The Oblate's Confession (3 page)

Oftfor nodded as if impatient now with any and all instruction. “Why’s it called that?” he asked.

“Why’s it called that?”

“The door place. Why’s it called that?”

“Because that’s what
dortoir
means. It’s the building where you sleep.”

“But I mean, why? If it’s where you sleep, why don’t they call it the bedchamber? I mean, that’s what it is, isn’t it? There’re beds in there, aren’t there?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then it’s the bedchamber, right?”

“Look, you want to see something else?”

And so it was that Oftfor and I, grown tired of playing pupil and pedant, became again what in fact of course we had been all along, just two little boys trying hard to entertain themselves in a world entirely not of their making. Naturally enough, I showed him all my secret places straightaway: the spot by the refectory door that had been damaged when they carried the table in, the stain on the base of the lavabo which looked, if you stood in just the right place, rather like a cow, the treasures to be found in Brother Kitchens’ rubbish heap, and, of course, the place along the church’s south wall where, in the early spring, it was nice to sit in the sun and feel the stones warm at your back.

As I remember it, Oftfor enjoyed our little tour. Though it seems hard to believe now, he was in those days a boy like any other, small for his age and a little timid, but otherwise perfectly willing to accept and even enjoy whatever circumstances the world presented. I remember he particularly liked the west walk. To this day I can see the look of delight that spread over his face as he stood on its flags and, for the first time, realized what he was feeling through the soles of his feet. Later I showed him a place

where, if you put your eye close to an opening between two of the stones, you could see, as well as feel and hear, the dark rush of the water beneath you. It was as we knelt at this spot, the fresh smell of the race scenting the air around us, that Oftfor, in all seriousness, asked if someday we might catch fish there; and, child that I was, for a moment I remember I allowed myself to think we might.

There is of course, or at least there was, another story told from that day. Funny I should remember it after all these years. I didn’t care for the thing at the time, didn’t care for the way it made us look, Oftfor and me. The brothers who repeated the story were known to chuckle among themselves as they made the signs. Truth be told, I can’t even promise it is true; certainly I have no memory of the exchange it pretends to describe. But I write under obedience, so let me record here, simply and without qualification, what was said. The postulant Dudda (who—it should be pointed out—was young himself then and therefore quite possibly prone to exaggeration) claimed afterwards to have overheard a portion of the instructions I gave Oftfor that day. According to this Dudda, I was saying something like “Father Dagan is Father Prior, Father Agatho is Father Abbot, Brother Baldwin is Brother Sacristan, Father Cuthwine is Father Cellarer...” when, supposedly, Oftfor interrupted me. “Are there any mothers?” he asked.

I have other memories from those first years. I could, I suppose, fill an entire book with such childish remembrances. But so could many others, and I write under obedience: Father Abbot has ordered me to give an account of the events that led up to my sin. And so I move now to a day, perhaps a year or two later, when I received my first inkling of the role I would someday be called to fill, the mission I would so basely abuse. By that time there were four of us. I came first. No one, not even Waldhere, would deny that. When we oblates marched into church, I stood at the head of our little line. But in truth, if not in precedence, Waldhere came first. He was the oldest among us and, at least for a while, the tallest as well. Not surprisingly then it was he who led us that day—all eyes and expectation—out onto the garth, pointed us toward the mystery that would, in time, lead to the writing of this account. Which is not to say that it was Waldhere’s fault. No. No of course it wasn’t. The fault was mine. I do not claim otherwise.

I wonder now what he told us. It can’t have been much. Waldhere would have understood next to nothing of what he had seen. A secret then, a hint, the suggestion of something marvellous, and we would have followed him out to the edge of the terrace, followed him to the edge of the world for that matter, followed him because he was Waldhere and we always followed him, followed him because—though secrets may be common in a community that keeps the silence—few of any consequence are known to oblates.

Though I loved Waldhere, though I loved and revered and, at times, wanted to be Waldhere, still there was a part of me that resented Waldhere. I was first. I had lived at Redestone longer than any of them, could tell stories of a time before the abbot’s lodge, before the dortoir, before even the reredorter; and so, doubtless, a part of me would have resented that excursion as well, would have
resented the ease with which Waldhere had taken command, the impertinence of it, the implied reproof. It would have been like me to have said something. It would have been like me to have—in this if nothing else—taken the lead, been first to break the silence.

“Such a surprise—here it is morning and, behold, the sun rises

Waldhere ignored me. Like a grownup, like one of the exalted personages that ruled over our lives, Waldhere ignored me, leaned out over the edge of the terrace, cast a long self-important glance down toward the ditch. But there was nothing there—grassy banks, the abbey path—certainly nothing to warrant my attention.

I looked back out at the fields, the village beyond. The sun had already reached the wheat, turning its surface into something soft, rosy, a gentle relief of the ground hidden beneath. Among the peas the sparrows had begun their day as well, bickering as they gleaned. But the village still lay in shadow, the sunny tops of the Far Wood rising from the haze of its cook-smoke like something in a dream, something conjured up, hardly real.

