Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

“Have him buried outside of the cloister,” was all he said in response.

“You don’t understand,” he persisted. “At this time of year there are no reptiles.”

“Würzburg is full of serpents,” he answered, turning to look elsewhere.

Alcuin could not comprehend his indifference after he had pointed out the strange, identical nature of Genseric’s and the parchment-maker’s deaths. And not only that, but he had also informed him of Korne’s gray hairs, the fact that his head was shaven, and—more important—that each morning, after breakfasting in the kitchens, Korne had accompanied the twins to their singing lessons. It seemed useless to explain that, in all likelihood, it was Korne who had abducted the twins. Anyone else in his place, crippled or otherwise, would have jumped with joy, and yet Wilfred remained impassive, as if his fate had already been decided.

Wilfred dismissed him without looking up. But as Alcuin left, the monk saw tears in the count’s eyes.

On the way to his chambers, Alcuin wondered what might be behind Wilfred’s strange reaction. In his mind, such melancholy could only be explained by temporary dementia caused by the loss of his daughters, even if, curiously, his delirium did not seem to be affecting the rest of his faculties. Consequently, it would be sensible to assume that his behavior was not random but premeditated, as if he had prior knowledge of a link between the deaths of Genseric and the parchment-maker.

He decided to visit Korne’s room in the fortress, for since the workshops had burnt down that was where he resided. The chamber was not unlike the one Alcuin was staying in. It had an old bed, a crude table with a stone bench under the window, some shelves with a work habit on top, some skins, and the usual bucket for emptying the bowels. He looked inside the container and recoiled in disgust. Then he crouched down to scour the floor, both examining it with his eyes and with his hands until he came across what seemed like a necklace bead. However, in the light he could see that the little white pebble with a blue circle painted on it was in fact an eye from one of the twins’ dolls. He was at pains to admit that the smell of incense had led him down the wrong path, believing the culprit to be a man of the church.

He immediately made for the scriptorium, where he found Theresa working in an uncharacteristically clumsy manner. Normally the young woman would practice the text she had to copy on some old parchment before doing the final version, but that afternoon she was smudging her writing as if she were painting with a brush. Although Alcuin reprimanded her, he sensed that her mistakes were owed not to incompetence, but because of something worrying her.

“It’s Hoos,” she finally confessed. “I don’t know if it’s because you reproached him, but ever since the night we were together…” She reddened. “I don’t know, he seems different.”

“I didn’t say anything to him. What do you mean by different?”

Tears rolled down the young woman’s face, and she told him that Hoos had been shunning her. That morning, after bumping into him, he had snubbed her cruelly.

“I even fear he might strike me,” she sobbed.

“Sometimes we men behave coarsely,” he said, trying to console her. “It’s a question of nature. If circumstances sometimes mar the souls of those at peace and cloud the minds of the learned, who knows what they might do to men who give in to their most sordid desires?”

“It’s not that,” she complained, as if Alcuin understood nothing. “There was something strange in his expression.”

Alcuin relented, patting her on the back. As he gathered up his notes, he thought to himself that he had enough on his plate with the disappearance of the twins to also have to try to reason with a young woman in love. Instead, he asked her how the parchment was progressing.

“I’ve almost finished it,” she answered. “But I must admit there is something that has me worried.”

“I’m listening.”

Theresa went to find something and returned with an emerald-colored codex, which she placed in front of Alcuin.

“Aha! A Vulgate,” said the friar as he leafed through it.

“It’s my father’s Bible,” she said, stroking it with tenderness. “I found it in the crypt where he was imprisoned.”

“A nice copy.”

“That’s not all.” She picked up the Vulgate and opened it approximately from the middle. “Before the fire my father told me that if anything happened to him, I should look inside his book. I didn’t know what he was referring to at the time, in fact, I couldn’t even imagine that anything would happen to him. But now I believe that, while he was working for Wilfred, he began to fear for his life.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

She lifted the codex and forced the spine until a gap appeared between the gatherings. Then she inserted her fingers and pulled out a piece of parchment that she unfolded, and read from: “ Ad Thessalonicenses epistula i Sancti Pauli Apostoli . 5.21 . Omnia autem probate, quod bonum est tenete .” She translated: “Examine it all, retain the good.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?” he asked in surprise.

“On the face of it, nothing, so I did what it said in the quotation: I examined the Bible until my eyes hurt. Now look at this,” she said, pointing at a paragraph.

“What is it? I can’t see it.”

“It’s barely visible. My father must have diluted the ink with water so that it would barely leave a mark, but if you look carefully, you can see that between each line, as faint as morning dew, there are notes.”

Alcuin pressed his nose against the page but still could not make out a thing.

“Interesting. And what do the notes say?”

“I’m still confused. They provide information on the Donation of Constantine. But I believe my father discovered something strange in the text.”

Alcuin coughed and looked taken aback. “In that case it’s best I deal with this codex,” he decided. “And now, try to finish your work. I will keep searching for your father.”

When the monk left, she felt abandoned, and longed for a shoulder to lean on, for someone she could trust. Without intending to, she thought of Izam. He was so different than Hoos! Ever attentive and polite, always willing to help. She felt a little dirty thinking of him in such a way, but it was not the first time her thoughts had turned to him. His deliberate way of speaking, his warm voice, his kind eyes… Though she loved Hoos, sometimes she caught herself thinking of Izam, and it made her feel uncomfortable.

She considered Hoos’s strange conduct again, wondering why he was behaving in such a way. She trusted him. She truly loved him. She thought they would go to Fulda together, where they would start a family, and have strong and healthy children who she would raise and educate. Perhaps they would buy a large stone house, with stables outside, even. She even thought about decorating it with drapes so that Hoos would find it comfortable, and perfuming the rooms with rosemary and lavender. She wondered whether he had thought about such things, or if there was another woman, and that perhaps he had forgotten about Theresa’s love. Finally she turned to her parchments to continue copying, but she only got to the second line before thinking of Hoos again, and she knew that until she spoke to him, she would not be able to do anything well. She stopped writing, cleaned her instruments, and left the scriptorium intent on reclaiming the man she loved.

The soldier guarding the scriptorium informed her that Hoos Larsson could be found in the tunnel that connected the storehouses to the fortress. When Theresa arrived, she found him loading sacks of wheat onto a cart. At first Hoos appeared reticent to talk, but when she insisted, he stopped what he was doing and turned to her.