#38.10, Tues., Nov. 22, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. the road home

         Months ago, Ana and I had journeyed so long on horseback following a different route to deliver messages to the Bishops of Austrasia. Now we have a more direct path and it seems we are already starting the climb into distant mountains.

         The infant in Ana’s womb is demanding smoother roads and more stops for rest. Ana chooses to walk much of the time, though I keep suggesting she might prefer to ride in the covered cart lying on  the warm fleeces. It seems she doesn’t find that comfortable. Colleen tells me I shouldn’t try to tell her how to be comfortable because I don’t know. We set this slow pace for everyone with a cow and a pregnant woman leading. Dear God, stay close.

         Despite our slow pace, the mountains that fringe the horizon now impose a larger shadow each morning we travel east, and now the path is steeper and the creek beds cut deeper. When we ask directions to Annegray the peasants here have heard of it and it seems everyone we ask points the same direction.

         It’s steadily snowing as we reach the ancient guard tower and these fallen walls of Annegray. We are in time to join in vespers. Ana’s woolen monk’s robe won’t reach around her belly anymore. So we are keeping no secret here, where some months ago the Father struggled to bless our union as a marriage because we likely would have no children.

         I’m assigned a guest room with the barbarians rather than the covered guest room where Ana and Colleen may stay. I’m glad Ana has Colleen with her now.

         By the dark hour of matins its just the four monks and I from our party who join with these brothers for the chanting of the Psalms. Even before sunrise, the monks with us delivered the gifts from King Guntrum to Father Columbanus.

         “So the king would have us take this whole community we have started here into another old place?” The father noted.

         “It’s thought to be a Roman remnant in better condition and more appropriate for a community.” Answered the monk speaking for King Guntram.

         “I know it well.  I’ve been there for my own prayers. And while I’ve prayed for guidance expecting God to send me into a deeper wilderness, now it is the opposite of that. How will we ever find our solace there?”

         “We assure him we’ve brought tools.”

 (Continues tomorrow)

#38.9, Thurs., Nov. 17, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

The well is restored and now I’ve gotten myself out. The four barbarians are here with the people from the cottages and they are passing a flask of ale and celebrating the success of the well water I’m doused in. And here I am, shivering, unnoticed, uncelebrated. Dear God, have you also forgotten me here?  At least Ana would think me the hero of this. But the women and the monks aren’t here. I ask.

         The would-be psalm-burning barbarian answers with the slur of ale. “They’ve all gone to the fields to gather straw and glean the last of the grain.”

         I look beyond my little woes and see the donkey and the cart and some figures moving in the field far away. Right now I don’t know which I want most, Ana’s compassion or my warm fleece from that cart.

         Some of these people from the cottages come with more ale and a whole bale of fleeces they’ve bundled for trade, along with a deerskin, all for our payment for the restoration of the well. With only a few swallows of ale I am flat out on the heap of fleeces, waking to Ana telling me we also have sacks of grain, bundles of hay and straw enough to fill the wagon bed, covering over the tools and the ropes and the bell. We still have the Psalms and the velum sheets and inks.  The villagers have water. The barbarians have fleeces, the monks and the cow and the donkey and the mules and the women all have food and warmth… And I am on earth above, once again. Dear God, thank you. Amen.

         We stay another night as guests in the straw above our beasts. And now, today we set out again on our trek. The November sky, flat, veil of clay is above and a hardened colorless earth spreads out below leaving hardly a walking space between the layers of cold. But now we have supplies, and also, a true expectation that it is a journey.  Those who thought it would be an easy day’s walk don’t believe that anymore, and now all of us are prepared. It was a misunderstanding.

         But Ana and I who came from Annegray on horseback expect we will not see our cottage again at this pace until the Christ Mass or even the Solstice. May that also be a misunderstanding.

(Continues Tuesday, November 22)

#38.8, Weds., Nov. 16, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         Now, deep in the well, I can see the dot of sky above me and I am assured there is an earth above. Even the sky continues to be. It isn’t as cold here as I’d anticipated.  Though I find my looped and knotted rope wasn’t long enough to reach all the way down so I have a few feet of a drop at the end and I know I will be depending on others to draw me back up.

         And so, I begin the work of dumping out the new rocks in the pail, digging the mud out and filling the pail back again with mud for the hoist up. I give the pail rope a tug and it’s drawn up and emptied, then it comes down again filled with more rocks for me to lay to support the wall where the earthen clay is washed out.

         Beneath my feet is slushy now. I wedge the rocks back in place that had washed out near the dry clay at the bottom. I see now how the washout stifled the water source by filling in the depth, blocking the flow with mucky clay. The water is still here beneath this mud.

