Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

When he glanced up, he saw that the sun was sinking. It would soon be getting dark. He paused to smile to himself before hurrying his steps. Coffyn was away again tonight, and that meant John’s path was clear once more.

A week after Ralph’s arrival in Crediton, he was told he had a new inmate.

Later he was to remember it as one of those crystal-clear autumn mornings that held the promise of a warm sun and no rain. When he opened the door of his little home, the hospital’s grounds lay under a fine coating of frost. He had to pause and inhale deeply, drinking in the view like wine.

The small community was out at the western edge of the town, away from the busy center, and although he could see the smoke rising like columns in the still air, the houses and shops were invisible from here, hidden from view by the sweep of the hill and the trees which covered its side. The only proof of habitation was the clangor of the waking population as they rattled over the roads on wagons, or banged pots and pans together ready for the new day. Doors and shutters slammed, voices were raised as apprentices were called, or cursed for being late.

Ralph smiled. The noise from Crediton was rarely so raucous, but when the morning was as still as this, the sounds drifted down the road so distinctly he could imagine the people were only a few feet away instead of over a quarter of a mile. It removed the sense of isolation that was the occupational hazard of his career.

From the door to his house he could see the whole of his domain. Directly ahead was the gate to the outside world which his inmates simultaneously loathed for its rejection of them, and adored for the freedom – and health – it represented. On his right was the squat little chapel, with its sorry collection of wooden crosses to remember the men who had died here. The lepers themselves lived opposite it. A few, he knew, the most godly, would even now be readying themselves for the first service of the day. Their only possibility of freedom would come from the chapel: either they would enjoy the miracle of returned health through God’s kindness, or they would be released. He would mercifully grant them death, and an end to their suffering.

But others would not join him in St. Lawrence’s to attend his masses. These were the incorrigible ones, the ones who had already given up. They had succumbed to grief, or had become angry with their God for their living death. Ralph felt he could understand their misery, but could not forgive their loss of faith. They should, he felt, put their trust in Him. It was with a kind of abstract disinterest that he wondered how he himself would react if he became a leper. It was always possible that he might succumb to the malign disease. He only prayed that he could be like the first group, and would relish the opportunity for praising God that its onset would provide – but he wasn’t sure.

The message came late in the morning, while he was sweeping the floor in the chapel. Mud and rubbish accumulated in the corners of the old building, and it was a daily task to ensure that God’s house was clean. He had almost finished, when Joseph, an old leper much disfigured, caught his attention.

One of the early symptoms of the disease was that the victim found breathing difficult and the voice became hoarse. Poor Joseph had endured his illness for over four years, Ralph had been told, and the monk usually found his speech difficult to understand, but today he quickly understood that he was needed.

At the main gate he found a young woman waiting. She was in her early twenties, plain of face, but with an inner strength that showed in her grave, solemn features. Ralph could see that she was no gentlewoman. Her clothing was clean, but certainly not expensive; the fabric had torn in several places, and had been carefully mended.

As he approached her, Ralph’s attention was on her face. The woman was paying him no heed: she was watching Joseph. And unlike everyone else whom he had seen observing a leper, her face held no fear, no horror or disgust, but only an expression of compassion and utter sadness. It made him want to stop and memorize every detail of her as she stood there, radiating kindness like a modern Magdalen. When he came close, he saw that her cheeks were streaked with tears.

“You asked for me?”

“Yes, Brother. I have been sent by the Dean to tell you that another man has got the disease.”

“Oh, I see.” Ralph closed his eyes briefly. He had five inmates already. Another would be a strain on his resources. The almoner had already hinted that the harvest had not been as good as had been hoped, and that it would be best if the lepers could reduce their demands on the church. He dismissed the thought with a shrug. “I shall come immediately.”

Inside Crediton’s collegiate church, the candles and sconces threw a dim light compared with the bright sunshine streaming in through the windows. There weren’t many people there. It looked as if monks and lay-brothers were almost alone; only a few of the local people were attending. That was no surprise, for nobody wanted to be reminded of the illness. One woman sobbed, and a man at her side held her protectively by the shoulders. Ralph felt certain they were the parents; their grief was so obvious. Not far from them, Ralph was surprised to see the knight, Sir Baldwin, his head bowed in prayer.

The Dean, in his capacity as vicar of the parish, was holding the service as the monk entered. Ralph walked to the altar and knelt, making the sign of the cross and bowing his head in prayer before looking over at this latest victim.

Edmund Quivil felt like a twig that had fallen into a rushing torrent; he was being swept along by a course of procedures he couldn’t comprehend. Wrapped in a shroud, he’d been carried in here on a bier as if he was already dead. His movements were mechanical as he obeyed the Dean’s instructions. Canons brought forward a pall as he lay down on the ground, and it was draped over him while the requiem mass was chanted. Then Clifford’s sonorous voice continued, droning on in the curious international language of the Church.

And then Quivil remembered the significance of the rite.

He almost cried out. It was an effort not to leap up. This was the end of his life. From now on he was dead, to the Church and to the Law.

It had been explained to him the night before, when the Dean had visited him to confirm that he did indeed have leprosy. That was hard enough to accept. Quivil was not yet twenty. He had been courting Mary Cordwainer for six months now, and their banns were to have been read in the little church at Sandford when he had developed the fever. It had come quickly, leaving all his bones aching, and then it was gone. But it had returned, and this time it had brought with it a dull headache that made movement torture, and his nose started bleeding profusely.

The herbarer had been very helpful. When the second attack had struck, the monk had kindly come to visit him, and had given him a powder which had reduced the pains a little, but when this second fever had somewhat abated, the monk had become noticeably anxious. He had seen the little discoloration on Quivil’s hand. And soon it was not one, but many. The yellow-brownish lumps multiplied over his face and hands. That was when Quivil had been brought to the town on a cart and subjected to a detailed examination.

He shuddered, squeezing his eyes tight shut. It was only yesterday, and now his life was ended.

Edmund felt the silent tears trickling down his cheeks. He opened his hands once, to study with disbelief the little nodes on the skin of his wrists; he reached up to touch his face, feeling the faint lumps. It was impossible that he should be a leper! He was young and fit, not a mutilated cripple with only a few years to live. It must be a mistake! The brother herbarer would come in and rescue him from this living nightmare: it couldn’t go on.