#47.13, Tues., Aug. 29, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         I just returned from Luxeuil with the good news that I had spoken with our son. He is now Brother Gabriel, keeper of the birds. His duty there not only fits his gift of caring for the creatures of earth, it also sets him in a place where information comes and goes.  I brought one of the Luxeuil birds today so Ana can send him her own little words of encouragement and he will surely see the message first.

         Today a child came running up from the hunter’s village to get Ana to help an ailing grandmother. And now she goes off with the donkey Jack to the village, before we have a chance to send the bird back to Gabe.

         She hurried off without taking Hannah either, who is a bit miffed that her mother doesn’t need her to assist with a medical case. She assumes she was left here for the night because Ana doesn’t trust me doing all the chores and caring for the younger children as well. So, this eight-year-old orders me to fetch the water and bring in more wood while she milks the goats and readies the evening supper for Layla and the boys.  I do understand little Hannah feels burdened with the responsibility, particularly when she has no imagination for my place as the parent while Ana is away.  It’s been a while since I’ve been very useful around here.

         I set some of the gruel Hannah has prepared in a clay bowl by the fire for it to warm.

         “Hannah, I will feed Layla this evening. I so rarely have the chance to do that.”

         “But Papa, you don’t know how.”

         “Don’t you remember when you were a little baby and you sat on my knee for your own bowl of gruel?”

         “No, Papa.  When you feed a baby she sits on the chair with the pillows.  You have to be so careful that she doesn’t fall.”

         “Well, Hannah, I think I have a good plan here.  Come over here, and you check to see if it is safe.  Sit here on my knee and you can see for yourself if it is good enough for little Layla.”

         Hannah giggles. “That would be silly Papa.  I’m already an eight-year-old.” But she tries it anyway, and she finds that mine would be safe arms for the baby, so with Hannah’s permission, Layla sits on my knee and I spoon the gruel for her.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.12, Thurs., Aug. 24, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Luxeuil

         Jack, the donkey, seems to know the way to Luxeuil because we go this way so often. And maybe he remembers he belongs to Sister Colleen.

         This time I’m going alone to deliver the portion due the monastery this month as the tithe we give for the use of our farm.  Sister Colleen comes to greet Jack in the stable, and I have a hope that Gabe will know I am here so that I can mention his momma is keeping his letter of sympathy in her place for precious things. He must know the words of it were empty, so answering it with a written note would not be as helpful as just telling him his mother is keeping it precious.

         Sister Colleen sees I have bird to deliver to the dovecote and she tells me not to let the monk who is helping me unload the cart take the bird, I should take it there myself. She insists. And so I do.

         Oh, this is why she told me to come to the dovecote!  Here is Gabe.

         “Brother Gabe, I see you’ve been assigned a task.”

         “Oh, Papa, I’m so glad you came. I wanted to go home and be with you and Momma and everyone when Greg told me about Simon. I tried not to let them see my tears. I’m supposed to be a brother in God’s family here, and …”

         No one is watching us just now, which is a little grant of grace by his teacher. These tears and hugs we share would not keep the rule.

         “Papa, you see, I was assigned a regular task here, already. Tell Momma I am in charge of the dovecote.  It is because we have these birds at home, and I already know their needs and I can distinguish one from another so I know right away when one of ours has returned with a message. And here I am, while the other young brothers are practicing the scribing of letters.

         “The old fellow who was here before me never noticed when a message had been received. He seemed to pay no attention to the birds coming and going.  That was how they missed knowing what happened to you in Chalóns. They knew nothing of that until Baro Dithrum was visiting down here on another mission.”

(Continues Tuesday, August 29)

#47.11, Weds., Aug. 23, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         So here are Greg and his student, friend and lover, Gaillard, spinning wild imaginings into dreams of faraway lands.  They imagine riding camels across a vast emptiness — empty, not because it is a desert, but because it is unknown to them. They ride on fantastical beasts into a tabula rasa. Isn’t that what we all do until the mystery is revealed to be, simply, other things of earth?

         This morning they are preparing to ride back to Metz following the rivers north then west, rather than go back the way they came, passed Luxeuil, so there is no reason to send a message with them for Gabe.  But Greg does take one of our birds in a traveling box. He says they have a dovecote at his home in Metz and it will be safe. So he can keep us informed if there is a need. And they also take Greg’s old wax board for lessons in letters.      

         “Shall I mark on it the Greek alphabet?” I offer.

         “No, Papa, I think someone will have that for us when we need it.”

         Ana touches my arm. I know she reminds me to let them go on their own way and so we do.

         Now they are riding over the hills, on, to follow the farthest border of the lands that once had kings but now are ruled by the aristocracy with many names.  New times start new chapters in our histories and we tend to think it is only our own times that know change as the weave of the old with the new. Yet we are always, never really in a place with a time of its own. We are forever in webs of change.

