The Oblate's Confession (46 page)

Of course all of this is obvious, a recitation of truisms self-evident to any that could ever possibly read this work. Yet sometimes it is necessary to remind ourselves of such things. For someday some brother, wishing to think himself charitable, may try to make a case for leniency, may argue that, however rebellious my prayer, it was at least a prayer, that, disobedient as I was, the form of rebellion I chose was at least a monastic one. From such reasoning it is but a small step to turn the child I was into a sort of example for today’s youth, the oblate who, as wicked as his disobedience was, didn’t compound his sin by adding to it apostasy, didn’t, in other words, at the first provocation, think of climbing a wall. I too of course would like to think of myself in this way, have, I suppose, up until now, always done just that. But writing out this confession (as doubtless Father Abbot intended) serves as a corrective to pride. For remembering is like a contagion, it spreads, memory giving birth to memory, until what had seemed an isolated recollection, unconnected to anything either before or after it, has become the mother of an entire season of memories.

And such a brood of memories cannot help but produce the occasional monster.

Of course the thing has surfaced before. But in the past I have always been able to tell myself it was nothing but a dream, that I am remembering not an actual event but something I once imagined or experienced only in sleep. And in this I have been helped by the fact that the recollection itself rises from my memory very much like the memory of a dream, vague and insubstantial, its particulars changing, shifting, even as they are recalled. Yet there are some things I remember well, what Stuf said, what I said, how it felt to hear such things said. Yet even now I find it difficult to let go of the notion (certainly the hope) that it was only a dream. And it may have been, it could have been. Think about dreams, the sort of people you encounter, the sort of places you go. Things are always
like
but not quite the
same as
what they seem, so that, when you awaken, your memories of what transpired as you slept are forever evolving, the mountain turning into a hill, Father Dagan into Brother Baldwin, the horse into a cow. And so it is with this
memory, for while my waking mind tries to place it, like the memory that gave birth to it, on the upper Meolch where I used to pray, as in a dream remembered the landscape keeps sliding away from me, the river rising, myself falling, so that finally I must admit the obvious: I wasn’t looking
down
at the water but
out
at the water, the upper Meolch is the lower.... And I realize that nothing is as it seems, that, however improbable, I must have been sitting down below the terrace, somewhere down among the trees that border our fields.

But just as I get my location fixed, time itself slips away. For though, as I recall it, the encounter took place in the afternoon, late afternoon, the clouds over Modra nect already touched by a westering sun, you must also remember that he found me sitting down, that Stuf came upon me
sitting
by the river, out where anyone might have seen me. You will explain away such idleness by making the day a Sabbath, saying that, as on the previous occasion, I have recalled a Sabbath memory. But once again we run up against the strangeness of this recollection, for another part of my memory, another part of its dreamlike character, is the sound I remember floating in and out of that glade, rising upon the breeze and, as quickly, dissipating. It was practice, one of Maban’s daily practices, and so of course it could not have been the Sabbath. Even under Godwin, God’s day of rest remained sacrosanct.

So, for some reason I cannot fathom, on a day in summer (it is warm), I find myself sitting in the shade of the trees by our river. Which, of course, would have made its own contribution to the dreamlike quality of this memory. For you know how it is down there, shadows the color of water, stones still warm to the touch, the air humid yet fresh, smelling distantly of rapids; here and there the sun breaks through, touches one last rock, a green swell of water, causes the rotting husk of a tree on the opposite bank to glow amid the shadows like something special, something almost remembered, just beyond the reach of memory. And then of course there would have been the surprise of seeing Stuf in such a setting, of seeing the black and sooty figure of our charcoaler step into the quiet of that place like (as of course he was) a spirit from

another world. He had beetle shells in his hair, I remember that. Somewhere he had found the carcasses of a strange and heretofore unheard-of forest beetle and, apparently liking their hue, had woven them like so many brightly colored beads into his dark and greasy hair.

Had I been praying? Had I been sitting there in that strange half-light cavalierly invoking the wrath of God? I don’t know. Though it would go a long way toward explaining the sense of surprise I recall, the sense of being caught out, exposed, that I felt when I looked up and saw him, saw our charcoaler rear up before me like a wild animal, his face turned suddenly tawny in a stray shaft of light, leaf shadow playing over it like spots, like the marks of some darker, even more savage beast. But the surprise must not have lasted, or, lasting, must immediately have been joined by another, even stronger sensation, for I also remember the sudden excitement, the thrill I felt upon seeing Stuf, as if his physical presence in and of itself conveyed the idea, placed it warm and glowing in my mind, as if, at some level, I already knew, even then,

what was going to happen, what I would do.

I must have glanced out at the fields, checked to make sure no one could see us, for I have a memory of Stuf mocking me, spinning around as if trying to catch someone hiding behind him. I asked after the man then, demanded to know how he came to be there, what he thought he was doing down on that side of the terrace. But if I had hoped to put him in his place with these questions, remind him of the path I followed, the community I belonged to, I must have been disappointed for I remember no response. It would have been like Stuf to have said nothing, to have giggled maybe, looked at me as if a close study of
my
features might reveal an explanation, some clue, some reason, for the existence of something as silly and outrageous as Stuf the charcoal-maker. Surely such behavior would have caused me to question what I was feeling, where my thoughts were leading me, but all I remember doing is going on, changing direction, asking about the one subject I knew would catch and hold Stuf’s attention.

“How goes it with the charcoal? Did you get your board?”

You would have thought I had asked after the man’s dying mother. Stuf drew himself up tall, his expression immediately sober, sincere. “I make good charcoal,” he said.

I assured Stuf I had never doubted it.

He nodded, paused. “But his excellency wants more.”

“Abbot Godwin?”

Again Stuf nodded, apparently reluctant to use any names. “And the little one, the one with the nose.”

