The Road To Jerusalem (25 page)

But when Arn finally emerged from the alley and found himself in front of the cathedral itself, the crowded streets gave way to a large market square with long rows of tents where all sorts of trade was conducted. The ground was also cleaner out here.

Cautiously he dismounted from his horse, careful where he set his feet, and tied the reins to a post outside the cathedral where two other horses stood. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should let his curiosity take over and go to see what was being sold in the tents, or whether he should go inside God’s house first. As soon as he posed that question to himself he was ashamed that he’d had even the slightest doubt; he walked straight in through the church door, fell to his knees, and crossed himself.

It was almost deserted inside and so dark that he had to pause for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Up by the altar burned a score of small candles; he saw a woman just lighting a new one before kneeling down to pray.

Somewhere up ahead in the darkness a choir began singing hymns, but it didn’t sound very good. He could clearly discern two voices singing off-key, and it filled him with wonder, as if they were mocking the Lord by singing like that in His house.

Arn went over to one of the side aisles and sat down on a little stone bench to meditate. He did not feel at home in this house of God. Up by the altar hung large tapestries woven in garish colors along with two pictures of saints and a Virgin Mary painted in blue, yellow, red, and green. Across from him, light shone through a glass window up along the side of the tower, breaking into all the colors of the rainbow. It made a presumptuous and false impression on Arn, as if the gaudiness were duplicitous. The image of Jesus Christ on one of the walls of the tower was spangled in gold and silver, as if the Lord had been an earthly prince. He knelt down and prayed first for the forgiveness of his sins and then asked God to forgive the people who had turned His house into a worldly manifestation of loathsome and idolatrous taste.

But from the limestone of the little bench he felt an odd warmth when he sat back down, as if the stone were talking to him. He had the notion that he had sat there before, although that was impossible. Then he saw his mother before him, as if she were coming toward him, smiling. But the vision vanished abruptly when the choir in front took up a new hymn.

This time the choir sang in only two-part harmony, but it still did no good, since the lead singer of the second voice kept leading the others astray. In the belief that he might now do a good deed, Arn went to stand next to the choir, taking up the second voice and singing it correctly. He had known the lyrics since he was a mere babe.

Chaplain Inge felt at first as if God in jest, weary of all the false notes, had decided to correct them. But then he discovered that there was a young lay brother from Varnhem standing nearby, and he had shamelessly taken over the lead of the second voice. When they had finished the hymn the chaplain, who was leading the choir, went right over to Arn and put him in the middle of the choir, thus engaging his services for the rest of the mass.

Afterward several of the singers eagerly wanted to ask questions of Arn, but the chaplain quickly took him aside and led him into the sacristy, where light came in through two small windows so that they could see each other as they talked. Arn was asked to take a seat and was given a mug of water; the chaplain joked that it was poor compensation for such beautiful singing.

Arn, not realizing that this was said in jest, immediately refused the water, saying that he certainly wasn’t demanding payment for singing in God’s house. When asked his name he replied that he was called Arn of Varnhem, nothing more.

The chaplain now got excited because he thought he’d made a discovery. Here was clearly a young man who could not be admitted as a full brother by the Cistercians, who for some reason had been cast out and thus might be available as a blessed addition to the choir. No matter what anyone said about those foreign monks, they could certainly sing to delight God’s angels; that much no one could deny.

Since no one had ever spoken to Arn with hidden intentions, he understood nothing of the import of all the questions that the anxious chaplain now showered upon him.

So he had left Varnhem to return home? And where was home exactly? And what did his father and mother do? Oh, his mother was dead, peace be with her memory and blessings on her soul. But his father, what did he do? Worked like everyone else in the sweat of his brow? Did the young man mean in agriculture? Was his father a peasant or a freedman then?

Arn answered as best he could without lying, except when it came to the difficult question of whether his father was rich, which he quickly denied. He considered the word “rich” to mean something shameful and didn’t want to think such thoughts about his own father. And he wasn’t sure what the words peasant or freedman signified exactly, even though he doubted either had anything to do with his father.