         I’m pretty sure the Lords of Metz who are taking down the forests for castles and fields would like to put our farm under their liege. But we still owe the portion of our harvest to the monasteries of Father Columbanus.  Our land is still part of the grant from the Burgundian king to the church.  We’ve had a good harvest this year, so we – Ana and Hannah and I are packing the portions of the winter stocks to carry to the monks. To me, this seems a very good arrangement even though they already receive much more than a landowner’s share from the peasants. Others bring offerings. They use the abundance to feed the poor as well as supply their own needs.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.10, Tues., Aug. 22, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         I’ve learned from Greg how the Bishop of Metz has, in a way, honored my request that my son be allowed to choose pacifism. Though Greg would be a soldier, his mission could be the Jesus peace.  I would’ve said the “Christian” peace, since Jesus is known only as the humanity, my friend, while the all-encompassing Trinity personage, I would call Christ, seems to have been forged into a new metal by the warring culture that we are. The plowshares are hammered into the swords as armies are named “Christian.”

         Ana suggests the boys just stay with us here, because “your Papa can teach you the Greek language of the Christians in the east. He knew the spoken languages of the Persians living in the regions where Jews and Christians fled after the Temple in Jerusalem was raided and smoldered by the Roman soldiers.”

         Greg objects, “No Momma, Gaillard doesn’t know about Papa.”

         Gaillard stares at me with a curiosity tinged in awe.

         I can explain myself. “I used to know an old Roman soldier, we often talked of the history of faraway places.”        

         Ana gets the hint to speak no more of my strange circumstance. “Oh, yes” She agrees, “Old Nic was a soldier before he joined the brothers at Legugè.”

         “I do remember things of languages in far places.  And the monasteries keep links between the Greek and the Roman vernacular so that the churches in the east and the churches in the west can keep the same doctrine. [Footnote] Surely your uncle who is the teacher at Luxeuil, or maybe the Bishop of Metz would also know of this. Your uncle may even have the scribe’s copies of these language guides the church officials use to bind the east to the west. I have some knowledge, but wouldn’t it be better to learn, first, what is already known and used by the churches?”

         “But Papa, what use would it be for us to learn the varieties of languages if we have no one to speak them with.  I think we need to actually go to the places in the east. We will use the fast horses from the stables of the Waldalenus. The dux says he will send us when Gaillard is fully literate in our own vernacular.”

         Gaillard adds,  “…and when Greg reaches his full stature because we may need to ride on camels and they say camels are quite large.”

[Footnote] Herrin, Judith, Byzantium: The surprising life of a medieval empire. (2007) Penguin, Random House UK. pp 22-23.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.9, Thurs., Aug. 17, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Greg and Gaillard are in from the stable.  The morning chores are light these days, and we have time to talk with these boys who are in the midst of the amazing dreams of youth facing a star-field of possibilities for their years to come.

         “So, Gaillard,” I ask, “when you are fully a capable writer, what is it you hope to write?”

         “I will write all the answers to the questions we haven’t yet learned to ask.” His grin belies a glint of wisdom.

         Going deep, Hannah fears, and she takes Layla by the hand and they follow the wanderings of little Haberd and Brandell out exploring the gardens in case there are new blooms today.

         Greg tells us flat out, “When I am as skilled with the sword as Lord Gaillard, and he is as literate as I, a commoner, then his uncles have a special assignment for us.

         Gaillard explains, “We are supposed to travel east, not as soldiers but as students, to learn the languages of Christians there, and of the Persians too. My uncles of the house of Waldalenus suppose the empires of the east are gathering armies to come across these mountains for war with the Franks.”

         “What makes your uncles so fearful?”

         Gaillard answers, “Not fearful, but ready. The days of our legendary kings are behind us now, my uncle, the Mayor tells us.

         “The nobility of Metz ride with more glory than the king of Burgundy, and who is there even known to rule Austrasia?”

         They say every nobleman will need to host his own army in these times. And maybe we will learn that this place where we are on the eastern border of the Frankish lands leaves us most vulnerable to a new horde of warriors planning to sweep across the Vosges.  We are at the first land to fall if war comes from the East. So my uncles are sending us out to be the vanguard for this preparation, not as soldiers, but as students of the enemy.”

         “So, Papa, you see how the nobility of Metz has honored your wish that I not become a soldier?  Here I will be a spy for our soldiers in the foreign lands. Isn’t that wonderful news, Papa? Momma? Wouldn’t you rather have a spy with a sword, than a soldier, or some defenseless Christian messenger?”

         “Was there no option to be a messenger of peace?”

         “No, Papa, that wasn’t offered.”

(Continues Tuesday, August 22)

#47.8, Weds., Aug. 16, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         In the dark of morning I waken and I see Ana there sitting by the fireside reading the letter on fine vellum from Gabe.  It’s a short letter — she must be pondering.

