Temple of The Grail (17 page)

A
young man is ruled by antipodes. He either
loves in abundance or he hates vehemently, his spirit glides confidently on a
joyous breeze of hope one moment, or is plunged into the gulfs of despair and
doubt the next. He is guided, we are told, by exalted notions because life’s
artistry has not yet humbled him or shown him his limitations. Now as an old
man living by memory rather than by hope (could the little life left to me ever
compare with the long past now gone and yet lovingly remembered?) I tend to
smile, feeling a little pity for that poor young man, for I was in morbid
contemplation of discrepancies and inconsistencies which threatened to
overwhelm me.

The more my youthful-self reasoned, the greater my
doubts became, like an object that casts a darker shadow the more one sheds
light upon it. My master, because he was a man in his prime and, as Aristotle
tells us, not guided so much by what is solely noble, but also what is useful,
had during our discourse challenged many things that I had previously accepted unquestioningly
– things that formed (albeit unknowingly) the cohesion of my existence
– and I believed at that moment that I understood the origins of dissent
and the metaphor of the seed. A little knowledge, I now surmised, was food for
this odious germ, which then only requires a suitable medium in which to thrive
and to grow until it becomes a tree of suspicion and mistrust. I felt that
perhaps the inquisitor was right. What good is learning if it drives one away
from the grace of God’s love?

And so, it was in this mood that every word of the
Sunday mass, every ritual, every formula posed a question: is this the work of
God, or only the desire of man, in his vanity, to mimic him? As the abbot
ascended the altar and we sang ‘
Judica me Deus
’ from Psalm 42, kissing
it as the sacred repository of saintly relics, I wondered from what
inexhaustible source were so many relics recovered? Indeed how many fragments
of one holy cross could there be? Andre once said – I believe to shock me
– that five churches in France pledged they held the one genuine relic of
Christ’s circumcision, and that the churches of Constantinople purported to
have some hairs of the Lord’s beard. When I asked him about the heart and body
of the martyr St Euphemia, kept at ‘Atlit by our order, he told me that it was
said to have miraculous properties, and that it drew in many pilgrims. Raising
one brow he then added that it was exceedingly good business too. How could one
keep one’s faith from crumbling like so much dust?

Before too long I found myself joining the others in
reciting the
credo in unum Deum
and I wondered how I could sing it? ‘
Credo
in unum Deum
, that is, I believe in one God.’ But did I truly believe?

At some point the abbot consecrated the wafers of
bread and the chalice of wine into the body and blood of Christ, and was
bidding us to lift up our hearts to God; ‘s
ursum corda
’, I heard myself
answer ‘
abeamus ad Dominum
’, followed by the triple
Sanctus
, the
Agnus
Dei
and the
Pater noster
, with a special emphasis on ‘deliver us
from evil’, and I thought that these words must have been meant for me alone,
for I was once again faced with further cause for distress. What if my master
was right? What if there was no magic that allowed a man to turn bread and wine
into the body and blood of Christ? Moreover, what if the one whose duty it was
to perform this monumental and awe-inspiring task, was tainted with sin,
corruption and irreverence? Did this result in the failure of the ritual, or
did the blood and the body become tainted with the stain of his sin, so that
all those who partook of it became stained also? Perhaps the Waldensians were
right when they refused to take communion from those whom they saw as impure?
Oh, what anguish! It was only by the barest margin that I managed to keep from
shouting out ‘no!’ Then, almost overcome with guilt, I prayed for the Lord to
pacify the ravenous, unrelenting beast that consumed my faith, with a sign of
his universal omnipresence, his eternal and infinite goodness. God, I was
convinced, was aware of my pain, and in his benevolence could restore my faith
by rallying the elements to do his bidding. Soon, I was certain, a bolt of
lightning would shatter the abbey, cataclysmically tearing asunder the church
in an arc of blinding light that, landing squarely on the altar, would
irradiate with its illuminance the void that was now my faithless heart. I
would then know that God dwelt in heaven and on earth and in every place, and
that he heard the feeble cry of a young, confused novice.

I waited, but God remained silent.

In that moment of deep despair my master leant in my
direction a little and whispered, ‘A pair of organs.’

‘Organs.’ I was shaken out of my misery for
a moment.

‘The instrument, boy, the instrument,’ he said jerking
his head towards a massive structure of pipes to our right and behind us. I had
not noticed, but a young monk had been

playing it,
accompanying the service.

‘Oh,’ I
said, ‘but I only see one, master.’

‘Don’t be a goose, Christian, they are called a pair
because they reproduce the operation of the lungs.’

‘It is very large indeed,’ I whispered back.

‘Large!’ he replied amused, for this afforded him the
opportunity of instructing me further. ‘I have heard of such an instrument at
Winchester cathedral so majestic in size that it has no less than four hundred
pipes! Indeed its keys are so large that the organists are forced to strike
them with fists protected only by padded gloves!’

I smiled despite my anxieties, because it is
characteristic of the young that although they suffer a great deal it is only
for the shortest time, unlike the old, who for a long time do not feel their
passions so intensely. And so it was that my master, being the cause of my misery,
was also albeit unknowingly its alleviator.

After the
benedicamus Domino
, we answered ‘
Deo
gratias
’, and the brothers filed out in silence. We remained seated and,
once alone, my master drew my attention to the master of music.

The brother stood by the altar, going through some
musical element of the liturgy with a young acolyte, both engrossed in their
duty.

‘Yes,’ I answered, remembering the spectres that I had
seen when he gave his discourse the night Ezekiel had died, and so for this reason
I eyed him suspiciously.

‘
Mashallah
. . . he is a genius,’ Andre said,
and I wondered if he intended this to be complimentary, for not unlike his
outward demeanour whose characteristics were often contradictory, he would
sometimes say one thing, where he meant its exact opposite.

