David Flusfeder - John the Pupil

We will take this, call it a shelter tax. We slept in the wet, you were in the dry.

There was nothing I could do against them. Simeon the Palmer took two of the bags, the box, shook it slightly, held it up to his ear.

You can go, he said. Take the rest of your goods with you. It is just a tax, we are not robbers.

I fought. I shouted, We have letters of credential from the Pope!

Or we can go. You can stay here. We will leave you to your chapel. The rain has stopped.

They tied my arms behind my back. They did the same to Brother Bernard, although that process took longer and required more assailants to keep him still. Helpless, we watched them leave. I wept.

And through the entrance of the chapel, where the Last Judgement was painted on the walls around the doorway, came Brother Andrew, creeping, carrying two of our bags. He unfastened the bonds that tied us.

I prayed for guidance and Brother Andrew joined in and Brother Bernard watched me.

And now? Brother Bernard said.

We follow them. We retrieve the box. Somehow.

As we gathered up our things, Brother Bernard blamed Brother Andrew for fleeing from the fight. I told him that if he had not, all three of us would be in bondage in God’s house. I carried the bag that Brother Andrew had saved in which were the parts for the model to demonstrate to the Pope. Brother Bernard carried a bag that contained Brother Andrew’s bowl and spoon and our breviary. The rest of our goods were with the band of thieves.

We made our way down from the chapel towards the foot of the hill. We could hear the men shouting ahead of us as they walked.

It had fallen upon me to be the leader of our little party. I am not quite sure how it happened; I am the youngest; I am the only one not in holy orders. I am a pupil, not a friar. Maybe it was because I knew more than they did: I knew the purpose of our journey.

Why do we have letters from the Pope? Brother Bernard asked me.

To speed us on our way. The box is for him.

What is in the box? Brother Andrew said.

The whole world, I told him.

Hard to believe that something so small could contain the whole world, Brother Bernard said in his usual tone of moody scorn.

I did not explain. I was preparing myself for the battle ahead. I would, I decided, fight for the Book with my life, if that was what it would cost. My Master’s Great Work ends with a ferocious self-humbling and an awkward politics, flattering the Pope, exalting him as one who should be worshipped, the vicar of the church, as God on earth; but, before that, it is a promise of knowledge that will shake creation, as Aristotle instructed Alexander. Master Roger will be Clement’s Aristotle, his indispensable tutor, counsellor, father.

And there are novelties in there, the secrets of magnetism and an ever-burning lamp, or how to make a firecracker to amuse children, the powder that is antidote to the most deadly snake bite, the slaying of poisonous things with the lightest touch. How to make an instrument of a year-old hazel twig that will vibrate to the natural powers of the earth. These things are offered to the Pope, not to a knave and his band.

It is the world, I told them, in a book.

A bible?

Almost as important.

It was a heresy for them to presume to take it, and an awful danger too, that they might read of the consuming fire that no water can put out, or of how to manufacture the crack louder than thunder that Gideon employed to defeat the Midianites.

The vicious company was stopping. We stopped behind the shelter of three trees. They were in a rough circle near a roadside altar beneath which twigs and leaves had been laid for pilgrims to make a votive fire.

We are higher up than they, and we have the advantage of suddenness, Brother Bernard said.

An advantage that would quickly turn to its reverse if we have nothing to support it with.

We have the sun at our backs, Brother Andrew said. Maybe they will be blinded as we ambush.

It was clear that he did not have the capacity for a fight and I could hardly blame him, but guilt at his earlier desertion was driving him to affect an appetite for battle.

I looked at the might of our tiny army. I examined our armoury. I made as if Master Roger was with us, to counsel us, to general our legions. And I asked Brother Andrew to repeat what he had said, and he did, and the spirit of God directed me.

Phaeton and his chariot will help us, I said.

I got to my knees to open the bag that contained the apparatus for the model to demonstrate to the Pope.

What are they doing? I asked.

What are you doing? Brother Bernard said. Praying?

Just tell me what they are doing.

They are standing, maybe they are disputing, Brother Andrew said.

One is reaching for the box but Simeon will not let him have it, Brother Bernard said.

Do not let them open the box, I said.

I had thought that constructing the apparatus under the scrutiny of my Master would prepare me for the work of assembling it at any occasion. My Master’s eyes are stern and steady, the faculty for being observed is most acute under his scrutiny. But here, on the side of the hill, our most precious work the possession of a company of unworthy thieves, my hands were shaking, my fingers fumbling, my skin pricking with labour and fear, the metal support legs fell on to their sides, like a giant insect falling dead to the earth.

Some of the other men seem to be grasping for the box too, Brother Andrew said.

And a smaller number are shoving against them. They are arguing, Brother Bernard said – but how are we going to stop them?

I do not know. Think of something. Sing. Dance.

The Palmer is shaking his head, Brother Andrew said.

He’s losing the argument, Brother Bernard said.

One of them is putting on your cloak, Brother Andrew said.

Maybe, I feared, my Master was wrong and the villagers were right, and his powers had nothing to do with investigation and repetition; and at my touch, no power would assist me.

They are about to open the box, Brother Bernard said.

Were it not for the apple! Brother Andrew sang walking lightly down the hill towards the robbers.

We should not have been saved! Brother Bernard sang walking more quickly to catch up with him.

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