‘Do you not know?’ he searched my master’s face closely. ‘Why, in the human soul, in the soul, my sons, and in our midst, in this abbey, though disguised.’
My master paused, wording his reply, ‘Is he in human form, venerable Daniel?’
‘Of course, how else? He has chosen a monk, perhaps there are two . . . tarnished with unmentionable crimes . . .’ in a soothing voice then, ‘Oh, now I have frightened you, my child. I know, I know, but do not fear unwisely, fear is only a good thing if it instructs us to be attentive and uneasy. Ease is his servant as you know, the love of comfort, his willing vassal.’
‘Who is he, venerable master?’ I asked because I saw in his kind eyes that he had given me this sanction.
‘He is old, older than time, and wiser still . . . he is infinitely persistent, he follows a design and is easily recognisable. Our dear brother, now gathered to God, had the arcanum! He knew the secret of the evil one who will come again in the second millennium.’ The old man placed a milky hand over his forehead as though this thought taxed his mind. ‘We must prepare, for the battle is nigh! But I am weary, so weary.’
My master said humbly, ‘You mean the first millennium, brother, that is yet to come?’
The old man looked at him as though he had not understood his words. ‘No, not the first, but the second!’
‘Venerable master,’ Andre said softly, throwing me a look that conveyed his pity for the older man, ‘some days ago you found a brother dead in the chapel.’
The old man’s face creased with pain. ‘No! Must I speak of it? Who told you?’
‘Brother Sacar.’
‘Sacar has a good ear, but a loose tongue! Yes, he was choked, his face was blue – the Devil sucked out his soul. Oh . . .’ he convulsed, ‘mortify the flesh, rid it of sin and make your souls transparent for the love of Christ, or he will find you also.’
‘Where was Brother Samuel when you found him?’
‘Here, at the foot of the lady. Please, I do not wish to speak of it again, I am tired, so tired.’
My master continued with tenderness, ‘Before Brother Ezekiel died, he spoke of a holy one, whom he said the antichrist and his followers awaited, something about a sacred jewel?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he replied, ‘they are cunning . . . but they will not find him. Oh, Lord! Have I not tried to escape the world beyond these sainted walls? Have I not sought freedom from the dominion of worldly things? And yet,’ he raised his eyes to heaven, ‘in penance, in exile, it continues to seek me out.’
My master changed his tack, ‘You have been at this abbey for many years?’
‘Years?’ he looked amazed. ‘ I do not remember years . . .’
‘Where did the first founding monks come from, brother?’
‘Founding monks?’
‘The ones who built the abbey?’
He shook his head. ‘We must not speak of such things.’
‘I only mean to praise their work, for this is indeed a fine abbey. Were they all Cistercians?’
‘Cistercians?’ He looked a little confused.
‘The brothers who built the abbey?’
‘Cistercians. Yes, white monks. Oh! They were brave men, but there are no longer brave men in this world, only cowards. In times long gone, men were full of wisdom, now they are filled with egoism, in the past they were vehicles of grace, now they are merely empty vessels.’ He sighed deeply, ‘The church falls into the pit with each new day, distorting the teachings of the sainted fathers, so that they have become a pale shadow of a brighter vision.’ He looked at me, his eyes veiled with tears. ‘The sun rises on the genius of man, but at the same time it sets on the living spirit, and my heart longs to be gone from this place. I remain only for him. When he departs this mortal prison, I will pray for the moment of death, be it quick and painless, or agonising and martyred, only death will be my final absolution.’
‘You say, venerable brother, that you remain for him. Do you mean Brother Setubar?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ he chuckled, as though Andre were out of his mind.
‘Someone else in the abbey, then?’
‘Of course! Have you not been listening? That is why they have come! Naturally.’
‘You mean the pope’s men.’
‘They are learned men, but they believe all manner of erroneous things, all elucidating . . . none knowing. All seeking paths that lead them to the abyss. The poor want to be rich, the rich want a simple life, the church condemns them all, because she places money and power on the altar of God! Transformed into a harlot who will lay belly to belly with the Devil for a sackful of gold.’ At this point I blushed most severely, but the old brother seemed lost in this vision and did not notice me. ‘They know that he is here, the synagogue of Satan has found the little rose!’ I gasped, and he turned, mistaking my gasp for fear of his words, but it was his reference to the rose that had astounded me. ‘Do not look so alarmed, my dear . . . sinning is not a privilege of the weak and ignorant. Some day you will come to know that the line that divides wickedness from saintliness is often more indistinct than that which separates erudition and stupidity . . . the inquisitors, my sons, smell of luciferic dung! Ahh but then one sees the Virgin! Though she is marred by my feeble sight she remains the object of all things beautiful and noble, and once again I am almost prepared to believe that there is goodness in this world. The pious little mother whose daughter is the church and yet the daughter mocks the mother with her temerity, offering to feed her the daughter’s milk . . . but was it the patriarch who said it or was it the pope?’ He became a little vague, growing tired, then he spoke in a fragile voice. ‘In any event you are faithful, praying to her for guidance.’