John the Pupil. David Flusfeder

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      We live in the Last Days. All things are temporary. The gates behind which Alexander enclosed Gog and Magog are falling. The horsemen are already abroad. In which case, I asked my Master, why should he, should we, make so many terrible labours to produce his Book? It is a work of majesty, indisputably, a magnificence of learning and opinion and ingenious device, which tells of the world and how it is viewed and the arc of the rainbow and the movements of the stars and of health and immortality and engines of war, all manners of things that would seem miraculous were they not founded on observation and deduction and Scripture, but, even if it is finished, even if it is somehow delivered and received by its intended Reader, would it not be for nothing? All things are known to the angels. They should not need to read it. And, as it has been written, the spread of learning will itself hasten the End Times. My Master hit me across the head with his Greek Grammar and commanded me to read and memorise the declensions of forty-nine nouns. It was as if I had accused him of vanity and pride, and maybe, thoughtlessly, I had.

      Saint Epimachus’s Day

      The winding blue lines of the scribe’s demon entered my dreams last night. They became a river in Eden, branches of the Tree, our Beginning as well as an End. I wonder what takes place in Master Roger’s dreams, whether he permits himself to imagine figures without end.

      There was trouble in the dormitory again. But I watched without attention. The day was so similar to the previous day, as it will be to the next. We beseech you O Lord, that the virtue of the Holy Spirit may be present unto us: which may mildly both purge our hearts, and also defend us from all adversities, through Our Lord Jesus Christ your Son: Who lives and reigns, God, with you, in the unity of the Holy Ghost, world without end.

      • • •

      Saint John the Silent’s Day

      The scribe’s hand shakes, the pages are almost filled. His escape is close at hand. Master Roger is almost merry. His Great Work is nearly made.

      And now, he said, we must talk about how we are going to deliver it.

      We? I said.

      The proscription is absolute against his leaving this friary which is his prison. For a moment my heart had leapt at the thought of accompanying my Master on a journey; but then I took his meaning as being abstract, that he was generously acknowledging my small part in his Work’s manufacture and kindly including me in a conversation about the method of its delivery.

      You, he said.

      Perhaps he mistook my silence for misapprehension, or fear, or simple stupidity.

      You, he repeated. You are the only one I can trust. You will take it to the Pope.

      A special mark of favour, an answering heart, or just the fate that the Lord bestows upon us somehow miraculously accords with what I most yearn for.

      You will go in three days, he said. The day and the stars are propitious. Ten plus seven.

      Numbers of perfection, I said.

      You will have companions, Master Roger said.

      Companions?

      The journey is too difficult for one boy to complete on his own. Do you have friends here? Whom do you trust?

      Despite my exhilaration, I was suddenly sad. I felt friendless, alone. Other than Master Roger, whom it would be an awful presumption to claim for a friend, I have no intimates, no ties of true affection. I have lived in this place for seven years and more and established no bonds of love. Maybe the journey will not be the thing of glory I have dreamed of, maybe there will just be the perpetual here and now, we carry with us the stain and the mark. And I was jealous too. This mission is too grand, too enormous to share.

      Who are your friends? There will be three of you.

      I thought of the dormitory I sleep in, the novices at play. I looked at the faces my recollection brought to mind, the companions I would not tire of, the friends I would like to share my adventures with, and my heart.

      Brothers Andrew and Bernard, I said.

      It shall be done, he said. And you will proceed with your writing to make a chronicle of your journey.

      How he knows of my secret writing, I do not know. I bowed my head.

      Yes, I said.

      And you will collect these treasures along your way.

      He gave me a list of the things I will be seeking. He also gave me a stack of parchment and three pens and a pot of ink for my writing.

      But do not tarry. If it is a choice between the speed of your journey and the search for these treasures, stay on your road.

      Yes, I said.

      The way will be hard. You have so little experience of the world. The Devil extends his power into unlikely places. There are demons who look like men.

      Yes, I said.

      And women, he said.

      Yes, I said.

      God will direct you.

      Yes.

      He saw there was something that I needed to say. He asked me what it was.

      My father, I said, who lives in the village. I have not seen him in five years. I would like to take leave of him before I go.

      My Master did not say anything. He turned away.

      Downstairs, life proceeded as it always does, as if the world had not changed. Vigils, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Nones, Vespers, Compline. The sun rises, sets, rises again. We pray, give thanks, eat, drink, purge, sleep. God is good. The friary walls are cold against the skin.

      Saint Brendan’s Day

      Saint Brendan, the holy, sailed west with fourteen monks to find the island of paradise that prophecy had promised him. They sailed, in God’s name, and found the Island of Sheep by the Mountain of Stone, and they sailed on to an island on which the sailors lit their cauldron to prepare their food, but the island began to move and it was no island, but the great fish Jascoyne, which labours day and night to put its tail in its mouth, but may not, because of its great size, and the sailors fled and sailed fast away.

      And they landed on a fair island full of flowers and herbs and trees in which were great birds that sang all the hours of prayer; and they sailed on through tempests and trials to the island of holy monks who do not speak, and in mark of their great holiness have an angel to light the candles in their church; and they sailed on and fought great beasts of the sea and, through God’s will, escaped an island of fire inhabited by demons who strode across the water to assault them with burning hooks and burning hammers; and they met the great traitor Judas, naked, fleshless, beaten by the winds and the sea; and they met Saint Paul on the island on which he dwelled for forty years, without meat or drink; and on they sailed, through a dark mist to the fairest and most temperate country a man might see, all of its trees charged with ripe fruit, and precious СКАЧАТЬ