‘Did you know that once they burnt those whose complexions were as pale as yours?’ he grinned, waiting.
I said nothing.
‘The pale ones were naturally suspected of being Cathars, for Cathars do not eat meat . . . They did not know that the old are cold and therefore always pale, because they treasure a life which they know they will soon forfeit, and this paves the way to cowardice that leaves a kind of pallor on the skin.’ He touched his face absently. ‘Youth is warm-blooded and brave. You are not afraid of me, are you, my boy?’ He searched for my face, and I thanked God that I had not removed my cowl.
‘Of course not, master,’ I said a little nearer.
‘So your pallor beneath that cowl suggests something other?’
‘I –’
‘The Arab philosopher,’ he interrupted, ‘on the other hand, believes that there are two reasons for pallor . . . infatuation with those feminine creatures,’ I lowered my eyes, ‘because this sin never leaves one satisfied, but rather, by virtue of its heinous nature – that one may never in truth apprehend – leaves one insatiated and melancholy. The other reason escapes me . . . Ah, yes, discontentment. Confusion.’ He left his mouth open, waiting for my response. When there was none, he huffed, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You are confused because life is complicated, is that not so . . .? Or are you perhaps in love?’
‘I am not in love, venerable brother.’
‘You are confused then. Yes? Love, confusion and discontentment are one and the same. One may be discontented because one is confused about love, and then one may be confused because his love leaves him discontented, still one’s confusion and discontentment may lead one to seek out a love that will ease his pain . . . The young love so easily.’ He smiled. ‘So trustingly . . . but the old love as though they will some day hate and hate as though they will some day love, as Aristotle tells us . . . but we do not speak only of the temporal malady, my fair one, which is inappropriate to those who have chosen to live their lives in the service of the Lord, but also the love of God can be tainted by unholy sentiments.’
‘In what way unholy?’ I asked, almost at his side, and he ordered me to kneel with his hand in an impatient way.
‘When it falls into disorder, for disorder is to be shunned as a tool of Satan, because it leads to discord and discord leads to confusion, and soon one does not know the difference between the good love and the bad . . . You see? Your mind is in disorder, you no longer know what to believe, is that so?’
‘Master, I . . .’
‘Beliefs and unbeliefs . . .’ he dismissed, ‘we must learn to forget and unforget, to remember, and unremember! Because when we grow older those same beliefs, like our faces or our hands, change.’
‘But our belief in God does not change?’
‘Ahh . . .’ he wheezed, placing a cold hand on my wrist, and I felt like snatching it away, for his skin felt moist, ‘perhaps not our belief, but the way we believe changes. Our belief of what is good, and what is evil, changes, or perhaps it is not our belief that changes but our faith in that belief,’ he said. ‘And yes, this finally is wisdom, my boy . . . not as many young men think – a knowledge bestowed from above when one reaches a venerable age. Wisdom is knowing that life is not a path to perfection, but a path to recognising our imperfections . . . You have had a dream? You are a dreamer?’
I blushed violently, worried he was referring to my sinful dream, and buried my head deeper in my cowl. Seeing that I was trying to hide, he snatched it off my face leaving me exposed to his scrutiny. Before I could make a move he took me by both wrists with his sticky fingers, and in horror I realised that he was looking for a pulse.
‘Did you know, fair one, that the heartbeat changes when one is not telling the truth? Avicenna was close to discovering this, but he was not clever enough. You have a vernicular pulse, my boy, either you are in love or you are frightened of me . . . Tell me, for I know that you have had a dream. Did you dream of bees?’
I swallowed a gasp and he eyed me shrewdly.
‘Ahhh, yes. Do not despair, a peasant from the village of Vertus was also tormented by bees in a dream. They entered his body through his private parts, stinging him horribly as they made their way out through his mouth and nostrils. He said they bid him to do things possible only for devils, so the wretched man went to the village church and desecrated the crucifix! Therefore he was burnt. And yet, the bee remains a symbol of purity, messenger of the word, as Bede tells us. But the purity of its message depends upon the recipient of that message. Do you follow, child? Like the purity of the wine is dependent on the vessel that carries it . . .’ He paused, somehow finding this humorous, cackling like an old hen. ‘You see, in the case of the poor unfortunate, the bee’s good function was reversed because of the man’s iniquity, so that it became a messenger of evil, entering his body through a shameful gate.’ He sighed, a little tired. ‘One man may have a dream in which bees herald God, and another may have a dream in which it heralds the beast!’ He looked at me pointedly. ‘The Lord clothes his messages to suit his purposes . . . you see?’ He stroked my head as though I were a favourite cat. ‘I have been young and now I am old, you too will be old, and the old are best dead! Because you begin to care less about what is good and more about what is useful, and the useful is only what is good for oneself, it is rarely what is good absolutely, and that is where the danger lies. Would you like a raisin?’ he asked changing the subject so abruptly that it took me by surprise. I thanked him, but declined his offer, fearing that it might be coated in some poison.