Post #30.6, Thurs., March 10, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. The ruin of a mountain cottage

         At this waking cold sunshine finds no roof over me. The deerskin is a warm blanket.  Looking around the room there are walls and doors and even a window, just no other ceiling but the sky. There is a shelf near where the roof would be where the bird cage sits. It is surprisingly warm for a late winter’s day, and now I see that on the wall at my head is a grand hearthstone, blazing with a well-tended cooking fire.

         Anatase in a simple flaxen dress and tattered surplice apron comes in a door near the fireplace and she tends the fire. She dips from the caldron into a tea pot. Her flow of golden hair surely belongs on a child I remember.

         I close my eyes again to try to remember another day and put this all together. I had nearly found the child. The taller monk, and the shorter monk were on the seat of the donkey cart. But when we came up from the valley only the servant monk and the bird were there. The servant monk got down to walk the donkey up the climb back into the sunlight. I remember how I hoped …

         She is right here, a woman now, her long fingers reach around my wrist for a thump of life. I choose to keep my eyes closed simply imagining the face of a weathered and weary woman with the familiar sparkling eyes and smile – the precocious child who already knew how to read but who pretended to let us teach her anyway.

         “Good morning, Laz. I hear they call you Ezra now. I wish I could say my surgeon’s skills saved you, but of course, healing is a gracious gift of the Creator of life herself. I have a bowl of tea for you, if you can take a sip now.”

         I can’t speak to answer. Dear God, thank you for this beautiful morning. Amen, So be it. Were this really true, I would lust for a  forever of these mornings. But as dreaming, I dare not open my eyes for a waking.

         “Ezra? Laz, look at me now. I have some tea for you. It would be good if you could take a sip.”

         “It is good. Thank you, Ana…”

         “It is just Ana, now. I’m called Ana.”

         “Thank you Ana.” What more is there to say, but everything of all these years.

         I offer, “Ana, I will build a roof for your house.”

         She smiles, “Maybe another day.”

 (Continues Tuesday, March 15)

Post #30.5, Weds., March 9, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. In the Vosges Mountains

         Brother Servant comes with a donkey cart. He also brings the good news that the rumored ‘angel of Annegray’ is indeed Anatase.

         He said, “She took the little sickle and pressed it close to her as a treasure. I told her you had the dark hair and eyes of a pirate. She seemed delighted. She calls you ‘Laz,’ after the bible guy Lazarus, because you were from a town near Jerusalem. That matches what you said.”

         Thank you God. The ropes are loosed from my ankles, and I feel empowered climb into the cart. I’m surprised it demands so much strength just to move.

         Brother Crathius notices my nose bleed. “This is a very bad sign. It means the wound was deeper than the bandages could cover, so this bleeding is from the depths and nothing can be done now to save him.”

         A bird in a cage is set in the bed of the cart so Brother Crathius can have the seat next to the brother servant. The bird just stares at me.  The long ride is somber and silent. Brother Crathius is let off to follow the pilgrim route then the cart continues on into a deep valley and up a steep rise into fresh sunlight.

         Here we stop. Anatase touches my face laying her fingers on my neck for pulse as Brother Servant sets the birdcage off the cart and offers to take me on to Annegray for prayers and burial.

         “No wait,” she says. “I can see why you would be so certain of his death. But this death is a terrible hurt for me first hoping then loosing. And I believe this may be my holy calling to give purpose to my sorrow.”

         “May God dry your tears,” answers Brother Servant.

         Anatase explains, “I’ve read about it and studied it but I have no experience with these deep wounds from swords or arrows. I would be unpracticed were there ever a war. Please put him on the table so I can practice mending this kind of wound with scalpel and stitches.”

         “He is probably already with God.”

         “I know. But it would give purpose to this death, that my skills could be honed to save another person on another bad day.”

         Dear God, stay close.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #30.4, Tuesday, March 8, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. In the Vosges Mountains

         At this waking I see the contents of my travel bag spread out on the ground and Anatase’s sickle is missing. Brother Crathias is still here, and I am lying on my back on a fleece with only my ankles tied now.

         “Good morning, Pirate. Brother Servant will return soon with a cart from the monastery to take you somewhere you can’t escape from in case you really are a pirate. But I don’t think you’re a pirate. You’re teeth are good.”

         “Thank you. I’m definitely not a pirate.”

          “But you know lots of young women and boys have been kidnapped by pirates to be sold for wives and slaves off in distant places where they can’t be found again. That is probably what happened to the girl whose child’s toy you happened to have. It seems unlikely the same woman you lost would be the one they found.”

