The Seer and the Scribe (6 page)

There was no reproach in her voice as she answered. “His name is Brother Arnoul. He's a Benedictine monk . . . or rather was. He died about ten years ago.”

Volmar turned to her in disbelief, meeting her eyes. “You mean, my lady, you are exchanging confidences with a dead monk?”

“Yes.”

Volmar stood speechless a moment before turning his back to her and muttering under his breath. “Now I am certain you've lost your
mind.” He circled her, illuminating the darkness all around them, determined to frighten away any unwanted spirit. “Is your dead monk in here with us?”

“No. Brother Arnoul cannot leave the clearing where he died. There are rules in the spiritual world just like there are rules in our world.” The young woman twirled her fingers through her long entangled ringlets. “Ever since I can remember, I've had the ability to see and speak with spirits still attached to this world.”

“You expect me to believe such nonsense?”

“I expect you will believe only what you see and nothing more.” The young woman answered dismissively.

Taken aback by what he interpreted as a slight, Volmar responded. “I see nothing wrong with being dubious. When a storyteller tells me he's met dog-faced humans in a faraway land, I realize that he has merely stumbled onto a leper's colony. Reason and facts are my guides, my lady, not my imagination.” Volmar frowned, hearing in his own voice the peculiar authoritarian voices of various monks speaking through him. Why did he turn everything into a theoretical lesson? Why couldn't he simply relax with this young woman and be himself? He let out an exasperated sigh.

The young woman, however, did not seem annoyed by his intellectual postulations
²⁶
. “Our Lord is not one to be limited by human understanding. Think about it, we learn to see and not to see.”

Volmar turned to her and raised his eyebrow with suspicion, “What do you mean . . . not to see?”

“Do you have dreams at night?” The young woman asked while tracing her fingers over the raised relief of a winged man carved into the wooden archway.

“Of course. We all dream at night. If we do not, we would go mad.”

“That is so. And when you dream at night, your eyes are shut and what you see is not physically present in your bedchamber, right?”

Crossing his arms, Volmar nodded, “Very well, I see your point. Your visions are like dreams.”

The young woman tilted her head to one side and thought for a moment before responding. “These visions are more like waking dreams. I am not asleep but awake when they come to me sometimes in a fiery light of exceeding brilliance.”

“A fiery light? Are you sure you are not witnessing the flames from Hell licking the caverns of Purgatory
²⁷
?”

She blushed more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Humph, I should never have told you.”

Volmar put his fingers to his lips and said plaintively, “Please tell me that you don't believe that good and evil come from a creature such as a raven or a cat? Or that you know people who've turned into wolves.”

“You are no longer speaking with your mind. Now the conversation has turned from thoughts to fears.”

This time Volmar raised both of his thick eyebrows; clearly he had difficulty accepting this bizarre assertion. “If I were you, my lady, I would leave this region at once. The villagers will not welcome a bewitched or demon-possessed young woman, no matter how pretty she may be.” He blushed as he realized what he let slip.

“I know. It is why I do not talk of such things with strangers.” The young woman turned her back to him and stood gazing thoughtfully into the blank eyes of a stone-carved winged man holding the portico on his shoulders.

Perplexed over her insinuation of their familiarity, Volmar sputtered, “I didn't mean it like that. Surely you must be careful who you share such spiritual revelations with.”

She extended her arms out expressively. “There is nothing more than a mere veil that separates the spirit world from our own.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Do you, really?” She answered, turning to him with enthusiasm. “I knew you were the one when our eyes first met. See,” she said, touching Volmar's sleeve, “you wear the humble black robes of a young Benedictine monk and have on your hands the black ink stains of a scribe, my scribe.” She turned his free hand over in hers, lightly touching his blackened fingertips and smiled warmly up at him. “We are all connected, the world of the unseen and the seen.”

Volmar took a step back, fearful of her sudden intimacy towards him. “Yes,” he muttered, slipping his hand from hers and burying it inside the sleeve of his habit. “But where do these invisible threads or connections originate? The Devil has many disguises and often invades souls weakened by grief or innocence.”

