Secret of the Seventh Son (17 page)

The men shook their heads in confusion. Paulinus said, "These are not normal letters but once again here is the date."

Josephus suddenly caught himself and realized they were to be late for mass, an inexcusable sin. "Hide the parchments and the ink and leave the boy in the corner. Come, Paulinus, let us make haste to the Sanctuary. We will pray to God to help us understand what we have seen and beg for him to cleanse us of evil."

That night, Josephus and Paulinus met in the chilly brewery and lit a fat candle for light. Josephus felt the need for an ale to calm his nerves and settle his stomach, and Paulinus was willing to humor his old friend. They drew a pair of stools close to one another, their knees almost knocking.

Josephus considered himself a simple man who understood only the love of God and the Rules of St. Benedict of Nursia that all ministers of God were obliged to follow. However, he knew Paulinus to be a sharp thinker and a learned scholar who had read many texts concerning the heavens and the earth. If anyone could explain what they had seen earlier, it was Paulinus.

Yet Paulinus was unwilling to offer an explanation. Instead he suggested a mission, and the two men schemed about how best to accomplish it. They agreed to keep their knowledge of the boy secret, for what good could possibly come in upsetting the community before Paulinus could divine the truth?

When Josephus had drained the last of his ale, Paulinus reached for the candle. Just before he blew it out he told Josephus something that had been on his mind.

"You know," he said, "there is nothing to say that in the case of twins, the seventh son to be born of a woman is, by necessity, the seventh son that God had conceived."

Ubertus rode through the countryside of Wessex on the mission that Prior Josephus had pressed on him. He felt an unlikely servant for the task but was beholden to Josephus and could not refuse him.

The heavy, sweating animal between his legs warmed his body against the crisp chill of the mid-December day. He was not a good rider. Stonecutters were used to slow speeds in an ox-drawn cart. He gripped the reins tightly, pressed his knees against the belly of the beast and held on as best he could. The horse was a healthy animal that the monastery kept stabled on the mainland, just for this kind of purpose. A ferryman had rowed Ubertus from the shingled beach of Vectis to the Wessex shore. Josephus had instructed him to make haste and return within two days, which meant the horse must be made to canter.

As the day wore on the sky turned slate gray, a hue akin to the rocky face of the coastal undercliffs. He rode at pace through a frosty countryside of fallow fields, low stone walls, and tiny villages, much like his own. Occasionally he passed dull-looking peasants, trudging on foot or riding lethargic mules. He was mindful of thieves but in truth his only possessions of value were the horse itself and the few small coins that Josephus had given him for the journey.

He arrived in Tisbury just before sundown. It was a prosperous town with several large timber houses and a multitude of neat cottages lining a broad street. On a central green, sheep huddled in the gloom. He rode past a small wooden church, a solitary structure on the edge of the green, which stood cold and dark. Beside it was a small burial ground with signs of a fresh grave. He quickly crossed himself. The air was filled with smoky hearth fires, and Ubertus was distracted from the burial mound by the delicious odors of charred meat and burning fat everywhere.

Today had been market day, and there were still carts and produce stalls in the square not yet removed because their owners remained in the tavern drinking and throwing dice. Ubertus dismounted at the tavern door. A boy took notice and offered to hold his reins. For one of his coins, the boy led the horse away for a bucket of oats and a trough of water.

Ubertus entered the warm crowded tavern and his senses were assaulted by a din of drunken voices and the smells of stale ale, sweating bodies, and piss. He stood before the blazing peat fire, revived his cramped hands and called out in his thick Italian accent for a jug of wine. Since it was a market town, the men of Tisbury were well-used to strangers, and they received him with cheerful curiosity. A group of men called him to their table and he fell into an animated conversation about where he hailed from and why he had come to town.

It took Ubertus under an hour to pour three jugs of wine down his throat and obtain the knowledge he had been sent to discover.

Sister Magdalena usually walked through the abbey grounds at a deliberate pace, not too slowly, as that would be wasteful of time, but not too speedily, as that would create the impression that something on this earth was more important than the contemplation of God.

Today she ran, clutching something in her hand.

A few days of warmer air had thinned the snow to a patchy shell, and the paths were well-trampled and no longer slippery.

In the Scriptorium, Josephus and Paulinus sat alone in silence. They had dismissed the copyists so they could meet privately with Ubertus, who had returned from his mission, cold and exhausted.

Ubertus was no longer there, having been sent back to his village with a grim thanks and a benediction.

His report was simple and sobering.

On the eighteenth day of December, three days earlier, a child was born in the town of Tisbury to Wuffa the tanner and his wife Eanfled.

The child's name was Sigbert.

While neither would openly admit it, they were not shocked by the news. They half expected to hear as much since it was scarcely possible that the fantastic circumstances of a mute boy born to a dead mother who could, without tuition, write names and dates, could grow more fantastic.

When Ubertus was gone, Paulinus had said to Josephus, "The boy was the seventh son, of this there can be no doubt. He has a profound power."

"Is it for good or evil?" Josephus asked shakily.

Paulinus looked at his friend, puckered his mouth but did not answer.

Without warning, Sister Magdalena burst in.

"Brother Otto told me you were here," she said, breathing heavily and slamming the door behind her.

Josephus and Paulinus exchanged conspiratorial glances. "Indeed we are, Sister," Josephus said. "Is there something troubling you?"

