Pagan's Scribe (6 page)
‘Because it’s ridiculous!’
‘Why?’
‘Lady Guilhelme –’ the Archdeacon begins. But she lifts a hand, and continues.
‘Why is it ridiculous, Isidore? Tell me.’
‘Because – because –’ (Oh, what’s the answer?) ‘Because in the gospel of Saint John it says “the world was made by Him”. And it’s talking about God, not the Devil.’ (So there.)
‘But what if it’s referring to our souls, which are God’s, and not to our bodies?’ she objects. ‘Remember what Jesus says later, in the same gospel? ‘The prince of this world cometh, and hath nothing in me.’ Satan is the prince of this world.’
‘So?’ (You stupid woman.) ‘That doesn’t mean that Satan is our God and creator. When the scriptures say “the king of the gentiles lords it over them”, does it mean that the king is their God and creator? Of course it doesn’t.’
‘But Christ said “my kingdom is not of this world”
’ Yes he did, didn’t he? But I know that he didn’t mean – I know that he really meant – um – oh –
‘Isidore,’ the Archdeacon says.
No! Wait, I’ve got it! ‘He didn’t mean that his kingdom wasn’t
over
this world. He meant that it wasn’t
from
this world. He meant that this world didn’t give him his power.’
‘Then,’ she replies, ‘why did he say to the crowd: “Ye are of your father the Devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do”?’
Why did he? I’ve got to think. But I can’t think . . . there’s something wrong . . . a strange smell . . .
Of burning.
‘Isidore?’ The Archdeacon’s voice. ‘Isidore? What is it?’
Oh no. No! The Devil!
Help
!
M
y face hurts.
It’s dark.
Where am I?
That’s a ceiling, up there, but it’s not Father Fulbert’s ceiling. It’s too high, and there are no hams. No hams, no pots, no garlic. No swallows’ nests, either. And what’s this underneath me? A pillow? Am I in bed?
Oh God. Of course.
My devil.
It came, and I must have hurt myself – I must have – I didn’t – O God, why hast thou cast me off for ever?
‘Isidore?’
That’s the Archdeacon’s voice. Where is he? It’s so dark, and this room seems so big . . . no, wait, there he is. Holding a lamp, his shadow looming behind him. He leans over the bed.
‘Isidore?’
He reaches out; touches my hand. His skin gleams in the lamplight, because he’s not wearing anything on his arms or his chest, although there’s a blanket draped over his shoulders.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he says.
Go away. Please. I don’t want to talk.
‘Was it because you wanted to leave Merioc? Is that why?’ He sits down: there must be a stool right there, beside my pillow. ‘You should have told me, Isidore. You could have fallen off your horse during one of these fits. You could have killed yourself.’
Killed myself? Who cares? The truth is, I should have died at birth. Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said: there is a man child conceived.
‘How often does it happen?’
The walls of this room are painted, but the paint is very old, and blackened by smoke. There are holes and scratches scored deep in the plaster.
‘Isidore? Look at me. How often does this happen?’
How often? Too often. Even in the dimness I can see he’s frowning, but he doesn’t seem annoyed.
‘Once a month?’ he says. ‘Once a week?’
I can only nod.
‘Once a week? You mean it happens once a week?’
‘Sometimes more.’ My voice cracks; it’s raw and ragged. I need a drink.
‘I’m thirsty . . .’
‘I’ll get you something.’
He disappears, and I can hear his footsteps fading with the light. But he’s back in an instant.
‘Here,’ he says. He has a fine glass goblet in his hand. ‘Can you hold it yourself?’
I’m not a cripple, Father. Of course I can hold it. The glass feels warm, because the wine has been mulled – and there are herbs in it, too, which leave a bitter taste. But at least it’s wet.
He’s peering at me with those big dark eyes.
‘Is this the reason you’re fasting?’ he says, very softly.
Well, of course it is. Can’t you tell? Didn’t you see? I’ve heard that I even foam at the mouth, like a mad dog. And that I twitch and growl and piss and kick and lose everything – everything – like a monster. A monster.
‘What did they tell you, Isidore? About these fits?’
‘They told me it was a devil.’
‘Taking possession of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you believe that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
Why?
Why?
Because of the smell, that’s why. Only the Bottomless Pit could smell so infernal.
‘It’s the smell.’ Gasping. ‘It always comes . . . just before . . .’
‘What smell?’
‘The smell of burning. Burning flesh. I – I –’ I can’t explain. I can’t bear it. Covering my face with one hand, because I don’t want him to see.
‘This is the reason, isn’t it? The reason why you were in that village. The reason why no one would send you to university.’ He sounds so calm. So sympathetic. ‘They were frightened of you, weren’t they?’
Frightened? I don’t know. Perhaps they were frightened. Perhaps they were simply disgusted. The other secondaries used to imitate me, when the Bishop wasn’t looking. It was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
‘You certainly frightened Dame Cavears,’ the Archdeacon continues. ‘She thinks you’re possessed. It took a lot of careful negotiating before she would allow us to sleep in this room tonight. You’ve made things rather difficult, I’m afraid.’ He takes the empty goblet from my hand. ‘Tell me about your devil, Isidore.’
My devil? Why? He’s holding the lamp on his knee, and it throws strange shadows across his face; there’s a long, jagged scar on his arm, and another across his shoulder. In fact there are scars all over him – on his forehead, on his chest, on his hand. They look very white against his dark skin.
‘Do you remember what happens?’ he enquires. ‘Do you remember anything else, besides the smell?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Have you ever tried to get rid of this thing?’
‘Of course.’
‘How?’
