Legends of Luternia (12 page)

“Don’t worry,” whispered Prester John to him “You’ll understand after a while. Follow along the best you can, you’ll gain it soon enough.”

The abbot led the way into the nave. He stood in front of the altar, bowed, and then moved behind it to face the incoming crowd. Many paused a moment to gaze up at the image hanging behind the altar before taking their places in the benches arranged on both the left and right sides of the altar. Ulrik sat on one side with Edgar on the opposite. They caught each other’s eye and shared a confused expression. Father William began to play the organ. The notes from deep-throated pipes vibrated through Ulrik’s body, awakening him through and through.

Abbot Peter started chanting particular phrases while congregation chanted its reply. Ulrik opened his mouth to reply but fell silent, not knowing the words. He listened more closely and soon he recognized bits and pieces of the chants. “I know these words,” he wanted to exclaim. “I learned these words in the kitchen. Helga used them during what she called our morning time.” What he had learned once in the kitchen connected him to the abbey’s morning service, yet here the words developed fullness and majesty. Tentatively, he attempted to join in, his voice stumbling and falling until embarrassment swept over him. He stopped and stood silent in the midst of others’ singing. He allowed the music and singing to flow over him, and for a moment it carried him along. The peace experienced in the kitchen became alive again like a long-distant friend, almost taking him home.

After the service, Prester John led him into a shaded part of the garden. He carried two books in his hands, one older but less worn than the other. “The abbot thought you’d like to use this one for our studies,” he said, holding out the book for Ulrik to take. It was the one from his bed table, his mother’s.

Ulrik opened the book and retraced the inscription. He wanted to draw her out from the words inscribed there. “I never knew her, really, except in the stories they told me.,” Ulrik said, his eyes locked on the inscription.

“The abbot told me about you and your mother,” Prester John said. “We need to start your lessons.”

Dutifully, Ulrik followed the instructions. He opened the Enchiridion to the first pages. Prester John said something about the book beginning with the commandments of God because those teach you of your need for God, but Ulrik wasn’t listening. He caressed each page with an awakened longing. Perhaps she had once been here, in the garden. Was this bench here when she was? He ran his hand along its edge. The bench’s worn edge told of many students who had come, studied, and gone. She may have been one of them. She may have sat right where I am this very minute, he thought.

“You’re starting to get tired,” Prester John said, realizing Ulrik had not been paying attention. “We had better stop. Why don’t you go back inside and rest.” Prester John closed his book, rose and walked off, leaving Ulrik alone on the bench.

Ulrik was not nearly as tired as Prester John wanted him to be, so instead of going back to his room, he explored more of the abbey. The size of the abbey, suggested by the maze of hallways and interconnected rooms, was revealed in greater detail when seen from outside. Deep verandas offering shade from the desert sun surrounded most of the buildings. Every building was painted the color of the desert, as if camouflaged. The size and variety of the structures astounded the young prince, for some were enormous with several attached buildings, others were tall, while still others were long and low, hugging the desert floor. Those distant from the main compound blended into the hills and dunes, disappearing into the desert.

“Once they were all of many colors. That one on the left was a bright blue, and that long one over there was the green of alfalfa, and the top of that tall one was striped red and yellow. I was most proud of the job I did on that one. But that was before the time of hiding came upon us and wisdom directed us to paint them to match the sands,” explained an old man standing next to Ulrik.

“Didn’t I see you playing the organ this morning?” asked the prince.

“Oh, yes. It’s one of the last duties around here that I can still pull off. I didn’t mean to intrude when I started talking. I wanted you to know the abbey wasn’t always such a dull, drab brown. Dear me, I’m forgetting my manners. We get so few visitors these days. Let me introduce myself.” Out from a rather worn and paint splotched robe he extended his hand. “Father William they call me- although it has been a long time since I’ve done much pastor work,” he said and chuckled absent mindedly to himself. He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat to better shield off the sun, hiked up his robes and tottered off.

To avoid the sun as it moved through the sky, Ulrik walked along under the many verandas which led him haphazardly to many parts of the abbey. Most of the compound consisted of barns, store rooms and the like. Then a familiar scent caught his nose, fresh bread straight from the oven. The aroma led him along one of the verandas into a small building separate from the other abbey buildings where he discovered the abbey’s bakery. The heat of the courtyard open to the sun was mild compared to the heat in the bakery.