         “Did Gabe tell you how he’s doing?”

         “He didn’t have to. The inks are smudged with his tears. He’s learning all the proper words and scripture references a churchman uses to speak of grief,” Ana answers. “It looks a bit like his teacher was telling him what to write.”

         “Well, he is a child in the care of an adult who hasn’t known him from birth. So how else might it be done?  Clearly his teacher didn’t ignore his grief altogether or even disavow his tears. And they allowed him the very best vellum for this.”

         “But Laz, he just doesn’t sound like himself. He sounds like a stuffy old priest preaching doctrine.”

         She hands me the precious scroll and I have to agree.  This sounds like one of those pronouncements spoken at the funeral of a stranger.  We’re not even sure if this soul discussed here is being committed to heaven or elsewhere.  But really, committing a soul isn’t the work of an older brother. It is one of those things I would only entrust to God. But Ana is hurt by all this incantation of holy committal.

         I try to resolve it for her. “These kinds of words are offered by earthly priests to fill the emptiness of earthbound longings. And isn’t it the task of the priest to bridge the divide between earth and heaven?”

         “Gabe is our child, Laz. I wanted to keep this letter as a precious remembrance now that he is off with the monks. I wanted something of him to read and read again.”

         “The cow bellowed long and loud when her calf was taken from her for this swath of vellum. We shouldn’t waste it. Let’s take up our own inks and make the verso of this scroll with prayers of gratitude for these beautiful children we once thought belonged only to us.”

         “I can’t do that Laz.”

         “Not today. But keep it in the place for precious things and sometime, when the time is right, we can add our words. The pain of grief is the empty side of the love we’ve known every day. Thank you, God for family love.”

          “Greg and his friend will be at this hearth soon.  I need to be ready.” Ana offers no Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.7, Tues., Aug. 15, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         This night our little children are asleep in the loft above us, and Greg and his guest, Gaillard, are sleeping in the hayloft above the stable.

         Ana whispers her retort to my silent worry. “You have the worst thoughts of that fellow, Gaillard, I just know you don’t like him.”

         “I’ll just keep that to myself, Ana. Greg is infatuated with him. I don’t want to argue and then send them off without my blessing.”

         “What worries you Laz?  Is it that church rule for the chastity of monks?”

         “Ana, you know well I follow God, not the utilitarian edicts of religion.”

         “Okay, Laz, you pray silently about it, and don’t mind me talking on about what a nice young man he is.  He is a little bit of a tender flower though. I mean, when you were still off doing the chores and Greg was telling his tall tales to Haberd and Brandell, Gaillard came and offered to help Hannah and me at the hearth. So I sent Hannah and the young man out to fetch a chicken. He has a sword. I thought he would make quick work of it. But Hannah came in and said he has the whole coop all riled, and none can be caught and he has no idea to use his sword for that.  So I went out and got an old fat hen, and then took it around to the other-side of the shed to whack it and pluck it.  He followed me, so he could apologize. He said he never killed anything before. That was odd, so I asked, ‘do you not eat meat?’ And he said he loves to eat meat. He just never saw it dead before. Then I realized he has a lot to learn about the real life of a commoner. And like a woeful kitten he purred on and on about the strength and beauty of his young teacher, Greg.  I realize you are thinking Gaillard’s an old Roman soldier raping your child, but really, he and Greg are simply in love.”

         She stopped her whispering now. I have a moment to think about this.

         Dear God, give me wisdom.

         Ana intrudes on my silence, “So if it is what it is, Greg won’t give us grandchildren, but then Gaillard’s family probably considers theirs the greater loss because titles can’t be kept without grandchildren.”

         It seems everyone makes rules about this except Moses and Jesus.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.6, Thurs., Aug. 10, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

          “Papa, Momma,” Greg presses Ana against his iron breast. “I heard about Simon.”

         His sobs are contagious. Even this young stranger Greg has brought, steps away to obscure his own tears.

         “It’s a terrible loss.” I say, “It was good you came. We need you with us in this time, and you and Gabe meant so much to Simon.”

         Greg tells us they stopped off on their way here at Luxeuil and they told Gabe what had happened. He couldn’t be excused for this, but he was allowed to send a letter. Greg hands Ana Gabe’s small vellem scroll. She just takes it close to her, not even untying it just now.

         Greg says, “This fellow with me is Gaillard.”

         Greetings are passed around.

         Greg mentions, “Gaillard’s uncle, Eustasius,[Footnote] is Gabe’s teacher at Luxeuil.”

         Gaillard adds, “And Greg has been assigned to be my teacher in reading and in the inks. He’s a very good teacher because he never even beats me with a stick.”

