‘Oh, no matter,’ he said. ‘More for me. I like raisins, they all did . . . It makes the mouth moist and conceals the sourness of death. They are soft and sweet and innocent, like a nubile virgin whose innocent, plump, little body has matured, warmed under the caresses of God’s hands . . .’
‘Do you come here often?’ I blushed but thankfully he did not notice.
‘Hm? Oh, yes, I come here to get away from them,’ he said coldly, pointing in the direction of the cloister buildings with his walking stick. ‘Sometimes an old man needs the company of animals . . . They do not ask so much of me.’ He looked at me then as if suddenly seeing me for the first time. ‘Yes, you remind me of him. You are beautiful, as he is, but you must remember, the beast likes the beautiful ones best of all. He lures them with vanity, for he knows that a beautiful boy provokes the most lustful of desires, the most unholy of sentiments . . .’ His hands were like ice on my head, did I have a fever? I longed to be gone from him before those hands seized my throat. ‘Your beauty, child, is your sin, a sin for which you must atone each day. Mortify the flesh! Better to be ugly and scarred than beautiful. Far better to be abhorrent, because then you will not be responsible for the downfall of your fellows! Beauty only hides what lies beneath it, ugliness, falsehood and evil!’
‘But master,’ I said, confused and angry despite my fear, ‘we are told that man is created in the image of God and this image must therefore be true and beautiful and good.’
‘Ahh, but what you do not know is that it is created by the evil God in His own image, and therefore repugnant, offensive and ugly! Pity, my boy, arouse pity in others, even disgust, and you will be assured of a place on earth and in heaven.’
That was when I noticed his shoes. The left one was stained with the red colour of mud from the tunnels!
I stood to leave, and he gripped my arm with surprising strength. ‘I have upset you? I, too, am a sack of dung, a sinner, I detest myself!’ Then he let go of me and I left very quickly, not once looking back.
I ran to the cloisters. A faint pink glow, diffused through thick cloud, promised another cheerless day and I entered the cloister buildings through the kitchen door, which was now open, feeling as though the old brother had drawn a veil of filth over me.
One or two assistants were preparing the daily meal. After wishing them a good morning, and refusing their offers of warm milk, I entered the south walk, hearing as I did so the office of lauds echoing through the stillness. The beautiful sound intoned the youthful message of praise for a new day. The world may indeed be evil and ugly, I thought defiantly, it may be soiled with sin, but I also knew that when a man lifts his soul up to the vaults of heaven, reaching seraphic heights with the power of his voice, he becomes an eagle soaring, an instrument of the Holy Ghost. I paused, thinking about Sacar’s words on music that first day, and listened to the phrasing of the voices as they paused, continued, paused again, and I realised that this rhythm, like the beating of the heart, is nurtured by that one brief moment of uncertainty, that ever-present space, that remains silent, awaiting the unknown. In this pause, in this interlude there is no fear, no anxiety, for it is this moment of silence that is the key to all regeneration. The moment in which the divine can leap across the silence to the new word, the very next beat. Man then becomes like the heart is to the body; the voice of the cosmos made manifest in the earthly realm, and the rhythm from which all earthly rhythm is created. Perhaps this and nothing else was the secret of creation? The mystery of the pause, that, like a seed, appears small and insignificant, but from it grows the tallest tree? Now I understood better Sacar’s words to us that day in the church and these thoughts gave me a little comfort, dispelling my misgivings, as I entered the lavatory. I needed to wash the old brother from my skin and from my heart.
The two walls were lit by small torches, leading to a great fire on the far side of the rectangular room. On the fire I could see some water in a bulging cauldron boiling. I thanked the monks of the abbey and prayed for their health and longevity, as I filled the bath closest to the crackling warmth. I immersed myself in the water, wishing to feel clean again, trying to forget the old monk’s unpleasant and uneasy words. But soon I found myself taken by a second and more horrible terror. Perhaps Setubar had followed me? Moreover, perhaps he did not commit the crimes himself, but instead, as the inquisitor had said so many times, sent his devils to do his work!
Suddenly every shadow, every noise, no matter how slight, heralded the appearance of the evil one. My hair stood on end.