         This routine goes on and on. I’ve lost sense of time. Mostly I notice it’s harder to breath and every rock seems heavier than the last.  Now water is seeping in faster beneath my feet, pouring between the cracks in the lowest part of the wall I’ve laid. And, in fact, water is coming in all around. I tip the pail to fill it with water now, and tug the rope. It is drawn up filled. Still they send it back filled with rocks. I find I am a good distance down from my safety rope. So I climb out of the water onto the pail, and tug the rope to be drawn up. I shout for help and someone looks over the edge above. I signal I’m ready to be drawn up as though I’m simply a bucket of clay, which probably I am. I don’t trust the four I call barbarians to pull me up. My distrust is frothing to rage surging as strength. Is this pail rope well anchored now? I don’t know. I find that standing on the pail I can reach the end of my safety line, so I can climb out myself.

(Continues tomorrow)

#38.7, Tues., Nov. 15, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         In the dawn tranquility and the stagger of morning sleepiness, we make our way to the center of the cottages where there is this community well. Without words, we who will work today are unloading the wagon of ropes and pulleys and we’ve set a tri-pod of logs for a huge pulley. Now the plan is not just some sketch of a what-if, but it’s a true intention.

         I’ve been chosen for the drop into darkness. Maybe because my name is unknown to them, I seem the most expendable person, the one whose loss could cause less grief because I’m unknown.  Only my wife would care, and they don’t know her either. And just now I needn’t worry her with my own little terrors of the dark pit.

           I drop a climbing rope into the well with all its knots and loops that I’ve secured above ground and tied it firmly to a long-standing tree.

         “We don’t need two ropes down there,” says the fellow who would burn the Psalms and trade the bell. “Just ride the pail rope down to test it for weight.”

         “I’d rather let a load of rock fail that test,” I answer back.

         “It won’t fail. Are you afraid we don’t know what we’re doing?”

         “Possibly.”

         We can’t even see to the bottom of this hole. We’re told it’s dry. We drop a flaming torch down. The torch lays on the dry bottom until the flame dwindles in the thinness. We saw how the rocks laid to support the sides at the bottom have fallen into a wash of mud, but the walls above the washout seem in place so maybe the rock wall is holding these depths by shear strength of circle.

         Dear God, stay close – you know how I fear a deep dark hole. Amen. Maybe I’m uniquely phobic because I’ve actually climbed back into life from death a few times, or maybe dark depths are dreaded by anyone.  I don’t know how to compare my own fears to those of another.  But I do dread. I take the rope in hand, as I step over the side of the well, locking the climbing rope between my feet in order to let myself down as slowly as I possibly can. I watch the pail of rock on the central rope pass me by. Why don’t they wait at least until I have my footing?        

(Continues tomorrow)

#38.6, Thurs., Nov. 10, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         It’s dusk and we’ve stopped at a cottage in a cluster amid these fields and vineyards. These people are hospitable to our cow, donkey and mules, but they haven’t much concern for the eleven of us humankinds. They won’t hear a word of our plan to trade food for tools because they fear for their own winter stores so early in the season.  All they really want are some small sturdy pails for hauling water the distance from the creek because their common well has gone dry. And what is worse the creek will soon freeze over.

         “The well never froze,” they complain.

         Now the snarliest of our four barbarians steps forward. He’s the guy who wants to burn the Psalms, and dump the bell so we can trade the mules.

         “I have a plan!” he announces.

         I listen with trepidation.

         “These farmers have that huge well-pail they can’t carry back from creek. We will drop that into the dry well with a man in it who will dig out their well. Here is this fellow who walks the cow and travels with women.” Yes, that would be me. “He will go down and dig, then with our ropes and pulleys and our sweat we will heft up the bucket to remove the clogging earth and send it down over and over again with rocks to line the wall — until the well is deep enough and flows with water, then we will take our pay for the day’s work in food and fleeces. You’ll have water, we’ll have supplies; everyone is happy, right?

         “First thing in the morning.”

         The plan is made.  We all sleep this night in the haymows over the stables, sheltered and warm.  But I can’t sleep tonight thinking of that terrible task. Why me? But also I should ask, why not me? Someone has to do it.

         Dear God, you gave me this strange way of life and life again.  I know you gave it to me as an earthly sign of spiritual life. But before there is ever-new life there is always a cold darkness –a cave, a dark burial, a time under the earth. So let this plunge into darkness be a blessing for this whole thirsty village. Dear God, stay close, you know I’m afraid. Amen.

         This morning the peasants in the cottages have provided hot porridge for us as we prepare for sinking a deeper well.