“Damn! It’s still hotter’n hell in here,” exclaimed a man.

“Henry, I wish you wouldn’t talk so,” said a woman.

“Well, it is hot in here and we finished the baking hours ago. Ethel, when is this thing going to cool down?” said Henry.

“You know it always takes longer this time of year,” replied Ethel.

“Long or short, I need to clean out the damn thing!”

“Henry!”

“Alright, the blessed thing—the old biddy.” Henry kicked the oven, knocked a tile loose, and grabbed his foot. “Damn it! I think I broke it!”

“The oven?” Ethel said, rushing over to him.

“My foot, woman, my foot,” he said, as he sat down, took off his shoe and sock and stuck his foot in the air, waving it in her direction. “Come here and take a look.” She went over, sat in front of him, cradled his foot in her lap, and began examining it.

Ulrik had been standing in the shade of the broad, open bakery door watching, unsure of whether or not to interrupt. His decision was made for him when the man said, “Ethel, we’ve got a visitor.”

She stood up quickly, dropping her husband’s foot. “Woman! My foot!” he shouted.

She straightened her sweaty apron and smoothed down her unruly hair. “You must be the young prince we’ve heard about.” she said, making an attempt at a curtsey. “Please to meet’cha,” she said, wiping her hand on the apron and holding it out to him. Ulrik crossed into the bakery and shook her hand which remained sweaty despite her attempt at drying it off.

Henry put his sock and shoe back on and favoring it a bit, limped over and offered his hand but then pulled it back once he saw that it was covered with soot. “Sorry, sir, I was fixin’ on the oven. This old beast, she gives us fits and starts when it gets hot.”

“May I come in?” Ulrik knew he was already in and then felt foolish for saying it.

“If you can stand the heat, come in and have a rest.” Ethel offered him a chair at the worktable which was coated with a light dusting of flour. Ulrik absentmindedly began to draw in the flour dust with his finger, and his thoughts went back to the castle kitchen where Helga had taught him his letters by having him write them out on a floury table.

The heat caused him to sweat nearly as much as Ethel and Henry, with drops falling from his nose, making patterns in the flour. “Here, sir, try one of these if you please,” Ethel slid a plate of a fresh muffins across the table, leaving a path through the flour dust. When he thanked her, he saw that she had lowered her eyes to avoid looking at him. He ate as they looked on, being careful not to look at them, knowing they would quickly drop their gaze if he should lift his eyes. The first taste reopened familiar territory leading him to moan with pleasure.

“I’m glad you like it, sir. I pulled the recipe from an old box I found and was trying it out to see if’n I should make them for the abbey. I gave one to Henry, but he likes everything out of the oven,” said Ethel.

Ulrik asked to see the recipe. Ethel brought in a recipe box stuffed to overflowing. “Oh, dear me. Which one was it? I thought it was here in the front. Ah, this one.” She pulled a card from the box and laid it in front of him. He recognized the handwriting at once; Helga had written it when she lived in the abbey.

Later that day, Ulrik requested to be assigned to the bakery with Henry and Ethel. The abbot joyfully agreed. Ulrik’s duties placed him deep within the ebb and flow of the community. Because he needed to be at the bakery, he rose earlier than nearly everyone and within a week had learned his way from his room to the bakery without needing a light to guide him down the hallways or across the courtyard. He would find Henry already there, firing up the oven, a skill Ulrik attempted but failed at more than once. The first time the fire was too hot and the first batch of breakfast muffins (which didn’t make it to the breakfast table) burned. He over-compensated the next time so that by the time the muffins were brown on the outside, they were as dry as the desert on the inside. Other attempts met the same disastrous results. With the community’s patience wearing thin, the abbot suggested he work with the dough instead.

When Ulrik kneaded the dough, his hands worked it like a living object needing to be pulled and pushed, stretched and nurtured into maturity. Ethel tried to tell him to go easily with the first batch so he wouldn’t exhaust his hands. He paid little attention and that night his fingers could barely move. In the morning they were cramped up into claws. Ethel didn’t bother him with, “I told you so.” Instead, she massaged his fingers loose and set him to work washing pans, knowing the hot water would help ease the ache.