However, one thing was clear to the chaplain. Here was the son of a poor man who worked hard at farming, perhaps a freed thrall, who had too many mouths to feed and had tried to get rid of at least one of them at the cloister. And now the young man would come home, at the most ravenous age of all, and not be good for much more than saying grace. Here was a chance to do something beneficial for all parties; all he had to do was seize the opportunity.

“I believe, my young lay brother, that you and I might be able to help each other to our mutual advantage,” said the chaplain.

“If I can help you with something, father, I shall not hesitate, but what in all the world might that be? I am only a poor lay brother,” said Arn without lying, because he believed what he said.

“Well yes, many are the poor on this earth, but sometimes God gives even the poor great gifts. And you, Arn . . . wasn’t that what you said your name is? Yes, you have truly received a great gift from God.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Arn, looking down in embarrassment because he was thinking of God’s great gift when he got his life back.

“Then I have the pleasure of telling you, Arn, that now you may shed a great worry for both you and your father, and at the same time do a good deed that is pleasing to God. Are you ready to hear my proposal?” said the chaplain, leaning forward trium phantly and smiling so broadly that Arn could see his brownishblack teeth and smell his terrible breath.

“Yes, father,” said Arn obediently, but shrank back in horror. “Although I have no idea what you’re thinking of, father.”

“We can offer you room and board, and new clothing too, if you stay here and sing in the cathedral choir. It’s a great honor for a poor young man, you should know. But then you do have a rare gift from God, as you realize yourself.”

Arn was so astonished that at first he could not reply. It finally dawned on him that the priest meant that his very ordinary singing was supposed to be the great gift, and not the fact that God had brought him back from the realm of the dead. He didn’t know how to reply.

“Yes, I can understand that you would be dumbstruck,” said the chaplain, pleased. “It’s not every day one shoots so many birds with one arrow. Your father will be spared from having another mouth to feed; we can make souls, both living and dead, rejoice with more beautiful masses; and you will have clothing, meals, and lodging. That would be many blessings for a single day, don’t you think?”

“No . . . I mean yes, of course, it might seem so,” Arn said in confusion. For the life of him he didn’t want to be taken captive by the ill-smelling priest, cathedral or not. But neither did he know how to get out of the situation. He had no idea know how to refuse someone he was supposed to obey.

The chaplain clearly considered the matter settled. “Come with me. We’ll go over to the singers’ quarters so you can meet the others and be given a bed that you need only share with one other boy.”

“This is not . . . this won’t work at all!” Arn stammered desperately. “I mean . . . of course I’m deeply grateful for your kindness, father . . . but it won’t work . . .”

The chaplain cast a puzzled and astonished look at the young man with the tonsure that had just started to grow out and a thrall’s knotty hands that revealed harsh manual labor. What in the name of all reason could make this poor awkward youth say no to such a generous offer? He even looked as though he was agonizing over his refusal.

“I have my horse outside. I’m responsible for the animal and must return it to another lay brother,” Arn tried to explain.

“You have a horse, you say?” the chaplain muttered, confused. “You couldn’t possibly—I want to see it with my own eyes!”

Arn obediently walked through the cathedral with the chaplain beside him. The father was busy calculating the value of a horse, deciding that it far exceeded what he had just offered the boy in the form of room and board.

Outside in the light stood Arn’s borrowed horse, quite rightly, looking very tired with its head drooping heavily. Yet the chaplain decided at once that it was a splendid horse, and Arn discovered to his dismay that his knapsack with all of Brother Rugiero’s lamb sausages and smoked hams was gone. He wondered who might be looking after them. But the chaplain was expounding loudly about his fine steed. Arn protested that there was nothing special about the horse, but that he couldn’t understand what had become of his hams and sausages. Then the chaplain got angry and declared that surely he wasn’t so stupid as to leave such things to thieves.