         “Coincidences happen. Anatase is strong and clever.  And of course there is that possibility of synchronicity.”

         “Yes, Good Pirate, but you might have had a better chance to free yourself had you not given Brother Servant such a unique item to prove your hunch.  Because if she’s not that woman then it will prove you really are a pirate and things could go very badly for you.”

         “But the truth is I’m not a pirate.”

          “I think Brother Servant mentioned an old quarry pit behind the tattered fort of Annegray where they can keep you captive until Father Columbanus decides what to do with you. I know about Annegray because I was there last year at Lent and I saw that it is a ruin of an old fortress that the Irish monks only pretend is a monastery. It has lots of scary hiding places.”

         “I know,” I can speak more easily now, “I’ve even heard rumors from the pagans it is a haunt for the creatures of the underworld. But I wondered with beasts and rumors, and a hard climb to reach it, why would it be so popular for Christian pilgrims?”

         “Christians give no thought to the fears of earth, at least they shouldn’t say it aloud if the do fear, so being haunted surely adds to the challenge. And tattered and hard to reach is what sincere Christians gladly accept to assure the significance of the spiritual challenges they have taken on. And then, of course, Father Columbanus is beloved.”

(Continues Tomorrow)

Post #30.3, Thursday, March 3, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. In the Vosges Mountains

         As the two very different Christian monks continue explaining themselves to one another I gather both a terror and a glimpse of hope. Brother Servant explains why he was chosen as servant because a trusted eunuch was needed.

         “I serve as a messenger back and forth between Father Columbanus and his followers when he is in his solitary wilderness place, but I also am messenger for a woman who followed some monks in a clandestine way. She is in hiding now, never trusting a man and always living in fear of pirates. She was raped and beaten by pirates that captured her on the River Loire. She’s followed that little band of monks all this way from the port at St. Milo and here she trusts me alone among men for her peace and solace.

         “I’m always alert and watching for pirates who would be searching for her. I think we should bind his hands and feet in case he would be able to get himself up.  We must assume he is a pirate unless he can show us otherwise. First we should check his bag for a blade.”

         Dear God, thank you for amazing synchronicity.

         The servant monk kneels here and draws my hands behind me — a terrible hurt to the wound. I try to plea while I can speak. “I’m not a pirate, but I am from the family of Ezra, who owns the vineyards on the Loire. There was a pirate abduction of a girl, surely a woman now; she’s named Anatase. She was apprenticed to a healer in my family.”

         The servant monk is listening as though we share some knowledge of a truth. I tell him more, “I have proof that I am from her teacher’s family. When you search my bag for a blade you will find one. It’s a small hammered blade, a legionnaire’s dagger forged into a child’s-sized sickle. Take that to the woman who was abducted and ask if she has ever seen it before. If she is Anatase she will tell you it was made into this tool as a gift for her when she was a child – it was given her by the monk who taught her to read. His name was Nic. She will know this. Please tell her we’ve been searching for her.”

         With wrists and ankles bound I’m turned again and I can’t speak.

 (Continues Tuesday, March 8)


Post #30.2, Wednesday, March 2, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. In the Vosges Mountains

         When I wake from this faint Brother Crathius, it seems, has never ceased his chatter and all the while he’s bandaged my wound and set me in a position that allows me to catch my breath.

         As they are starting the fire he tells the servant of Columbanus that he was chosen by his abbot to accompany the pilgrims on this Lenten journey to Annegray because the brothers from his abbey on this pilgrimage are elderly and have stiffened with age and from years working at the benches of a scriptorium.

          Brother Crathius explains, “I was sent with them prepared with herbs and oils and wraps to comfort them on the climbs; but as it turned out all this walking to reach the mountain trail had limbered their joints and, like a true miracle, they can continue the long climbs without the constant care of a physician. So by the Grace of God and with the help of Christ I am free to answer to this need.

         He just talks on, “So, you see Brother Servant, some miracles happen by magic and wonder, but often a Christian miracle is simply noticing the patterns of pain and an awareness of an unlikely synchronicity such as finding a physician with supplies in his bag, just when an angel for God speaks of need.”

         “I’m well aware,” said the servant to the physician.

         Another comfort in my healing is the cool damp cloth Brother Crathius washes over my face.

         “Brother Servant, take a look at this thief. His dark eyes, and swarthy hair… he may be Persian.”

         “No” I need to explain, “I was born in the east near Jerusalem, and I’m a Christian in these times.”