After this lesson he learned to pace his work carefully. Soon the folks in the refectory noticed the change in their bread and asked about the new baker, surprised to hear it was the prince. Under Ethel’s watchful eye he quickly advanced, and then he began with his own experiments. After many trials he developed a specialty—a sweet bread in the shape of a heart stuffed with cinnamon, sugar, and ground nuts. When the abbot tasted it he told Ulrik that the time in the castle kitchen with Helga had been well spent.

His bakery duties ended before chapel services began. He met Prester John after the service and continued to learn the ways of the Enchiridion.

“Now, Ulrik, recite for me the fifth commandment,” said Prester John.

“You shall not murder,” the prince recited.

“What does this mean?” asked his teacher.

“We should fear and love God so that we do not harm our neighbor in his body but help and support him in every physical need.”

“Very good.”

And so they continued through the commandments. Ulrik memorized and recited each commandment while Prester John listened without comment. One day the prince asked, “Is this all there is?”

“What do you mean?” asked his teacher, visibly put off by the question.

“Is this all that being a Christian is about? Memorizing the commandments and the Enchiridion meanings?”

“No,” explained his teacher. “We also have to learn the Creed, the Our Father, the  . . .”

“Yes, I know that,” Ulrik cut him off abruptly. Prester John stiffened as the prince continued. “I know what we’ll be doing. I’ve read the Enchiridion through several times. A child could do this.”

Prester John attempted to explain, “The Enchiridion was written for children. It’s part of what we teach . . . the meaning of the faith.”

“But after that? Isn’t there more? I memorize and recite. You pronounce it “good” and we go on,” complained Ulrik.

The scar dividing Prester John’s face reddened. He looked hard at Ulrik, holding back his anger and frustration. Finally, he muttered through a half-closed mouth, “Maybe you’d be better off talking to the abbot.” Clutching his robes closely around himself he stormed off leaving Ulrik alone.

Ulrik took Prester John’s suggestion and sought out Abbot Peter, finding him in his book-lined study. He knocked, entered, and explained what had happened between him and Prester John. The abbot listened and then took the Enchiridion from Ulrik, opening it to the frontispiece.

“I gave this to your mother years ago. She was about your age, maybe a bit younger, and I was a very inexperienced pastor,” Abbot Peter said, with the Enchiridion in his large, old hands. “She was an active girl- not so keen on memorizing as she was on running through the courtyard or pestering Father William whenever she had the chance. I suggested she not worry so much about memorizing the words but study them slowly. The idea helped her and maybe it will help you.”

This was all Ulrik needed. The Enchiridion took on a new meaning as he nibbled it in small bites rather than swallow it in whole gulps. Sometimes, he would slowly study the part Prester John had assigned to him. He would take a word or phrase and roll it around in his heart. On some days one word would be enough, like the time that the word “covet” caught him. Does merely wanting something mean the same as “covet?” If my neighbors are all worse off than I am, how could I covet anything of theirs? Other days would find him turning the pages, looking at the illustrations and seeing if some detail may have been overlooked. On one such day he flipped to the back of the book and discovered a section on prayer; but the prayers didn’t catch his attention. Tucked deeply in the pages, near the center lay a fragile flower, pressed and dried through the years. Some of the flower’s color had bled onto the paper.

“How did this . . .” His mother had placed it there. He nudged it with his finger, wanting to take hold of it to, but the delicate petals began to shatter at his touch. The flower was like a gift or a relic, making the book more valuable for the flower than for the words it contained. With this discovery, each moment spent with his Enchiridion brought him closer to the mother he never knew.

One morning, when the oven’s heat drove him out of the bakery, he wandered near the herb garden behind the main abbey buildings and saw Edgar, all swathed in white, wearing an enormously brimmed hat. Edgar was studying a plant held by Brother Salvador, also swathed in white from head to toe. The brother carefully and slowly pointed out the unique characteristics of the plant. Edgar studied it and then located another like it in the garden. Brother Salvador was patting him on the back when Ulrik interrupted them.