‘He is a musical genius. Come . . .’ He stood, tugging
at my arm, and as we walked to the altar, at that moment, the young acolyte
began to sing.

What a voice it was! It was as if all the choirs of
heaven had been embodied in one individual. I stood transfixed. My master also
paused to listen as the boy sang in a voice whose liquid perfection was almost
intoxicating to the ear.

The master of music had his back to us, his arms
outstretched, swaying gently to the waves, the flow of currents created by the
holiest of human instruments.

The young man was singing the first responsory of
Advent Sunday.

‘
Beholding from afar, lo, I see the coming power of
God, and a cloud covering the whole earth. Go to meet him, saying: ‘Tell us if
you are the one who will rule over the people of Israel.
’’

To which the older man responded. ‘
All you men of
earth and sons of men, both rich and poor . . .’

Without turning, as though expecting us, and, in
anticipation of our approach, the master of music then said, ‘
Dulcis
cantilena divini cultus, quae corda fidelium mitigat ac laetificat.’
With
this he turned to greet us, fixing my master with his energetic blue eyes
filled almost to the brim with tears. He was slight and tall, with fine
features though his nose was more prominent than classically acceptable. His
every movement seemed strangely fluid, in harmony with some inner music.

‘
Jubilate Deo, omnis terra servite Domino in
laetitia,
’ my master replied, quoting eloquently from the great book.

‘Amen,’ the brother concluded.

There was a pause in which we further listened to the
sweet voice, and then my master added, ‘The sound of singing does indeed make
one glad . . . as you have said, even during such difficult times.’

‘Especially during such difficult times, preceptor,’
he said with a shy smile. ‘It is truly a blessing and a miracle that man
imbibed with the spirit, can so humbly express it.’ He interrupted the singer,
commenting on the inflection of a note with firm and yet kind authority, then
waved the boy on and once again turned his attention to us.

‘You are the master of music?’ my master asked.

‘Yes. I am brother Sacar, and this,’ he gave his
singing pupil a truly loving look, ‘is my finest student, though he be my only
one. I have been humbled by the grace of our abbot, who has entrusted me with
the music for our convent. I must tell you though that my predecessor was the
most learned, and indeed inspired, master of music. If I know anything it has
come from those venerated lips,’ his voice trembled a little.

‘I ask because I mean to express my admiration for
your work,’ Andre said, ‘your music seems far more beautiful than any I have
heard.’

‘Ah . . . you speak of our harmonious melodies . . .
yes . . .’ he smiled, ‘our voices do not traditionally accompany the tenor
voice as other choirs you may have heard. Our voices seek other harmonies
through notes not following the
cantus firmus
.’ He moved closer to my
master, animated, ‘We sometimes hear complex weaves of singular melody whose
diverse but concordant strains cross and merge in waves of harmony! Oh yes . .
. it is truly beautiful.’

‘You use notation, I see.’ My master was referring to
a manuscript which the brother held loosely in his hand.

‘Indeed! Indeed!’ He showed us the strange figures. ‘The
discovery of notation by our brother from Cologne was truly a miracle! And
since the addition of the musical staff by the learned Guido – who should
be sainted – music can be experienced with the eye! Yes, it is a triumph!
My predecessor was the one who

introduced
this abbey to such wonders.’

‘Very
interesting. What was his name?’

The man’s pale face became paler. ‘Brother Samuel of
Antioch.’

My master frowned, his eyes narrowing a touch, ‘Samuel
of Antioch?’

‘Yes, a holy man from a holy land . . .’ He paused,
perhaps remembering his master’s face with fondness, and his eyes became once
again a little moist and I wondered if this was the monk Samuel, whose grave my
master saw on our first day at the abbey.

‘I see also that you have an organ.’

‘Oh, yes . . . it is so like the voice, do you agree?’
He held both hands together in a gesture of praise.

‘A magnificent instrument. Is it operated by air or
water?’

‘You think too highly of our little community,
preceptor, we are not so fortunate as to have an air-operated instrument. This
one is very old and operates by the aid of water whose flow works the pump. We
are lucky to have the service of an underground spring which runs below the
abbey and we are able to divert its energy to a heavenly purpose.’

‘So the abbey was constructed around the existing
channel?’

‘Yes and no. We have had to alter its direction
slightly. Our beloved forefathers constructed a wonderful arrangement of drains
that follow a course beneath us.’

‘That is ingenious. And the water is diverted by what
means, brother?’

The monk paused for a moment, seeming unsure of what
to say. ‘I am told that it is a miracle of engineering.’

‘Surely from time to time these tunnels must be
visited for practical purposes?’

‘All I know is that the abbot has forbidden it for
reasons of safety. We are told they have become . . . unstable. One brother
nearly lost his life many years ago during an inspection.’

‘So it has been visited in recent times?’

‘Many years ago, though that brother is now dead, and
our general father, the abbot, has imposed a silence on the subject. I feel
uncomfortable discussing it, preceptor.’

‘I am sorry, brother Sacar, it is merely that Abbot
Bendipur has requested my help in the matter of Brother Ezekiel’s death –’

‘Do you think that the tunnels have any bearing on
your investigations?’ he interrupted a little anxiously.

‘I must say that I do not know. I am by nature a
curious man,’ my master answered with equanimity. ‘Curious things intrigue me.
In any case your music is quite exceptional.’

Sacar was noticeably relieved to conclude the
uncomfortable inquiry and to return to his beloved subject. ‘Thank you,
preceptor, and yet it is the spirit that sings!’

‘I agree . . .’ my master acknowledged, ‘the voice is
the bearer of the soul.’