in a glade in the forest.

I went back to where the treasure was, cut it away from the earth, put it in my bag, and made my laborious way back to where my companions were, or at least should have been. I halted, went farther on, then back the way I had come. The trees looked like giants who were mocking me before taking me prisoner, casting their nets of leaves. I searched for different paths through the trees in the event I had taken a wrong turn in my tiredness. I stopped, I renewed my search; I went this way, and that, and returned again to the place where I first thought to find my companions – who, revivified by their rest, leaped out laughing at me from behind the trees.

My companions question me about my Master. They ask what it is we do up in the tower. I may of course not tell them about the Book.

We study, he teaches, I learn. Sometime we sing.

Sing what?

Different songs. The shape of music reveals the hidden structures of many things. Music is the power of connection coupled with beauty.

You sing?

In line with Aristotle’s teaching. Music also teaches the virtues, courage and modesty and the other dispositions.