(Continues Tuesday, November 15)

#38.5, Weds., Nov. 9, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         Stuck in the mud as we are, we unhitch the team and lead the mules back to solid ground by the creek. The wagon is unloaded so we can lift it out of the mud. Here are chains and pulleys lots of heavy rope, a sledge hammer and chisels, and buried under everything else, what is this? Maybe it’s a huge iron cooking pot. No. It’s a church bell!  It’s a bell like the one mounted in the tower of the new church in Châlons.  It’s a fine and valuable gift from the King to Father Columbanus. With five strong men, and four monks of questionable durability we lift the wagon from the mud and set it back on firmer ground at the creek road, then haul all that stuff back to the wagon.

         Selling off the stuff seems a wonderful plan for our hungry stomachs right now. But have we abandoned our mission to deliver a proper, well-intentioned gift from the king? Lifting the bell out of the wagon, and then back into the wagon is one of those projects that surely gives holy purpose to brute strength. And by now, the November sun is pretending to warm this noontide though it is actually veiled in winter sky and we are all simply cold and hungry and tired and annoyed. 

         The barley and straw we’ve brought in the donkey cart could see us all through another supper and another night camping, but then that will all be gone too, so we really need to trade for supplies. Now I’m the one who won’t hear of selling the church bell and that means we can’t trade away the mules who can pull it, so all we have to trade are the tools.

         We follow the donkey cart along the creek bed until we come to a fording dip.  Ana and Colleen don’t even ask, they just turn onto a rocky path of a road and we who are walking and those with the hand-cart and the workers with the mule wagon simply follow after without a word.

         Now we find people! They live in a small cluster of cottages. We soon learn they are concerned only for their own need to keep their stash of winter food and fuel and they have no use for tools in this season.  They also have one gargantuan problem right now and trading away their own winter stores isn’t going to solve it.

(Continues tomorrow)

#38.4, Tues., Nov. 8, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         I know of three ways to plunge ill-prepared into a journey on the wilderness edge of winter: brut ignorance and suffering strength; clever schemes using sparse resources; or we could simply trust the grace of God. Based on my long years of forever I suggest we first rely on the grace of God. God will undoubtedly assign us to care for one another and that will utilize all of our other resources. So we begin.

         The four monks offer ceaseless prayers with calls quoting Psalms and responses that seem to come as grunts and snores from the barbarian hoard with the mules.

          I suggest we place that book of Psalms in the donkey cart. Then the waxed cloth over the monks’ hand-cart can be spread on the ground under the wagon so these men can all crowd together finding warmth for sleeping. We hang the buckskin down the windward edge of the wagon for extra shelter underneath. No one argues. There seems no better option.

         Does useful suggestion make me the leader? Maybe.

         I proclaim, “Tomorrow we will leave the creek path and go in search of supplies for the trade of these tools and chains that weigh the wagon down. Surely replacements of this can be found when they are needed. I know the iron merchant visits the Vosges often.”

         Assuming I am the leader whatever I suggest is simply accepted just because I say it. Of course in my mind my logical plan is to head straight across the fields to find people to trade our tools for food and shelter. And of course when everyone just accepts my plan without question there can be no other idea considered. Ana has suggested we follow the creek to find a crossroad that will lead to people, but our plan is my way.

         Sleep is good and now on this new morning we set out to find the farmers of these fields by driving the mules and the wagon straight across the barren field. We turn the mules and the wagon off the creek path and up the embankment onto the fresh turned earth. But the field isn’t frozen and immediately we are deep in the mud and the mules only sink down with every step.  How can everyone just do whatever I say, even when it’s obviously an ignorant plan? Only Ana had argued. She said we should follow the creek until we met with a roadway. Yet the men all listened to me.

 (Continues tomorrow)

#38.3, Thurs., Nov. 3, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         Now I’ve learned this band of men who were supposed to have a leader were sent to help turn the ruin called Luxovium into a substantial refuge for the Irish father and his monks. These pilgrims and workers thought it would be only eight miles to Luxeuil. That was a misunderstanding.  Eight miles is the distance between Annegray and Luxovium so here they are on this long journey unprepared.

         The four who absconded with the purse were King’s soldiers sent to lead the others. Of the eight left, four are monks on a pilgrimage sent by the Father Felix to help establish a scriptorium. They brought the handcart well supplied for the work of copying scriptures. And they each have the small traveler’s bags as monks carry on a pilgrimage. The other four are powerful men who, when set on a task for pay will probably do a good day’s work. But they have nothing with them. I think they too would turn back if they could, but now we are a whole day into this trek and here we are on a cold night in November with eight men and two mules with no source of food or shelter or even enough resources to walk back to Châlons. Hungry and angry and tired they could become a fearsome danger to the four monks and also to Ana and Colleen and probably me too, and of course to little Jack the donkey, and maybe the cow would get eaten.

