The Oblate's Confession (42 page)

Those last days before the bad times began seem, in the light of memory, to have a special quality, a different texture, as if at some level the air itself knew what was coming, was readying itself, growing sharper, more focused, prepared. Yet when I think about this difference, when I try to illustrate for my own mind the quality that set those days apart, I find myself recalling an event it is difficult to date or even place in context. The three of us—Waldhere, Ealhmund, and I—are sitting on the ground in Botulf’s kitchen, our backs to the oven’s south wall, trying to keep warm, repeating our lessons for Father Prior. And now that I think about it, that’s interesting, isn’t it? I mean the location itself may tell us something. Normally we took our lessons in the refectory, the adults using the dortoir for their scriptorium, but on this occasion both
buildings were, I believe, under repair—a new roof, fresh plaster, who knows—but it is the fact of these repairs, the need for our removal to the kitchens, that is suggestive, that makes me wonder if my mind has, for once, proffered a memory that is not just fitting but also pertinent. There were many such repairs that last spring, finishing touches that were, I suppose, meant to please, impress. Not that I was impressed. For me the additional work seemed just another example of the endless folly of grownups, another in the long and unbroken line of tasks they seemed pleased to set themselves especially during this, the busiest of seasons.

In my memory, though the sun was out and it was spring, it was one of those days in spring when winter takes a last stab at the season that supplants it, the air unexpectedly cold and clear and tasting slightly of ice. In those days oblates received an oversized set of woolens for the cold months and, as a result, the three of us would have sat that day bundled up before the stove like three young chickens trussed and ready for the fire, our faces alone peeking from beneath our cowls. There is a sort of reverie
that comes over you when you are warm like that, the oven warm at your back, the air cold before you. It is as if your mind as well as your flesh withdraws before the cold into its own snug recesses and is justifiably loath to venture out. Not that Father Prior wasn’t doing everything in his power to draw our minds from their cozy retreats. He was, as I remember him, a good teacher, knowledgeable in the ways of attracting and holding the attention of boys. Indeed, it seems likely he had placed himself before the drying racks with this in mind, thinking their contents would block any view of the orchard and its distractions. But it happened that, on this particular morning, there was a spot on one of the drying racks that had been left bare. From where I sat, through this gap, I had a view of a cherry tree as it came into bloom.

There was nothing special about the tree as I remember it. It isn’t there anymore. I’ve just looked, hoping to be reminded of that long ago time, the three of us sitting there, young and cold, Father Prior before us, still in his prime, still so much to teach, and instead of the tree there is nothing, the place my memory as yet fills with blossom, empty now, devoid of life. They don’t live long, do they, the fruiting trees? But it was there once, and, now that I think about it, its placement was a little out of the ordinary, for it stood at the far end of the orchard all by itself. I wonder, did someone place a seedling there by mistake? Was another row envisioned and then voted down, the earth becoming too rocky that high up, too liable to erosion, acid leaching from the pines? Whatever, a cherry tree once stood at the far end of our orchard and, as a result of this placement and the occasion of a gap in the contents of Brother Botulf’s drying racks, I, on a particular day in spring, had a view of it as it came into bloom.

And it was beautiful.

I don’t know, maybe it was the novelty of its location, or the novelty of mine, maybe it was just that I was a boy and would have welcomed any distraction, but I remember being astonished by that tree. I looked at it as if I had never seen a cherry tree before, as if the very idea of a tree ornamenting itself with flower, especially on a day as cold as this, was unheard-of, outlandish, mad

and impossible. I remember thinking this is the most beautiful tree I have ever seen, and, in the same instant, that it was identical to every other tree I had ever seen. And that this was good. That the fact that this beauty had been there all along and I had failed to see it, had been blind to it, was in point of fact what made this tree special. That I saw its beauty now, knew it now,
recognized
it now. And, however empty that hillside today, I recognize it still. I close my eyes and there (framed by a gap in Brother Botulf’s drying racks) it stands, God’s idea of a cherry tree, perfect, gem-like, a frail pink flame burning before a pale spring landscape.

Of course one can find many explanations for such a vision, and the strength of the memory it created. I suppose there comes a time in every boy’s life when he falls under the spell of his own faculties, his ability to think as swiftly as he does, run as fast, see so well. Images adhere when accompanied by such a glue. And of course there is the all-important fact of my prayer life. Many will have recognized in my description of this tree their own experience with the sort of prayer Father Gwynedd was then teaching me. When going well (and, as if taking formal leave of me, my prayer went very well in those days), such prayer lends itself to visions, can make anything, the grass, the river, the back of one’s hand, seem suddenly splendid, miraculous. But, whatever the reason (and doubtless there are many), it is this memory that returns to me when I try to remember those times, those long ago times when things seemed so good, before the bad times began. I see myself sitting there in my little cocoon of warmth, safe and sure, the familiar hectoring figure of Father Prior before me, and I see the cherry tree that bloomed that day at the far end of our orchard, how perfect it was, how perfect and beautiful everything was.

