David Flusfeder - John the Pupil

Blessed is the man who hath not walked in the counsel of the ungodly

Nor stood in the way of the sinners

Nor sat in the chair of pestilence.

But his will is in the law of the Lord

And on His law shall he meditate day and night

And he shall be like a tree which is planted near running waters.

Around us, God’s creation, the fields and trees, the birds, the stream we drink from. Let the friars take care not to appear gloomy and sad like hypocrites, but let them be jovial and merry, showing that they rejoice in the Lord, and becomingly courteous.

More things have gone into my bag of treasure, which, if God decrees this journey prosperous, I hope to return to Master Roger full to overflowing, the bounty and reward for my Master’s trust in me.

• • •

Fires on the hillside at night, the lodging ground of a company of vagabonds and pilgrims, an unnatural band of wolves and sheep, who stare at us as we approach.

Brother Andrew had no desire to proceed. Brother Bernard drove him on, we climbed the slope towards the fire. And as we approached, we heard a clinking, the dull repeating sound of his process, Simeon the Palmer amongst us.

Light flickered on the faces around us, as Simeon the Palmer in his noisy costume acted the host in this fairy supper.

You have eaten? You have food? I know, God will provide, and He has, His ways are many, and always marvellous, it is His work to look after His servants, a Father’s strength, a Mother’s care, sit with us, you will eat with us.

Mindful of Brother Bernard’s suspicions (but he is always suspicious, he would interrogate the motives of an angel), I said that first we would need to make our own ground for the night. I have not yet collected many treasures for my Master, but the bag is not empty, and the work is a sacred one. And there is the bag with the Book, and there is the bag with the parts of the model for demonstration, and the secret package, for when hope is abandoned, and all of these I must keep secure. If I had just one bag to save, it would be easy to decide which it would be. The model is the fruit of our labour and study, but it is merely a thing, the Book is pure Thought, containing the wisdom of all times.

I looked for a place to lay our goods, I looked for a place that was a soft place to be, a leafy bed between trees, free of slope or stones, where I might cover our precious things with soft earth, a landfall of fruit, a canopy of leaves and twigs. And I looked for a place where the eyes of the vagabonds would not follow me. The place was not to be found.

You are very modest, Simeon the Palmer said mistaking the nature of my precautions. We are all men, which is the same as saying that we are all God’s creatures. There is a ditch away from the fire where we perform our necessary acts. No shame is attendant upon them.

Even for a friar, said a raggedy fellow sitting near the fire.

I left my bags with Brothers Bernard and Andrew (eyes downcast, skin reddened by the fire, the very image of the modesty that I was being accused of) who were already sitting by the fire with their expectant bowls. I walked down to the ditch, where I lifted my cloak and, unable to perform the act of voiding (my belly too empty, so many eyes upon me), waited in that position until I judged sufficient time had passed.

Sit with us, brother, Simeon the Palmer said. Tell us about your journey. Did you ride?

We are not meant to ride. Our Order forbids it.

Our redeemer rode on a donkey. Are you saying you are better than He?

The Palmer was in high spirits, joking, drinking, ladling soup into my bowl. He asked me what had brought us to our pilgrimage, but while I was still composing my answer, he pointed out men around us – that one had a vexatious wife, that one a smoking fireplace, that one a leaking roof, another had become a monk to avoid the punishment of the civil law.

And you? Brother Bernard said. When you make penance for your clients, do you repent your own sins?

I am the lamb, Simeon said. Chaste and clean. But you, you carry so much. I thought members of your Order went unburdened. Some bread? Have some bread. It is fresh.

He leaned towards me, and as he handed me a piece of bread, he whispered,

Hard to believe that you three are ordinary pilgrims.

I had no reply. I stuffed the bread into my mouth and chewed.

If you are in trouble, I can help. I have travelled this way many times. Where are you going?

As if helpless with the food in my mouth, I chewed.

Are there men in pursuit after you? Do you carry relics of the saints? Or maybe you are transporting monastery treasures that someone might mistakenly think you have no right to?

I finished the bread. No, I said, it is nothing like that.

He patted my arm, like a brother.

Of course not, he said.

When we were lying upon the ground, after Brother Andrew had preached – and it was marvellous to see, the softening of the rough company before Brother Andrew’s beauty and God’s truth – and after we had prayed and we were waiting for sleep, with its nocturnal temptations, to take us, and the world was so loud around us, louder than the hospice, because this time there were dark birds in the branches of trees, the rustle of beasts in the woods, I grew afraid.

I gathered up our bags and I woke Brother Andrew and Brother Bernard and told them we must go, silently and in haste, and they were sleepy and reluctant but I drove them on, like a shepherd with his small flock, and we made our way out of the lodging ground, and there were eyes upon us, cold in the firelight, watching our departure, and there was a clinking of metal that might have belonged to Simeon the Palmer.

I was not able to explain my fear to my companions. We set forth along the dark path. We slept finally, at dawning, in a chapel on a hill.

We woke hungry, it was so late in the day. Sun shone through the windows, our Saviour born, the kings from the east bearing him gifts. We said matins, even though the hour was so late.

Outside, we gave thanks for God’s creation. The earth was wet from an early-morning rainfall. I taught my companions a song that I used to sing with Master Roger. Brother Bernard, into whose head learning could never stick, immediately learned the words and the rhythm. We sang until our throats were dry, and then we drank from a stream and sang some more until, I think it was Brother Andrew who began it, we replaced our music with laughter. Laughter is a gift of the Holy Spirit. The Devil is powerless against it.

We laughed, without object or cessation. We laughed without ever, it seemed, being able to imagine a time without laughter, a moment when the world did not consist of the three of us lying on the grass outside a chapel in France, beating the damp grass with our fists.

Until we saw the men climbing the hill towards us. They were wet, cloaks and habits heavy from their night out in the rain, which was maybe why we had not heard them approach. Simeon the Palmer’s badges hardly made a sound as he walked.

But he was cheerful, as ever. He showed joy at seeing us. He praised our sharpness in finding a dry place to pass the night.

And your goods? I see you look after them. You are careful stewards of your treasures. Not a drop of rain upon them.

The men’s faces were stern. They came into the chapel and they gathered around our packages and I made to stop them, I thrust through them and reached for the shining box in which my Master’s Great Work is contained, but there were too many of them and only one of me, and the men seized me, held my arms tight, helpless, by my side. I looked to Brother Bernard and Brother Andrew but Brother Andrew was gone and five of them, maybe six, were subduing Brother Bernard, a confusion of cloaks and arms that might have been an occasion for mirth if it had not been for the enormity of what was taking place, our powerlessness, our despair, our fall, we had come this way and we had hardly begun our journey and already it was over.