In remembrance of Dale Brown; from the novel Godric BISHOP Pudsey summons me to Christmas mass at Durham. I think he means in part to honor me, in part to bring some kind of honor on himself by fishing up old Godric none have seen away from Wear for twenty years and more. I can scarcely hobble with a stick. The weathers foul. Id sooner have a barber draw my three or four last teeth than go. But Reginald says I must for Jesus sake. Even Perkin chides. He says, What good is it to live a hundred years, old man, if no one gets a chance to gawk at you but rats and owls? So in the end I go. My peace goes too. First well have to swab you down, says Perkin. Else theyll think its not a man weve brought to mass but the ancient, mildewed carcass of a bear. Then he and Reginald fetch a pail or two of Wear and warm them by the fire. Ive worn my clothes so long they cleave to me and fall apart as I am stripped. They scrub me clean as if to lay me in my tomb. They free my hair of knots and comb the cobwebs out. Perkin says they find mouse droppings in it and a spiders nest. They trim my beard. They pare my nails. They sprinkle me with rosewater like a bride and deck me out in garments fresh. I let them set aside my iron vest so I can move more easily, but when they try to place a pair of sandals on my feet, I balk. For fifty years or more Ive gone unshod. I wont change now. They load me on a cart made soft with straw, and Perkin sits astride the mule. Reginald tramps along beside to catch me should the jouncing jounce me off. Snow falls. The sky is grey. The air is damp and chill. On such a day as this, I think, our Savior first saw light while, all about the manger, beasts knelt down to worship him. When we enter Durhams gate, folk gather in the streets to see me pass. Some ask my blessing, and I raise a hand so milky clean I hardly know its mine to sign them with the cross. Some snatch at bits of straw as charms against the evil eye. A fat man tries to cut a snippet from my cloak. I catch him in the belly with my heel. Bells ring. Dogs bark. A child makes water in the street. Women lean from windows waving flags. A blind man in a bonnet, led by friends, begs me to touch his eyes that he may see. I place my thumbs on them. His lids go flitter-flutter, but I mark no greater change in him. He gropes to find his friends again. They catch him when he stumbles on a stone. Some bring me gifts. A pot of honey. A kerchief worked in silk. A basket with a guinea-fowl that struggles free and flaps off cackling through the air. They shove and stomp to touch my clothes. I close my eyes and pray. Dear Father, see how these thy children hunger here. They starve for want of what they cannot name. Their poor lost souls are famished. Their foolish hands reach out. Oh grant them richer fare than one old sack of bones whose wits begin to turn. Feed them with something more than Godric here, for Godrics no less starved for thee than they. Have mercy, Lord. Amen. Flanked by monks, the Bishop waits on the cathedral steps, his mitre white with snow. Reginald and Perkin help me up to him, and when I kneel to kiss his ring, it takes all three to hoist me back upon my feet. Hugh Pudseys barely old enough to sprout a beard, and yet a bishop and a mighty lord as well. Its I should kneel to you, he says. I say, Pray dont, my lord, or well spend Christmas bobbing up and down like turnips at the boil. The monks have brought a chair with poles to carry me. I havent been inside since Bishop Flambards time. The aisles are vaulted now. The nave is done. Thick Norman columns stout enough to hold the welkin up support the high, dim vaulting of the roof. The columns have been carved around with deep-cut lines like garlands, serpents, crooked vines, each different from the rest. Behind the altar theres a shrine to shelter Cuthberts bones they carted here, with many stoppings over many years along the way, from Lindisfarne. Even the flames of many candles cant light up this awesome dark, nor all the gathered throng of priests and monks and lords and common folk fill up this emptiness. The hooded monks chant psalms as we wend slowly down, but all their voices raised at once are but the rustle of the wind through trees, the call of owls, in this vast wood of stone. The towns the Conqueror razed when he came harrying the north, the crops he burned, the beasts he felled, the Saxon folk he slew, all haunt these Norman shadows. The silence is the sum of all their voices stilled. As long as these stones stand and this great roof keeps out the rain, Durhams cathedral will be dark with death. They set my chair down near the altar. Reginald rejoins his fellow monks and takes a choir stall. Perkin stands by me. He whispers in my ear, If you grow weary, tug my sleeve. Ill cart you to a tavern on my back, and there well raise a cup to Christ. I set my finger to my lips and scowl, but I am glad hes there. His face is all aglow with candelight. His eyes are young and Christmas-bright. The Christmas mass begins. Lux fulgebit hodie! they sing. The Lord is born to