‘With fasting.’ (Let me think.) ‘With medicines . . .’
‘What medicines?’
‘Holy water. Hellebore. Mugwort and mandrake and wolf’s flesh –’
‘Exorcism?’
‘Oh yes. Three times. ‘Therefore accursed devil, hear thy doom and give honour to the Lord Jesus Christ that thou depart with thy works from this servant –’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well . . . they beat me.’ (I’ll never forget that. Never.) ‘They tied me down and beat me.’
The Archdeacon closes his eyes for a moment. He leans down to put my goblet on the floor, and wraps his blanket more tightly around his shoulders. The silence is profound: I can’t hear anything, not a single chirp or rustle. Everyone must be asleep.
I wonder how late it is.
‘There was a man I knew at university, in Montpellier,’ the Archdeacon says. ‘He suffered from the same kind of attacks as you do. He was a good man, and very learned: he’d read more books than anyone else of my acquaintance. What’s more, he used to say that his devil wasn’t a devil at all, but a kind of fever. He told me that he’d filled his head with so much information that his mind would grow hot, and boil over like a kettle.’ Pause. ‘I must say I’m inclined to agree with him.’
A fever? Truly? But what about the smell?
‘I’ve never believed in fasting for young people,’ the Archdeacon adds. ‘I think it’s like blood-letting: good when you’re strong, bad when you’re not so strong. In my opinion, Isidore, you should stop fasting. You should eat more, and sleep more, and get plenty of fresh air and exercise.’ He grins at me and screws up his nose. ‘I can just imagine what kind of life you’ve been leading, shut away with a smelly tallow lamp, hunched over a book, stuffing your head with Virgil and Cicero and Cassiodorus –’
‘There weren’t any books at Merioc.’
‘And how long were you at Merioc?’
‘Um . . .’ It seemed like a thousand years. ‘About three weeks.’
‘Well, that’s not very long, is it? No, it seems to me that you’ve got a fever, from reading too much. After all, when people have a fever, don’t they often lose their wits? Don’t they often forget where they are, and thrash about, and lose their power to communicate? Hmm?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Good.’ He rises. ‘Then you should keep cool, and drink lots of water, and eats lots of balm and lettuce – cold, moist foods – and make sure that you get enough sleep. In fact I’ll leave you to sleep right now, because you’ve got a big day tomorrow. A big day and a long journey.’
‘Back to Merioc?’
There. I’ve said it. He catches his breath and looks away, and I know – I know what he’s thinking – I know what it means, that expression, that uneasy silence. Oh, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, why does this always happen? Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?
‘I can’t risk having you fall, Isidore.’ He sounds helpless. ‘You must see that. You might hurt yourself badly, falling from a horse. You might kill yourself.’
So what? I don’t care. My soul is weary of life. I eat ashes like bread, and mingle my drink with weeping. What is my strength, that I should hope? What is my end, that I should prolong my existence?
‘Isidore . . .’ He’s squinting at me through thick black eyelashes. ‘Try to understand, will you? I travel around a lot. I’m always visiting towns. Abbeys. Villages. That’s what I do. I take care of the Bishop’s business throughout his diocese. How can I take you along, when you’re not even . . . when you can’t . . . oh God.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. He turns away, and turns back again. He spreads his hands. ‘If only you could warn me before it happened –’
‘But I can!’ (I’m not going back to Merioc. Not now.) ‘There’s the smell of burning. I just told you.’
He sits down. ‘You mean –’
‘When I smell the fire, I’ll warn you, and then you can help me.’
‘But what if I’m not there?’
‘You won’t be at Merioc, either.’ Oh, please. Please, Father, don’t send me back. Nothing could be worse than Merioc, nothing could, not even you and your vulgar, impious, irritating jokes.
‘Are you sure?’ He sounds very stern. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Shame on you, Isidore – your molten image is falsehood. Forgive me for lying, O Lord, but I’m desperate, you know I am. The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity; but a wounded spirit who can bear?
‘Very well,’ the Archdeacon sighs. ‘I’ll give you another chance. I’ll let you stay with me.’
Praise ye the Lord! Praise ye the name of the Lord! Praise him, O ye servants of –
‘But I’m warning you, Isidore, this is the one and only time.’ He wags his finger. ‘If you fall off your horse, then it’s back to Merioc. Understand?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And kindly see if you can produce the occasional smile, will you? It’ll make things so much more pleasant.’ He stands up, hitching his blanket back onto his shoulders. ‘I’m going to bed now, so I’ll leave the lamp right here. If you want anything . . .’ He pauses; cocks his head; eyes my face. ‘If you want anything, you can get it yourself,’ he concludes, and disappears into the shadows.
I waited patiently for the Lord, and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock.
Blessed is the man that maketh the Lord his trust.
T
he pain! Lord Jesus, the pain! Every joint is groaning. Every muscle throbs.
‘Is it bad?’ the Archdeacon enquires. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll get better. The second day is always the worst.’
Yes, yes, I know. The second day is always the worst. Good fortune deceives, but bad fortune enlightens. The greatest joy is ushered in by the greatest pain.
I’ve heard them all, and they don’t help me one little bit.
‘Anyway, it’s not very far,’ the Archdeacon continues. ‘Look, see that? That’s Prouille, over there. That’s our destination.’ He points across the hazy expanse of fields and forest, towards the silhouette of distant mountains. There are five roads, converging on the very hill beneath us, and the sparkle of a river in the distance. ‘See that hummock, near the river? See that little speck on top of it? Well, that speck is a windmill. And the windmill belongs to Prouille. We’ll be there before noon.’