"This!" She thrust her hand forward. There was a rolled parchment in her fist. "One of the sisters found this in the children's dormitory under the pallet of Octavus's bed. He has stolen it from the Scriptorium, I have no doubt. Can you confirm it?"

Josephus unrolled the parchment and inspected it along with Paulinus.

Josephus looked up from the first page. It was written in Octavus's tight scrawl.

"That one is in Hebrew, I recognize the script," Paulinus whispered to him, pointing at one of the entries. "I do not know the origin of the one above it."

"Well?" the sister demanded. "Can you confirm the boy has stolen this?"

"Please sit, Sister." Josephus sighed.

"I do not wish to sit, Prior, I wish to know the truth and then I wish to severely punish this boy."

"I beg you to sit."

She reluctantly sat upon one of the copying benches.

"The parchment was certainly stolen," Josephus began.

"The wicked boy! But what is this text? It seems a strange listing."

"It contains names," Josephus said.

"In more than a single language," Paulinus added.

"What is its purpose and why is Oswyn included?" she asked suspiciously.

"Oswyn?" Josephus asked.

"The second page, the second page!" she said.

Josephus looked at the second sheet.

The blood drained from Josephus's face. "My God!"

Paulinus rose and turned away to hide his expression of alarm.

"Which of the brothers wrote this?" Magdalena demanded to know.

"None of them, Sister," Josephus said.

"Then who wrote it?"

"The boy, Octavus."

Josephus lost count of the number of times Sister Magdalena crossed herself as he and Paulinus told her what they knew of Octavus and his miraculous ability. Finally, when they were done and there was no more to be told, the three of them exchanged nervous looks.

"Surely this is the work of the Devil," Magdalena said, breaking the quiet.

Paulinus said, "There is an alternative explanation."

"And that is?" she asked.

"The work of the Lord." Paulinus chose his words carefully. "Surely, there can be no doubt that the Lord chooses when to bring a child into this world and when to reclaim a soul to his bosom. God knows all. He knows when a simple man calls out to him in prayer, he knows when a sparrow falls from the sky. This boy, who is unlike all others in the manner of his birth and his countenance, how do we know he is not a vessel of the Lord to record the comings and goings of God's children?"

"But he may be the seventh son of a seventh son!" Magdalena hissed.

"Yes, we know of the beliefs concerning such a being. But who has met such a man before? And who has met one born on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year 777? We cannot presume to know that his powers have an evil purpose."

"I, for one, cannot see an evil consequence of the boy's powers," Josephus said hopefully.

Magdalena's demeanor changed from fear to anger. "If what you say is true, we know that our dear abbot will die on this very day. I pray to the Lord that this is not so. How can you say that this is not evil?" She rose and snatched up the parchment pages. "I will not hold secrets from the abbot. He must hear of this, and he--and he alone--must decide on the boy's fate."

She was determined, and neither Paulinus or Josephus were inclined to dissuade Sister Magdalena from her actions.

The three of them approached Oswyn after None, the mid-afternoon prayer, and accompanied him to his chambers in the Chapter House. There, in the dimming light of a wintry afternoon, the embers of his fire glowing amber, they told him their tale as each tried to study his pinched face, which because of his deformity angled down toward his table.

He listened. He studied the parchments, pausing for a moment to reflect on his own name. He asked questions and considered the responses. Then he signaled that the caucus was over by striking his fist on the table once.

"I cannot see good coming of this," he said. "At worst, it is the hand of the Devil. At best, it is a severe distraction to the religious life of this community. We are here to serve God with all our heart and all our might. This boy will divert us from our mission. You must cast him out."

At that, Magdalena suppressed a show of satisfaction.

Josephus cleared his dry throat. "His father will not take him back. There is no place for him to go."

"That is not our concern," the abbot said. "Send him away."

"It is cold," Josephus implored. "He will not survive the night."

"The Lord will provide for him and decide his fate," the abbot said. "Now, leave me to contemplate my own."

It was left to Josephus to do the deed, and after sundown he dutifully led the boy by the hand to the front gate of the abbey. A kind young sister had put heavy socks on his feet and wrapped him in an extra shirt and a small cloak. A cutting wind off the sea was pushing the temperature to the freezing point.

Josephus unlatched the gate and swung it open. They were hit squarely by a strong cold gust. The prior gently nudged the boy forward. "You must leave us, Octavus. But do not fear, God will protect you."

The boy did not turn to look back but faced the dark void of night with his immutable blank stare. It broke the prior's heart to treat one of God's creatures harshly, so harshly that he was likely condemning the child to a freezing death. And not an ordinary child but one with an extraordinary gift that, if Paulinus was correct, came not from the depths of Hell but perhaps from the realm of Heaven. But Josephus was an obedient servant, his first allegiance to God, whose opinion on this matter was not apparent to him, and his next allegiance to his abbot, whose opinion was clear as a windowpane.

Josephus shuddered and closed the gate behind him.

The bell rang for Vespers. The congregation assembled in the Sanctuary. Sister Magdalena held her lute to her chest and basked in her victory over Josephus, whom she scorned for his softness.

Paulinus's mind swirled with theological ideas about Octavus--whether his powers were gift or curse.

Josephus's eyes stung with salty tears at the thought of the frail little boy alone in the cold and dark. He felt intense guilt at his own warmth and comfort. Yet Oswyn, he was sure, was correct on one notion: the boy was indeed a distraction from his duties of prayer and servitude.