Arn was horrified at the thought that he might have been robbed, and in that way contributed directly to grievous sin. He asked innocently whether he couldn’t go to the thieves and get his goods back, if he promised to forgive them. That made the chaplain even angrier and he strode off muttering angry words about horses and muttonheads. Arn at once said a brief prayer for forgiveness for the unfortunate souls who had given in to the temptation to steal. He added in his prayer that he took full blame for what had happened, because he had left his knapsack with the food to tempt those who were both weak in spirit and hungry.

On the way north from Skara the wedding of Gunnar of Redeberga was being celebrated. He was a tenant farmer who worked for the cathedral dean, Torkel of Skara. The dean, who attended the wedding feast, was pleased with what he had arranged for his tenant, because this Gunnar was not handsome to look at and did not have much to offer as a morning gift. But the dean had taken pity on his tenant, and also out of concern for his own earnings he had arranged it so that Gunnar could take a wife.

A comfortably wealthy peasant named Tyrgils of Torbjorntorp had received the cathedral dean’s help in a difficult predicament, and then at his weakest moment had promised to return the favor. This favor now meant marrying off his youngest daughter Gunvor to Gunnar of Redeberga. It was a good arrangement in many respects because Tyrgils had not had to pay a large dowry as he would have if he’d made a better match for his daughter, and at least he’d finally gotten her married. Gunnar of Redeberga had equally low demands on him when it came to the morning gift he would have to present, so despite his lack of money and land and his ugly visage he did indeed marry a young and evidently fair maid.

The dean thought he had made a good bargain for all, but especially for his loyal and humble tenant Gunnar, who never could have won himself a fecund maid to marry on his own. Gunnar was diligent at handling his own affairs as a tenant farmer, and he returned to the dean sevenfold what he had spent. So it was wise of the dean to protect his own interest, ensuring that offspring were produced and the farm could be kept under the charge of the same family. That way he avoided the trouble of evicting Gunnar when he got old and had no children to support him or pay the rent.

So everyone was pleased with the arrangement. Except for Gunvor, who wept bitterly for a whole week before she was forced to say yes to the dean and utter the vows that would soon be honored so that the marriage could be consummated. She had importuned her father Tyrgils to let her be quit of this abominable man and instead be allowed to marry a different Gunnar who was the third son at the neighboring farm of Langavreten. She and the youth had spoken of the matter, and both were in agreement that their betrothal should take place.

But her father Tyrgils had flown into a rage and explained that he could ill afford such an arrangement. Langavreten was a farm as large as his own, and he would thus have to pay an exorbitant dowry if the neighbors were to unite their families in a wedding ale. Should he fail to provide a substantial dowry he would not appear to be a man of honor. There was no solution to this dilemma, and Gunvor’s entreaties had not helped in the least. Her father had sought to console her only once, with assurances that the whims of young maidens were fleeting, and this one too would pass. As long as she got her first children to blow their noses, it would all be forgotten.

Now she sat there in her bridal gown while the men sitting at the wedding tables got drunker and drunker. She felt as if she were being stabbed with needles every time she heard a joke or laughter about the wedding night, which all wanted to witness. When she saw her slobbering and drunken husband being slapped on the back by men making gestures that meant a cock as big as a horse’s, her blood ran both hot and cold. She prayed to the Holy Virgin to call her home at once. She sought the grace to fall dead on the spot without having to commit the sin of suicide. It was the only way to save her from this dreadful fate. But in her heart she understood quite well that the Mother of God would never grant such a selfish request and that all hope was now gone. She would soon be irretrievably violated by that drooling old man and unable to do anything except obediently spread her legs the way the older women had taught her.

But as the afternoon sun was setting outside, inexorably heading toward evening, she suddenly heard the voice of the Mother of God strong and clear inside her. With a wild shriek Gunvor threw herself on top of the table and with one long, nimble bound she was over it and on her way out the door. She lifted her skirts and ran off as fast as she could.