Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

The Church basically considered it unbecoming for amateurs to meddle in the affairs of God, but that’s not how it appeared to me. The Beguines were working the streets and living out their vows of poverty; they presented quite a contrast to the churches, for I was discovering that the majority of priests were unqualified and even corrupt. The Beguines supported themselves on what they earned from small crafts and hospital work, supplemented with people’s donations, rather than by imposing mandatory taxes. Each night they returned to their beguinages so they could start the whole process again the next morning, and their sincerity was beyond question. It was not long before I came to believe that the main reason the Church opposed the Beguines was because these amateurs made them look bad.

The Beguines couldn’t quite figure me out. I could speak at length on the Bible and I could read both Latin and German. I had studied all the biblical scholars and masters. I knew about Mechthild von Magdeburg, a mystic of great importance to the Beguines, and was familiar with her masterwork, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. I knew all these things, but I couldn’t-wouldn’t-tell them how or why. I was impressive but confusing. What interested them most, however, was my extensive knowledge of bookmaking. I knew more than their own experts, who made the Pauper’s Bibles they handed out on the streets.

Winter was approaching; you still hadn’t found employment, and the repeated rejections were taking their toll on you. The construction managers were becoming increasingly hostile to your repeat visits, and each night you dragged yourself home with less energy. You started berating yourself for the inability to “do what any decent man should be able to do.” I was learning yet another lesson about the outside world, the lesson of male pride. I wanted to help you but any suggestion I made was met with anger. It didn’t make it any easier that I knew you were angry with yourself, not me.

Another major impediment was that you lacked your journeyman’s papers, which were expected of any worker your age. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t your fault, that it was never your plan for both your parents to die while you were still a boy. But there it was. The Masonry Guild was strong and you simply didn’t meet their requirements. Something had to be done, and quickly, because our funds wouldn’t last forever.

So I made two decisions, and told you about neither. The first thing I did was to offer my services to the Beguines. Not as a member, but as a freelance worker.

Their production of the Pauper’s Bibles wasn’t complicated, just woodblock printing of images and text, but I found them impressive nonetheless. So few people could read that the pictures were the only way to bring religious stories to the masses. Stories from the New and Old Testaments were placed side by side, so the reader could contemplate their connection: rather than underestimate the readers, the Beguines tried to engage them in reflection. Still, I knew that I could improve the quality of the writing and suggest better scene combinations. The Beguines were unconvinced, so I provided some samples and they had to admit I was good. When they remained leery about including an outsider in their work, however, I decided that it was time to tell them about my life at Engelthal.

Upon learning this, they could not bring me into their ranks fast enough. They didn’t admit it aloud, of course, but I suppose they thought that if they rubbed up against me, maybe a little bit of Engelthal would rub off. While they couldn’t afford to pay me, they made me gifts of bread and turnips. This actually made things easier because when you came home from job hunting I could tell you, honestly, that the food was a charitable donation. I didn’t have to say that I was earning while you were not.

The second thing I did, I’ve never told you before now. Please remember that it was a long time ago, and I hope you’ll forgive me.

You got up one morning and prepared for your daily search for work. I asked, casually, about which churches you’d visit, and you answered that you’d start with St. Christoph before moving on to the Poor Clares and then St. Quintin. After that, you really didn’t know. When you went out the door, your heels dragging, I put on my nun’s robes for the first time since leaving Engelthal. I headed to St. Quintin, knowing that it would take some time before you arrived there.

“It will be a beautiful church,” I said to the construction manager. “The nave seems relatively short and the aisles are tall. It’s an interesting effect.”

He thanked me, but knew full well I wasn’t there to talk about architecture. Politely-because who wants to insult a nun?-he asked about the real purpose of my visit. I’d come on behalf of a friend, I answered, a man in need of work. A man covered in burns. The manager rolled his eyes and answered that, yes, a man like that came by every goddamn day, pardon his language, but they had enough workers. Besides, the man’s appearance unsettled the other workers.

I used my most soothing voice, the one I’d developed specifically to speak about God. “But surely a man must not be judged by appearance alone. I know for a fact that this man has an excellent heart and a history in stonework.”

The manager responded, politely again, that your work history seemed to have been interrupted for many years while you were some sort of soldier, and a mercenary unless he guessed wrong.

I neither confirmed nor denied the construction manager’s guess but I did suggest, rather cryptically, “There are soldiers who fight on God’s behalf, men whose actions are necessary but not bragged about in public. So I ask you again, in constructing a church as fine as this, surely there must be room for one more worker? Even one with some holes in his history? I can personally vouch for his character.”

He looked me over from top to bottom and asked where, exactly, I was from. I answered that I was from Engelthal, not indicating that I was no longer an active sister. I couldn’t tell if the man was impressed or not. He’d obviously heard of Engelthal, because he nodded. He said that he’d see what he could do but that he wouldn’t make any promises.

“I thank you for indulging me. Should you find a spot for him, please do not tell him that I was here. He’s a proud man and it would be well if he believed his persistence had paid off.” I bowed and, for good measure, mentioned to the manager that I’d pray for him.

After changing out of my habit, I headed directly to St. Martin. Not to pray for the construction manager’s soul, as I’d suggested, but for my own. My deception in the clothing of the Church had made me sick to my stomach. When I left the cathedral, I did not have any feeling that I’d been forgiven. I had asked for a sign, but none was shown.

Until that evening, when you came through the door exhausted but smiling and covered in stone dust. “One of the managers took me on today.”

Weeks passed, and you made a favorable impression at the site. When work ran out at St. Quintin’s, the manager recommended you to St. Stephan’s. It continued that way through the winter, you shuffling from one church to the next. You built a small reputation and made some friends, and each day you were overjoyed to bring home a handful of coins. I heated water and filled a large bucket so that I could wash you. You were still scarred and tight, and I massaged your body until the knots loosened. The work was difficult for any man, but because of your injuries it was twice as bad for you. Still, you were becoming stronger each day. I’d feed you whatever we could afford, usually only turnips or dark bread, cheap cuts of sidemeat, and whatever I’d secretly earned from the Beguines.