“Brother Prior?”

“Just so.” Stuf’s face was long now, sorrowful, the face of a saint.

“But what will you do?” I asked, trying to sound neutral, calm, the way opening up before me like a road, like something God had placed there, a gift, a challenge, something He
wanted
me to do.

Stuf looked up at Modra nect, shook his head. “The little father says he will send his own monks into the mountain, build his own clamps, make his own charcoal.”

“Would he still also use your charcoal?”

Stuf could not look at me, held his hands out to indicate the hopelessness of his position. Of course it was like a hill person to milk a problem for all it was worth, but I knew Stuf had a legitimate cause for concern. Indeed, I was depending on it.

“But what if you had help?”

The man looked at me as if I’d said something in a foreign tongue.

“Help? Someone to assist you, help you make charcoal?”

Stuf blinked, frowned, the exertion required to grasp such a concept apparently taking its toll. “I had someone once,” he said, pausing as if to remember, “but she went away.”

A tide of anger and confusion swept over me.

Stuf just stood there. When he realized I wasn’t going to say anything more, he leaned in close, his expression almost ludicrously concerned, a man studying a plow that has ceased to plow, a scythe that has lost its edge.

I leaned back and away from him, the stench of meat on his breath returning me to myself. “Well,” I said, trying to sound calm,

relaxed, unperturbed. “Was she, was it nice having someone up there with you? I mean didn’t it help, didn’t it help to have a, couldn’t you accomplish more with.... I mean wouldn’t you agree, based upon your experience, it would be nice to have someone up there with you, someone to help you make charcoal?” I could feel myself blush.

Stuf’s eyes lit up with a sudden understanding. “Oh,” he said. “Oh yes,” nodding now, a monk conferring with another on a fine point of the Rule, “Well it
was
nice now, wasn’t it? She wasn’t afraid of work, that one, could walk a clamp like a man.” He smiled. “And of course I never got lonely.”

Images of Eanflæd, terrible images, images of shame and degradation.

The charcoal-maker laughed.

I gave him a look and immediately regretted it, the man cringing like a dog. I took a deep breath, told myself not to be taken in by this easy contrition, that hill people were like that, changeable, their sentiments, like their allegiances, as fleeting as cloud shadow. “So,” I began again, congratulating myself on how grownup I had become, “it....
she
was a big help. And therefore we can safely assume it would be helpful to have someone up there with you again, preferably someone who knew a little something about charcoal, had worked with it before. Yes?”

As if to confirm my opinion of him, all signs of remorse vanished from Stuf’s face. He looked at me as if surprised by what I had said, as if it were only now dawning on him what we were talking about, that someone might be made to come up on the mountain and help him, that with such help he might produce more charcoal. Then he looked up toward Modra nect and, in apparent response to this suggestion, said, “Yes, a bad day.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I have been thinking this. The old one has had a bad day.”

Of course I could have gotten angry. Victricius would have. The furnace master would have ranted and raved if Stuf had said something like that to him. He hated it when Stuf spoke to things as though they were alive, addressed the river as if he might

reasonably expect a reply. But I was different. Or at least I was now. I had acquired a new attitude toward the charcoal-maker. From now on I was going to accept him as he was, respect (if not honor) his beliefs, indulge (if not engage in) his ways. Who knew what might be accomplished thereby? This might be the very thing God had in mind for me. A vision of myself as one of the great missionary monks rose up before me and I almost missed what Stuf said next.

“I’m sorry?”

Stuf looked at me. He looked back up at the mountain. “
I
said
do you see those clouds? The way they’re gathering?”

A scattering of clouds hung in the sky over Modra nect, small wispy things, dirty blue with just a touch of pink around the edges. Once, years before, when collecting water, I had seen where someone had broken a jar as they lifted it from the river. It was in one of the shallow places and the pieces had sunk together, their arrangement on the rocky bottom still suggesting the shape of a pot.

“It’s like a broken pot,” I said.

Stuf snorted, though you could tell he was pleased to have my attention. “More like a broken head,” he said. “Those are his brains.”

I didn’t say anything, just looked at the man, wanting to get back to the subject of charcoal, how, with help, he might make more charcoal.

“Allfather did that,” Stuf said, nodding to himself, eyes on the distant clouds. “He killed First One, then hung his brainpan up there for all to see. The roof of the world is the roof of the ice giant’s skull.” Stuf smiled, the image apparently pleasing to him.

I looked up at the pale dome of the sky. “A giant,” I said, wondering if now maybe we could get back to the subject at hand.

Stuf turned on me. “You’ve seen brains before, haven’t you? I mean I know they won’t let you eat properly, but you’ve seen brains before haven’t you, the way they look when they first come out? I mean they’ve let you watch when they butcher a pig, haven’t they? Down at the village?”

I shook my head, the memory of Stuf’s breath for some

reason taking another stab at my senses.

“Oh they’re beautiful when they’re fresh, all pink and lumpy. But when they’ve drained, after they’ve set for a while?”

I tried not to think about it.

Stuf smiled. “Just like that.” He indicated the clouds with a thrust of his chin. “And see how quiet they look now that the sun’s going down. You know how storms happen in the heat of the day?

I mean most storms, that’s when most storms happen. Because of the sun? He doesn’t like the sun. It bothers him, disturbs his sleep. First One’s brains churn when they get hot, trying to remember what they’re about, why it is they’re so angry. If it weren’t for the cool of the night, well, who knows?” Stuf stopped for a moment, straightened as if he’d seen a monk. I looked around but there was no one. When I looked back I was surprised to see that he had closed his eyes, cocked his head to the side like a man trying to remember something difficult. When the singing began it was almost as if it were someone other than Stuf singing, the voice high and quavering, birdlike. “But night comes,” sang