         Laughter is obnoxious and exaggerated by grief, but we all laughed together at this image of a willowy young soldier being driven to his studies by this child here in oversized armor. Greg is not even thirteen-years-old, yet he’s already a teacher.

         I walk with them to the stable with the horses as Ana prepares the table for our guests.

         “So,” I ask, “how is it Greg, you go off to get your training with the sword, and immediately you are a teacher of letters?”

         “Papa, I know you are hoping to hear my soldier training was failing and I will always just be an ambassador for peace. It’s true the bishop remembered your request to make me a pacifist too, but really, I’m still learning the weapons of war.”

         Gaillard adds, “Greg was already an excellent archer and horsemen, so the only things new for him were the swords and the spears. He only needs to practice those things part of the time with the others, and that allows us these times together for learning. So, with Greg’s help I can advance my reading, and practice with the inks.”

         I look at this young teen, elder to my son, with his slight fuzz of a beard. This explanation only leaves me more wonder about this arrangement. Why is a young aristocrat speaking of “times together” with a commoner’s child?  As Greg’s father I fear my son may be the victim of abusive power and not in a relationship of partnered “learning.”

[Footnote] Exploring the line between history and fiction, the fictional character Gaillard is woven into the nobility through the historically prominent House of Waldelenus

(Continues Tuesday, August 15)

#47.5, Weds., Aug. 9, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Charlie takes me aside to talk. He said he saw Greg riding with the landowner’s guards.

         He explained, “The fellow who will be the lord of the castle when it is made was reading edicts to all of us who were gathered in from the woodlands. We were standing in a crowd. I couldn’t just talk to Greg. So I made my way through the back of the crowd to a place near his horse. I pretended not to be speaking to him, looking away and saying it to the ground. I just said, ‘Simon drowned in the creek.’ Then I moved back to the place with my family.

         “I looked at Greg. He was wearing one of those iron heads of a soldier.  He bowed his head and pulled down the iron mask to hide his tears. But he was shaking with sobs.”

         Before the sun set last night, the hunters left. We were so few then, just six of us, Ana and I, and our four small children on a full farm with animals and fields and gardens, when the village of our neighbors are seeing their forests cut and parceled into small patches for planting. Those, who are hunters are “endowed” the dux says, with the opportunity to make our noble lands into gardens and grain patches.

         Our own pain in grief is spread wide and thin with empathy, hurting for their loss of all they’ve ever known of a way of life, without even a war to take it from them. We’ve known for a long time that the varieties of critters for the hunt is dwindling as the forests have thinned with so many generations of people taking from the abundance. And these hunters knew they would be planting fields soon. But now the ones calling themselves landowners, lords, have come to cut the trees and build the castle.

         It’s only a few days now and Greg and another young fellow arrive on horseback.  I knew one day we would see this — our oldest son dressed in smelted iron as a soldier. I thought he would have a few years yet as a child in training. But here he is, riding with the guard of aristocracy.  This other youth he is with here, is long fingered, a pale and delicate son of wealth.

         Greg dismounts from his horse and is standing in the place where only flowers may grow when Ana and I go to greet them.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.5, Weds., Aug. 9, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Charlie takes me aside to talk. He said he saw Greg riding with the landowner’s guards.

         He explained, “The fellow who will be the lord of the castle when it is made was reading edicts to all of us who were gathered in from the woodlands. We were standing in a crowd. I couldn’t just talk to Greg. So I made my way through the back of the crowd to a place near his horse. I pretended not to be speaking to him, looking away and saying it to the ground. I just said, ‘Simon drowned in the creek.’ Then I moved back to the place with my family.

         “I looked at Greg. He was wearing one of those iron heads of a soldier.  He bowed his head and pulled down the iron mask to hide his tears. But he was shaking with sobs.”

         Before the sun set last night, the hunters left. We were so few then, just six of us, Ana and I, and our four small children on a full farm with animals and fields and gardens, when the village of our neighbors are seeing their forests cut and parceled into small patches for planting. Those, who are hunters are “endowed” the dux says, with the opportunity to make our noble lands into gardens and grain patches.

         Our own pain in grief is spread wide and thin with empathy, hurting for their loss of all they’ve ever known of a way of life, without even a war to take it from them. We’ve known for a long time that the varieties of critters for the hunt is dwindling as the forests have thinned with so many generations of people taking from the abundance. And these hunters knew they would be planting fields soon. But now the ones calling themselves landowners, lords, have come to cut the trees and build the castle.

         It’s only a few days now and Greg and another young fellow arrive on horseback.  I knew one day we would see this — our oldest son dressed in smelted iron as a soldier. I thought he would have a few years yet as a child in training. But here he is, riding with the guard of aristocracy.  This other youth he is with here, is long fingered, a pale and delicate son of wealth.

         Greg dismounts from his horse and is standing in the place where only flowers may grow when Ana and I go to greet them.

(Continues tomorrow)