         “See how he defends?  Could he be a pirate?” The servant asks the physician.

         “Pirates are rarely so far from the sea, and with no deep river or  channel to the sea in this place it would be unlikely.”

         “No.” argues the servant. “Some monks who have come up from the sea to Annegray warned us so we’ve been keeping watch for pirates who might have followed them.”

         “Why? Why would pirates follow holy men? Is there some treasure they want?”

         The servant explains, “My service to Father Columbanus is to watch in the wilderness when he is away in solitary for prayer and fasting. But my other task these days calls for a trusted eunuch.”

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #30.1, Tuesday, March 1, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. In the Vosges Mountains

                 Winter night won’t linger as dusk very long. The hunters are anxious to return to their base camp by dark so they leave at the first sight of the monks. I think the two Christians plan to stay with me here for the night then drag whatever is left on to a proper death or maybe a healing in the morning. Thank you God for sending Christians.

         One has a fire start but their traveler’s bags are probably as sparse as my own, which I still have and I also still have my fleece. It was across my shoulders under the deerskin at the time of the so-called accident. We also have that deer hide I’m partly laying on, though it is surely bloodied by now. But it could be lashed to a frame for a night shelter for the three of us.

         The taller of the Christians has the tonsure of the Irish monks as I had expected to see, knowing that Father Columbanus came from the Scoti with his followers.

         He kneels down here by me and asks if I would like to make a confession. “The hunter who sent the angel to find us with the message said that you were a thief who had stolen an arrow and taken a fishhook from the fairies. We, who follow Father Columbanus accept private confession if you have need for absolution.”

         “Thank you” I find I have a breath to speak now, though very softly, “The arrow was returned. But please pray that the fishhook can be used to feed the hungry.”

         The other monk, the shorter fellow shorn in the Latin style asks, “Do you want me to witness his confession with you Brother?”

         “Thank you Brother Pilgrim. That won’t be necessary, because the Rule of Columbanus follows the way of St. Patrick who advocated for only private confession.”

         I can see that the difference between these two is more than height and haircut.

         “Now Brother Pilgrim, you may collect the bramble for our fire while I offer him a quiet absolution.”

         “I have a name. It’s Brother Crathius. And it may be by the holiness of Christ that you selected me from my fellow pilgrims for this mission.  You see, I am a physician. So while you gather brambles I shall see to wound.”

         “Very well, who am I to argue a true calling?”

(Continue tomorrow)

Post #29.12, Thurs., February 24, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

          “Auldouff? This is no deer. Couldn’t you see it was Ezra?”

         “What?  You mean, this isn’t a deer?” Auldouff is still holding the bloody arrow he just withdrew.

         “No you idiot, it’s Ezra. How is it that you pulled the arrow, without even noticing it was Ezra you shot?”

         “You can put him out of his suffering with your blade.”

         “I can’t kill a man. He is looking right at me. We’ll suffer a Christian curse if he dies. Believe me Christian curses are far worse than any fairy pranks. Their underworld is Hell.”

         “The Christians don’t know him. They won’t notice.”

         “This is what we have to do. One of us should stay here to scare off the vultures and wolves, and the other should find the Christians.”

         “I’ll go for the Christians because I can tell them it was simply an accident.”

         “Be back by nightfall. These hills are surely haunted.”

         Dear God, did you mean to send those Christians of Annegray into a place with a fearsome darkness? Please stay close.  Waking and sleeping I don’t know of hours passing.  Heinrique is using his blade to whittle a stick. He is sitting near but looking out across the hills. I can’t tell if the darkness that is settling in is my vision alone or if it is already dusk. A wolf howls from a distant hill and Heinrique pulls his fleece closer around his shoulders. I feel the chill of fever drawing my life and releasing it as though I no longer need warmth. I’m remembering now the child’s flute, the little practice tune that played for me in an earlier time and danced me back from death to life – the peaceful meadow of healing herbs where my children, each in their own way, were candles of love and kindness.

         Awake I am again, and Auldouff returns breathless, having run ahead of the Christian monks he found.

         “Heinrique! Good you are still here!  I have to tell you the horrors of it!  The howling banshee was right in my path. I saw her even in the daylight, I saw her. I told her we needed Christians to come, so she went away and sent them to follow me.” We hear the wolves howl. “Listen, she is keening for his death right now!”

         “It’s only wolves, Auldouff. It’s alright now. And I see the Christians are coming.”

         The darkness is on all of us.

