Smudge and the Book of Mistakes (2 page)

But he asked of himself, “How can I create this great work if Brother Ethbert is to be the scribe?” He was sure Brother Ethbert would be chosen, for everyone in the monastery said he was the best scribe. All his letters marched in neat rows. But Brother Ethbert's letters had no heart to them, no imagination. Brother Ethbert did not love his letters.

What was worse, Brother Ethbert was bossy and would tell him what to do. He would quarrel with everything Brother Gregory attempted so that Brother Gregory would lose heart. If he lost heart his work would still get done, but it would not be a great work.

Just then Brother Ethbert and Brother Bede crowded into Brother Gregory's cell, both of them talking at once. They related their story and Brother Ethbert urged, “You must go at once to see the abbot and tell him a dreadful mistake has been made.”

When Brother Gregory learned he might not have to work with Brother Ethbert, he gave silent thanks to the Blessed Virgin.

He told the two monks, “Surely you can see I could never tell the abbot he has made a mistake. It's unthinkable. You know how stubborn he is.”

“But you don't understand,” Brother Bede said. “He has confused Brother Ethbert with Smudge.”

“Smudge?”

“Well, that's what we call Cuthbert because he is forever ruining perfectly good parchment with his blots.”

Blots! Brother Gregory winced. He looked at the pure white parchment that lay on the table. He was about to hurry to the abbot when Brother Ethbert said in the bossy voice Brother Gregory hated, “I am anxious to tell you all
my
ideas for your illustrations.”

Brother Gregory took a deep breath. “I'm ver y sorry but I couldn't possibly contradict the abbot. I'll just have to make the best of the abbot's mistake. And after the abbot has seen Smudge, send him to me.”

The abbot gazed upon the bundle of wool Smudge made as he bowed. “Get up off the floor, Cuthbert. One can carry submission too far.” Though in his heart of hearts the abbot did not see how. “I understand you are the monastery's finest scribe. An amazing accomplishment for one so young.”

Smudge, overwhelmed at being in the presence of the abbot, found his words all glued together so that he could not separate one from the other.

The abbot was not unhappy to see how properly awed the young man was in his presence. “Now, now, speak up.”

“Oh, dear Abbot, please don't mock me. I know very well my lettering is messy and scrawly.”

“Modesty is fine up to a point. I suppose Brother Bede has told you that you have been chosen to work with Brother Gregory?”

“No, indeed. He didn't say a word to me. I would be so honored to assist Brother Gregory.” Smudge saw himself scrubbing Brother Gregory's floors and dusting his manuscripts.

“No daydreaming!” the abbot interrupted Smudge's thoughts. “Now off you go to Brother Gregory.”

Brother Gregory noticed Smudge standing at his doorway. “What do you want?” he asked. “I can't be disturbed now, I'm expecting someone.”

“The abbot sent me. I'm Smudge, the scribe. I'm very sorry.”

“What are you sorry about? And why are you shaking?”

“I'm shivering.”

“Come in, come in. Put down your hood and let me see your face. Why, you are just a youth! Warm your hands by the fire and then show me a sample of your script.”

Smudge felt the warmth of the room comfort him like a mother's arms. Oh, to spend his days in this room . . . but why was Brother Gregory asking to see a sample of his script when all he would be doing would be keeping Brother Gregory's cell tidy? Smudge knew he would be sent away the moment Brother Gregory saw his rude and shapeless scribbles. Who would want so careless a creature cleaning his precious brushes and paints?

To gain a few moments in the warm room, Smudge said, “I'm afraid my hands have gone all numb from the cold.”

“Hold them near the fire and while they are thawing you can tell me something of your approach to letters.”

Here was something Smudge could talk about. “I'm very fond of letters, Brother Gregory. I love the way each letter has its own little story to tell. The
H
with the two little rooms just alike. The ups and downs of the
M
and
W
. The
X
, like crossed swords.”

Brother Gregory was delighted. Here was a monk who thought for himself. He would be a pleasure and an inspiration to work with. Who would have believed someone so young would be so clever?

But there was something else that had to be asked. “Do you have any ideas about my illuminations?”

“Ideas for
you
? Oh my, I know nothing about illuminating a story. You are the very best in Ireland. How could I presume to give
you
ideas?”

Brother Gregory smiled with satisfaction. “Your fingers should be thawed out. Let me see a sample of your lettering.”

“I am only going to tidy your room, Brother Gregory. Why would you wish to see my lettering?”

“Tidy my room? What are you talking about? You are going to provide the lettering for the Christmas Story.”

He handed Smudge a goose quill, some ink, and a small sheet of parchment which Brother Gregory kept just for practice.

Smudge took the quill with trembling hands. He dipped it in the black ink. He made his favorite letter,
H
. The sides were wriggly. The middle sloped. There was a blot of ink as large as a raisin.

Brother Gregory covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the horror. Hopeless. He would have to go to the abbot and tell him he must have Brother Ethbert. Then what? Neat but boring lettering. Brother Ethbert's endless interference with his painting.

Yet here was this boy who loved letters. Who thought about them all the time. He would mind his own business. Given time and practice might he learn to be a scribe?

Brother Gregory said, “Smudge, you are to be here tomorrow morning the second the cock crows. Now leave me. I must see the abbot.”

The moment he was alone Brother Gregory dipped a brush in carmine paint and then in white to make a bright pink. Carefully, for he did everything carefully, he painted his right hand with the pink paint and let it dry.

“Dear Abbot,” Brother Gregory said, “I'm afraid I have bad news.”

The abbot frowned. Given a choice between good news and bad news he preferred good news.

“In shifting the wood for my fire I burned my right hand.”Counting on the abbot's ancient eyesight he held out his hand with its painted pink skin. “With God's grace my hand will heal and be good as new.”

“But the Christmas Story! What of the Christmas Story?”

“Father Abbot, you know that before something truly beautiful can be created there must be a great many musings, a great many ponderings of ideas. Before you give us those thoughtful sermons that reassure and calm us each Sunday, you must spend many hours in meditation.”

The abbot liked the sound of the words “reassure” and “calm.” On Sunday after Sunday he looked out with distress at the monks'
nodding heads. Now he was being told his sermons calmed them. And what does one do when one is calmed? One closes one's eyes and rests. He felt better.