Of course, as with so many things in life, I missed the event itself. How many times have I had to explain that I was not present on the day Godwin arrived, that I did not see the horse itself, hear the words that were exchanged, the explanations given? How many times have I watched the light recede from some novice’s eye, watched him bow respectfully, only to turn and hurry off after someone else, to seek out some other ancient who might claim to have been there, to have been there on that fateful day? But that is the way of life, isn’t it, and of old age? Brother Cedric may protest we are valued only for our memories, for our knowledge of what is dead, past, extinct, but I’m not so sure I mind. I like my memories.

I like the respect that accrues to me for possession of them. But I cannot claim to have been here on the day Godwin arrived. I was
away on Modra nect with the hermit. And I think I must have been away some time, that Father must have been ill or something (he was often ill in those days), for my memory of the Redestone I encountered upon my return is of a world that, however new it might have seemed to me, had already grown accustomed to itself, the need to explain, to equivocate, long since discarded, worn away.

I don’t really remember the walk down the mountain that day, though I have tried to resurrect it often enough. It was, after all, the last of those long lazy walks that I would ever take. But who knows how I actually spent that afternoon, who knows what I dreamt of, how many times I stopped along the way, unknowingly drew out the period of my ignorance, the time in which, for me and me alone, Redestone remained Redestone, unchanged and unchangeable, life proceeding as it always had, as I must have thought it always would. There were favorite stopping points along the way, I remember that, can see them even now though I have not visited them in years. One of these of course was Ælfhelm’s

shrine, the chestnut grown taller by then, the brush around it denuded by those seeking relics. But there were other springs too, one of which, for a very good prayer I received there when I was younger, I called after the Mother of God, and another, for less holy reasons, after Eanflæd. Probably I stopped at each of these, telling myself I was going to pray, practice the sort of prayer Gwynedd was teaching me, or that I was thirsty, tired, that I needed rest. But the real reason of course was always the same, the need to prolong the journey, prolong my stay on Modra nect, the freedom I felt while I was on Modra nect. I had dawdled like this a hundred times before, doubtless thought I would dawdle so again a hundred times more.

I have often wondered what Maban was doing out there on the bridge that day. Do you suppose he was surveying our holdings, measuring the extent of our demesne, imagining the possibilities? Or is that unfair? He was, after all, a great servant of the office. Everyone says so. When they speak kindly of him, and they do, they speak of the office, what he did for the office, and especially the chant. But still it is odd, don’t you think, that he should have been there that day, the interval between None and Vespers, waiting on Wilfrid’s bridge like some sort of sentinel, when of course he should have been in the sacristy preparing for the hour, making sure everything was in its proper place, the candles lit, Father Abbot’s crozier ready? I don’t think I ever saw him on the bridge again, either at that time or any other. And he certainly can’t have been set there to watch for me. He was clearly just as startled by my appearance as I was by his.

“Here! You there! What do you think you’re doing?!”

It was a monk, a brother, face turning red now as he realized it was just a boy, the shaved area of his tonsure becoming nearly as dark as the surrounding hair. He stepped back out from behind the railing. “Well? Devil got your tongue?”

He had forgotten and, whoever he was, I took pleasure in reminding him: assuming custody of the eyes, smiling to myself.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake! You have permission to speak; speak you little idiot!”

Now it was my turn to blush. Brothers did not use such language in those days.

“Forgive me, Father, I am Winwæd, an oblate of this monastery.”

“It is ‘Brother’,” the monk said, though something about the way he said it made me think the mistake had not gone unappreciated. “How come you not to know this?”

I didn’t say anything. It seemed a stupid question.

Brother didn't say anything either, eyeballs growing large, jaw tight, skin ruddy, rigid.

“I am sorry Father, Brother, but I do not believe I have seen you before, heard of you before. Your visit here must have begun in my absence.”

For some reason the man laughed and there was something about the way he laughed, standing there on our bridge, blocking my way, that made me uneasy. I glanced up at Redestone, wishing someone would come to my assistance.

The man noticed my glance, smiled as if reading my thoughts.

“And where have you been,” he asked, “that you have remained unaware of me?” He glanced up the way I’d come, became suddenly serious. “You’re not a runaway, are you? You’re not.... You’re not a little oblate apostate?” He chuckled.

“I was with Father Gwynedd. I am servant to Father Gwynedd.”

The man didn’t say anything.

“The hermit?” I cocked my head back at the mountain, trying not to reveal any surprise at this shocking lack of knowledge. “The holy man who lives on Modra nect?”

Again the man looked up the path behind me. He smiled as if remembering something. “Oh,” he said, “that one.”

Still I revealed nothing.

The man waited a moment or two, then added, “Another dusty renegade.”

“Sir?”

The man smiled, looked away. “A mistake I think, letting a
child have such contacts.”