The young woman sighed deeply. “It may be too soon. I assure you, sir, that though I am young, I am as respectful and fearful as I should be of the wiles of the Devil. If you must know, I am in training for the veil of virgins. I was my parent's tenth child and was given to the church as a tithe.”

“I didn't mean to be rude but I've never met anyone like you before.” Volmar didn't realize that he'd started pacing. “Where are you studying?”

“My name is Hildegard. My spiritual companion, Jutta of Sponheim, is discussing the plans for an Anchorage at Disibodenberg with the Abbot as we speak.” At that moment, Hildegard sneezed. Her clothes were soaked through as well, and the coolness of the cave made her shiver uncontrollably.

Volmar stopped pacing, noticing her distress. He removed his own cloak and hung it around her small shoulders, setting the oil lamp on high heat before placing it upright between them. “Forgive me, Hildegard.” The young monk bowed low. “My name is Volmar. Please, warm yourself by the fire,” he motioned. His mane of shaggy hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it self-consciously over his ear and added, “Like you, I am a charity child, a ward of the church. I was left on its doorsteps over nine years ago.”

“You do not remember your parents?”

“Not really.”

Her eyes searched for the answer left unsaid.

Volmar shifted his footing uncomfortably and changed the subject. “Surely the storm will be over soon and then we can leave.” Volmar motioned again for Hildegard to sit across from him, closer to the warmth of the flame. Outside they could hear the storm continue to rage.

After a long while, Volmar broke the companionable silence. “For the sake of argument, tell me why a monk who has been dead for over ten years insists on having an audience with a young woman during a rainstorm?”

Hildegard warmed her hands over the fire and spoke to the flames that danced in front of her. “Brother Arnoul shared with me a story,
which bears witness to your fears and accusations. The Evil One's misdeeds abound even among God's own brethren.”

“Go on. I have been duly chastened.” Volmar sat down across from her. His eyes, unlike hers, were not fixed on the flame's mesmerizing movements; they were lost in her compelling face.

“Brother Arnoul told me he was a man of courtly manner and noble birth. He was born in a small French village of Amiens and traveled to Disibodenberg to copy a particular book to bring back to his own monastery.”

Volmar nodded in agreement, “Many monks do this. It is the only affordable way to improve the collections in monastery libraries throughout the surrounding kingdoms.”

“Yes, I have heard of this practice as well. Anyway, in the Scriptorium where Brother Arnoul labored, he became friendly with another young monk who unfortunately was as greedy as he was ambitious.”

“Why would he make such an accusation?”

“Brother Arnoul apparently observed this young monk on several occasions, sneaking out of the monastery when the others were asleep. The next day, after he'd questioned his friend on these nighttime adventures, Brother Arnoul was called before the Abbot and was accused of stealing the monastery's rare copy of the
Codex Benedictus
²⁸
.”

“I've heard of this book before. It is legendary. The codex was created at the monastery of Monte Cassino in Italy back in 1070.”

“Well, this was the very book Brother Arnoul had been diligently copying for his monastery. He swears by God, he did not steal it.”

“But the book went missing.”

“Brother Arnoul was incensed. After being accused of theft, he met privately with the Abbot.”

“Abbot Burchard?”

Hildegard leaned forward, still captivated by the flames of the fire. “I believe so. The Abbot, uncertain of the circumstances, asked him to return to his own abbey in France. This angered Brother Arnoul. He tried to clear his name by confronting his friend in the very clearing where I met him.”

“The clearing by the old yew tree.”

“Yes. Their words quickly turned into a vicious quarrel. The two were evenly matched until Brother Arnoul fell from a blow to his stomach and hit his head against a rock, the same rock we sat on earlier together. He was killed instantly.”

“More like murdered, than killed,” Volmar muttered. The two allowed the horrible word to sit between them, neither one eager to continue. Outside they could still hear the steady fall of rain. The noise echoed and reechoed around them, suggesting that the tunnel went on for a considerable distance.