“Look!”

It was Ealhmund and he was pointing toward the village.

I shaded my eyes against the sun but at first could see nothing; then the figure of a man detached itself from the shadows, waded out into the wheat. I glanced over at Waldhere but was not surprised to find him uninterested. This was not the secret.

With little else to do, I watched as the man made his way obliquely across the field. Twice he stopped and knelt down as if looking for something. When he did this, the surface of the wheat seemed to swallow him whole, only the dark line of his progress through the dew remaining to tell you where he had to be. Each time he reemerged, head and shoulders rising suddenly into the light, I found myself pleased, as if I had both predicted, and then personally performed, something of a miracle.

Presently the man worked his way over to the ditch. With an exaggerated step, he leapt to the other side. I expected him to turn back then toward the village, or maybe walk up toward the abbey, but he ignored the path altogether and continued on into the tall
grass beyond. Which told me where he was going. Should someone run to the refectory? Should someone tell the brothers? Should I?

Two ducks rose squawking from the nearer of the ponds and flew out over the village toward the river. The man seemed only mildly surprised by the ducks. He watched as they turned over the Meolch, flying east into the cover provided by the Far Wood. As if in some obscure way he approved of the course taken by the ducks, the man gave a quick nod in their direction, and then, turning back toward the pond, began a series of elaborate gestures that made him look like a monk talking with his hands. But of course he wasn’t a monk and he wasn’t talking with his hands: he was pulling a net from his blouse. The four of us stood up as tall as we could but it made no difference; the man knew perfectly well where the community was at that time of day, that he need not worry about the abbey. And of course we could not yell.

“Some secret, a poacher.”

Waldhere shook his head but I could tell he was beginning to have doubts himself. Which disappointed me. Though I hadn’t wanted him to succeed, I also didn’t want him to fail. I wanted to see something I hadn’t seen before; I wanted to learn a secret.

I looked back toward the village. There were mothers in those houses. Mothers and fathers and their children. And somewhere south of here there was a house like these, a house that held my family. Or at least my father. I was Winwæd, son of Ceolwulf, and Waldhere couldn’t say that. Ealhmund and Oftfor couldn’t say that. No matter how many aunts and uncles they had, everyone knew they were really only orphans. Aunts and uncles didn’t count: I was the only real oblate.

“There he is!” said Waldhere, and even as he said it we saw him, saw the monk emerge from behind the terrace wall, continue on his way down the abbey path. Though he shaded his eyes against the sun, the man made no attempt to disguise his walk.

“Brother Ælfhelm,” said Oftfor gravely; then, apparently unsure of the importance of this, added, “He’s probably just going to work in the peas.”

“During Chapter?”

It was, of course, impossible. And immediately I loved Waldhere again. How had he found this out? How could anyone have discovered anything so wonderful?

“Oh he’ll get a beating now,” said Ealhmund, who liked beatings.

“No he won’t. He goes every week.”

I looked at Waldhere.

“He does! Every Sabbath!”

And for some reason I believed him. Not, I think, because Waldhere was believable or it made sense, but because it wasn’t, because it was impossible, incredible, and therefore in absolute keeping with what I watched. A grown man, one of the brothers, perfectly healthy and, so far as I knew, in complete possession of his faculties, was walking down the abbey path right in the middle of Chapter. And what was more he was doing so without subterfuge. When he crossed over the ditch bridge and turned back toward us, the sun behind him now, eyes raised, he made no attempt to pull his hood up or avert his face. Anyone could have seen him! Anyone could have known!

But, then again, they couldn’t, could they? They were all in Chapter. And would a villager report such a thing if he saw it? Would a villager even recognize such behavior as wrong? Villagers didn’t come to Faults. Villagers weren’t allowed in Chapter. How would anyone ever know?

Ælfhelm regained the terrace wall, threw a glance up at the abbot’s lodge, turned and began to walk along the base of the wall toward the river, toward us.

“It’s all right,” whispered Waldhere. “He doesn’t look up.”

We all held our breath.

Ælfhelm passed beneath us.

Without looking up, Ælfhelm passed beneath us and then, crossing himself absently, passed beneath the church.

We all breathed again. Then, just as we were beginning to feel comfortable, Ælfhelm did something completely unexpected. Instead of turning back east and following the river down toward the

village, he stepped out onto Wilfrid’s bridge.

“He’s going for wood,” whispered Oftfor, and, just as quickly, Waldhere whispered back, “Without a cart?”

“But I like Brother Ælfhelm, I like his stories.”

“Too bad,” said Waldhere, “he’s going anyway.”

And he was. Without even stopping to think about it, Ælfhelm crossed the bridge and walked right into the belly of the great North Wood.

Of course there was quite a debate after that. The four of us stood at the end of the garth and argued the case like four old farmers arguing over a cow—each of us sure he was right, sure he was the one who knew what Ælfhelm was up to. Not that it really mattered. Apostate or spy, the man had broken the Rule—one of the adults, one of the spotless ones, had a spot, a secret, and we all now knew it.