us! Wonderful shall be his name, and God, the Prince of Peace, the Father of the world to come! And even as their monkish voices dip and soar like doves, I see with my hearts eye the steaming dung of beasts, their cloudy breath, the cloddish shepherds at the door. I see the holy mother gazing down, and there among them, in the straw, the freshborn king. An easy thing it is to love a babe. A babe asks nothing, never chides. A babe is fair to see. A babe is hope for better things to come. All this and more. But babes grow into men at last. Thats where it turns a bitter brew. He hath no form or comeliness, Isaiah says. No beauty that we should desire him. A man of sorrows we despise. Christ minds us to be good, to feed his sheep, take up our cross and follow him with Hells hot fires if we fail. All this and more our Savior bids when he becomes a man, and to a man we say him nay. Thus when the Bishop tenders me with his own hands Christs flesh and blood, I slobber them with tears. Bear up, old man, says Perkin in my ear. But theres more here than can be borne. The gorgeous robes of priests. The altar all aflame. The clouds of incense rich and sharp. And in the midst old Godric, keeping Christmas, blubbers like a child. When mass is done, I ask to see Saint Cuthberts shrine. Fifty years ago when Ranulf Flambard brought him here, Hugh Pudsey says, they opened up the chest. It was a miracle. Instead of bones and dust inside, they found a body uncorrupt. The joints were flexible, the flesh so succulent it only wanted breath to live again without a soul. Though hed been dead five hundred years, his very funeral weeds were still so new it was as if death had not even dared to pluck him by the coat. The Bishop looks for me to marvel at this wondrous thing, but the miracle of flesh unspoiled by death looks small beside the miracle of that pure soul unspoiled by life who came to me with Glythwin in his arms on Farne. On the way home, I see another grave that moves me more. This grave is Burcwens. There is no stone to mark it, but a nun whod been her friend shows us the way. It lies within the convent wall. A holly tree grows near. I stand with Reginald and Perkin, one on each side, to prop me up. My fine clean clothes arent half as warm as rags. My oId bones rattle. There are snowflakes in the air. She lived and died a maiden chaste, says Reginald. And now through all eternity shell sing with other virgins at the throne of grace. Poor heart, I say, If thats the case, shes doomed to die a second death of weariness. She never cared for virgins worth a fig. Besides, she never held a tune. How did she come to die? asks Reginald so he can write it in his book. She died of that which slays us all, I say. They call it life. Be off! Leave me to speak with her a while. They both withdraw a pace or two and turn their backs. Outside the wall, I hear the harness of the mule. A grey squirrel flicks his tail at me, then flees. I say, Well, Burcwen, its been many years. Youd never know me now. Yet I have not forgotten you nor ever shall. How often I think back upon that night you came. The years have sieved the darkness and the shame so much away that most of what is left is light. Have you and William met in Paradise, and has he pardoned us? Have angels taught him to be still at last? Give him my love if hell take such a gift from me. And you I send a holy kiss. How old Ive grown! I sometimes think that Im already dead and only dream I live. If God is good, it wont be long. Oh pray for me that often prays for you. Know peace at last, my dear. Youll catch your death, says Perkin. Then they take and cart me home to where, as things turn out, my death comes close to catching me. It happens thus. Unseen by us, four Scottish brigands trail us through the wood. When we reach home and fall asleep, they fall on us and tie us fast with rope. Perkins mouth and Reginalds they stuff with straw against their crying out. We know that youve got treasure here, the leader says. If you wont show us where its hid, well beat you till you tell. The weariness and terror of my flesh have struck me dumb. I cant get out a word. I lie there like a heap of rags. They curse at me. They pound me with their fists. They kick me sore. At last I swoon. When I come to, its daylight. They have gone. My cup and bowl lie broken on the floor. Before they left, they pissed the fire out. Theyve slit my heifers throat for spite. Perkin soothes my wounds with flax. Reginald kneels by me and weeps. My speech comes haltingly. Did they but know, I say, the only treasure old men have lies buried deep in graves. Perkin says, Youre tough, old man. Youll live another hundred year for sure. I say, Though I deserve it, God would never be so cruel. So Christmas comes and Christmas goes, and the world the holy child is born to rests, as ever, full of dark so deep that all the Norman bishops in the land with all their candles arent enough to drive it back an inch.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 18:38:32 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015