“I agree,” Hildegard said at length. “Brother Arnoul's spirit is restless because this guilty brother buried him unceremoniously and in secret here in the woods outside of the monk's cemetery. His name has been stricken from all monastery records and no one is allowed to speak of it, for many think he committed a theft. It is as if he never existed.”

“That doesn't sound like Abbot Burchard,” Volmar said defensively.

“I'm sure the Abbot suspects Brother Arnoul returned to his monastery in Amiens and knows nothing of his untimely death.”

“And the young novitiate who was guilty of this conspiracy, whatever happened to him?”

“I pressed Brother Arnoul on this very point. All he kept repeating was that ‘Judas betrayed me.'”

“Judas betrayed me,” Volmar repeated, incredulously. “Was he referring to the Judas from the Bible who betrayed Christ?”

“I am not sure. Judas can be a given name, though one rather unpopular with Christians,” Hildegard responded pensively.

“I wonder if the book is still lost.” Volmar mused, “I could ask the Librarian, Brother Cormac, if we still possess the book.” Volmar noticed in saying this, his conversation with this young woman was nearly as agreeable as it was with other more learned brothers at the monastery.

“Listen,” Hildegard suddenly whispered, motioning with her finger for him to be silent. There was a distinct dripping noise on the wall to their left. “Don't you hear it? I believe this wall,” she said, rising and motioning to her right, “is not as thick as the one over there.”

Volmar got up as well and moved in close to her. There was definitely a small dripping sound of moisture coming from behind the wall.

“Hear that?” she said, her brows knitted together, “that means there's a hidden room behind this wall. It is likely that the chill outside from the storm has caused condensation to gather on its walls.”

Volmar nodded. He ran his eyes up and down over the stone wall in question, methodically looking for a potential entrance into what might very well be a hidden chamber. He felt the wall up and down, tapping, feeling and listening, hoping for something that didn't sound solid. His efforts were not in vain. At the far end there was a single stone protruding that did not seem a natural extension of the larger stone it was attached to. He went and felt around it, finding, to his pleasure, a cold iron lever hidden beneath its underbelly. “Stand back,” he said to Hildegard, having moved directly behind him, holding the oil lamp. He pulled the lever down.

There was a prolonged groan, like the yawn of a sleeping beast, which echoed throughout the cave. Both Hildegard and Volmar took a step backwards and watched in amazement as the large stone moved forward, dislodging itself and becoming flush with the protruding smaller stone. It was a finely chiseled piece of work, the same particular craftsmanship taken in the carvings on the wooden arch. From inside a chain could be heard moving as if it was turning on a wheel followed by the sound of a weight dropping from inside the hollowed out wall. The large stone started sinking slowly into what now appeared to be a false stone floor, revealing a small doorway clearly opening into a hidden chamber.

The two peered in. Benches lined the side and back walls of this newly revealed chamber with one or two steps leading up to the benches opposite the entrance. More surprising, though, were the skulls. There were at least fifty skulls all yellowed with age lining the benches. Their hollow eyes watched in eerie unison as the two entered and stood in the center of the small room.

“I believe we've stumbled onto an ancient ossarium
²⁹
,” Volmar whispered, the thrill of their find evident in his low voice.

Hildegard nodded, clearly moved as well. “Could these be the remains of the founding brothers of the monastery at Disibodenberg?” She blew at the dust which had gathered on the skulls. The tiny particles danced about unnaturally in the sullen quietness.

“It is possible. No one knows where they were buried. It's always been assumed that they would be nearby on our hillside.”

Hildegard curiously touched one of the skulls. “Anonymous in death, but not in life. Tell me,” she said, her luminous eyes turned to his, “of Saint Disibod and his followers. I know nothing of them.”

Volmar reached back into his mind to retrieve what little he'd heard in his early lessons of the monastery's founding fathers. “They were Irish monks, I believe, who came to this region to establish a hermitage nearly five hundred years ago. You know the yew tree that is above our heads?”