         Dear God take care of us here. My prayer echoes back that ever familiar holy answer: “Don’t be afraid; don’t let these men starve; care for them; never forget they are beloved too.”

         The nine of us men gather at this fire and pass around the pot of porridge the women have provided. The food is thinned out enough that everyone can dip a cup. The monks then consider the story they’ve heard of the feeding of the multitudes from the Gospel of John. That is unlike the other gospel’s stories of miraculous feedings by Jesus. In John, a child steps forward and offers his own little lunch, three loaves and two fishes, and somehow, by the holy sign of God’s love for all people, sharing makes the little become plenty. The sign is in the sharing. [John 6:1-14] Blessing the bread the monks have brought, and passing it, there is enough for everyone.

(Continues Tuesday, November 8)

#38.2, Weds., Nov. 2, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         I’ve seen merchant caravans purposed with selling and armies driven by power of a hope for victory. I’ve been on pilgrimages, and I’ve been in a band of refugees — Jews leaving Jerusalem for Ephesus — but I’ve never known an entourage to travel with no known purpose but to obey some abandoning leaders and a distant king. Maybe we can have better clarity for this journey once we are fed and warmed by a fire.

         As we search firewood I ask one worker what supplies they have with them in the cart and the wagon.

         “The wagon is for the building; the handcart is covered over with a tarp because it has the message scroll from the king to Columbanus. The king also sends a copy of the Psalms and some of that other stuff monks use with inks.”

         Another straightens himself after a struggled contortion to bend for a burnable stick. “But we could use that cart stuff for kindling now that the king’s men have left.”

         I fear his suggestion was serious.

         “We have enough kindling right here without burning any pages of writing.” I offer, “But have you any barley or beans for food? Have you a cooking pot? Did you bring fleeces or mats for sleeping and food for the mules?”

         “We brought a biscuit for the walk, and the four brother monks from the abbey brought stuff for a stay-over at the Roman ruin where they haven’t even a roof we hear; but none of us thought it would be an overnight journey just getting there.”

         While the men gather around their fire I walk back to Ana and Colleen to explain the predicament. They’ve been waiting for me with a pot of porridge ready. We have plenty so I can take the pot and the bowls back to the men who have nothing.

         “Tomorrow we will need to stock up on supplies for all of you, because it’s a long journey to Annegray, and you were told correctly, much of it has no roof. I don’t know if the build at Luxovium will start with ready accommodations, but we should be prepared for winter if it also has no roof.

         “Did the king send a purse with you to pay for this journey?”

         The fellow who suggested burning the Psalms explains, “Our leader who left with the King’s guard had the purse. We were supposed to be paid when our work was done at Luxeuil.”

(Continues tomorrow)

#38.1, Tues., Nov. 1, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. Châlons to Luxeuil

         Winter is already showing up in this land. It’s a cold morning.  The women are glad to wear wool monk’s robes today. Jack is feisty in all this icy morning clarity so the donkey cart moves right along but now the cow can’t keep up tied to the cart. So I will just walk her in the front to set a slower pace. That entourage of monks and workmen is well behind us.  The monks are hauling a hand-cart and the others have a mule-team with a wagonload of pulleys and tools so this isn’t anything like a liturgical procession. Any holy chants aren’t intended as prayer. Every rut along this river path catches a wheel of the workers’ wagon creating a constant whine of woes sounding like a wagon-load of baby goats back there.

         Our first day on the road will soon be our first night. The winter wind sweeps from the north in gusts and swirls on the path that follows the frosty edges of creek beds. The streams and creeks are ever-forking eastward widening at every bend.

         By dusk and nearly dark the caravan of monks and workers is far behind us as we stop for night. So while the women prepare to make camp in the cart drawn up under the shelter of a steep embankment, I walk back to find the leader of these men.

         Now I learn that leader along with the small contingency on horseback had already given up and turned back. These workers are left here with a wagon-load of tools and only a frail loyalty to the king who sent them, or maybe they come just for the promise of a purse. And now they are more disgruntled than ever.

         Four are monks loyal to God, but there is a gaping span between a pilgrimage and a band of men chosen only for their rock moving heft. And now with their leader gone I suggest a stopping place where they can circle up and make a fire, and we’ll figure this out. I can already see smoke rising ahead where Ana and Colleen have made camp. The women will eat hot porridge and sleep warm and safe with blankets and fleeces in the tarp-covered cart.

         For now I help these fellows gather the wood and start the fire, and maybe hear them tell me their thoughts of this project they find they have been bound to.

(Continues tomorrow)