(Continues Tuesday, March 1, 2022)

Post #29.11, Weds., February, 24, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Today, we set out again for the hunt. And again, all I really want is to find that group of Christians they say are in these hills. On our first venture into the mountains I did see a cairn marking a trail for pilgrims, but I haven’t seen any other person who might know more of this than these pagan hunters. I was told the place where the Irish father and his followers have a community is a ruin of a fortress called Annegray.  If I would see another person at least I could ask for direction. These mountains are a forested wilderness and I can’t even guess how vast.

         Auldouff is a good distance ahead of us, Heinrique is still within my sight and here is a meadow with some deer grazing. Maybe Auldouff was right about a deer disguise.  I seem to be able to move in fairly close to them even though they are alert to danger and listening in my direction. Then again, I guess Heinrique was right, as soon as one sniffs the air they bolt – leaping away in ever direction as fast and far as they can. Just now Auldouff rises up from the brush ahead of me, with his bow drawn, first aiming and missing a deer then notching another arrow and aiming straight at me, eye-to-eye, as though I were a partridge in hiding. Surely he sees I’m not prey. But he releases his arrow straight to … it must be close to my heart, I can’t catch my breath. Now here I am lying like a slain creature wrapped in the skin of the animal who once met this same fate.

         Auldouff calls Heinrique to bring his blade because he thinks he’s wounded a buck. Auldouff comes nearer and he sees I am conscious so he says it was an accident. “You looked just like a deer to me, though I’ve never seen one face to face like that before.” He reaches to draw out the arrow, and I plead for him not to, but it is too late.  Now there will be so much bleeding.

         “I had to get my arrow back. Heinrique will stop the hurt. Don’t worry Ezra.” He backs off.

         Heinrique is here now, and Auldouff is at a distance. “What have you done, Auldouff?”

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #29.10, Tues., February 22, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         We leave the camp for the steeper walk into the hills ahead with a buckskin we use for shelter slung over my back because Auldouff thinks the deer won’t fear us if they don’t see our clothing. Since my tunic and cowl are of brighter colors Auldouff thinks I need a disguise. I don’t mind the extra weight, it’s more warmth on this frosty morning.

         I guess Auldouff’s theory of a deer’s point of view is something like God noticing the first sin in the garden because the people were wearing clothing. [Genesis 3:7-10]

         I’ve learned that one of the rumored magical features of the Vosges is that the animals of this wilderness might give up their wild ways and follow certain people. It’s said by Christians and maybe pagans too that Father Columbanus tames wolves and he even ousted a bear from her cave. [Footnote] And maybe Auldouff expects me, a Christian, to run with the deer and tame them for easier kill.

         Heinrique argues that deer pay no attention to our fashion. They sniff the air for predators and they stand very still and twitching their ears to listen for us. Either way, I am creeping through the forest wearing a heavy buckskin trying to keep completely silent and downwind from whatever makes these deep hoof prints in the mud.

         Suddenly, ahead of us a huge buck leaps up and Auldouff’s arrow knocks it to the ground. Heinrique uses his sharp blade as clean as any rabbi would for the slaughter. We return to our campsite with the kill. The creek is thawing already and we can’t depend on the cold to keep the kill, so we must work now to soak the hide and set up some spits over a smoky fire to prepare the meat, then we will cover over the smoker with the wetted hide before we head back for the hunt. The brothers are hoping for another hard freeze this winter to save us all this work with the next kill but the season is already changing.

         I’m getting a bit impatient with the hunters, I think because I have come here with a different purpose than they.  And our differences are weighing on all of us.  I am pretty sure these hunters would gladly leave me with the Christians if they could.

[Footnote] Sellner, Edward C. Celtic Saints and Animal Stories: A spiritual lkinship, (NewYork: PaulistPress) 2000 .pp.52-54.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #29.9, Thurs., February 17, 2022

Historical setting: 589 C.E. when Brittany was forest

         Today we’re hunting partridge for food and feathers. Heinrique studies the mud patches where the meadow wears thin and he studies the earth along the barren mud banks of the creek looking for partridge tracks. Auldouff plunders through the brush hoping to stir them from sheltering places close to the ground.

         Heinrique speaks, “This whole bevy of partridge must be onto us by now. They’ve moved on or else they’re hiding too well. They just don’t forget these fellows with arrows coming often, picking them off one at a time.”

         We walk on following the creek into a piney wood as the earth slopes more and more from meadow toward mountain. Auldouff blunders on ahead. Heinrique is on his slow search for detail and I am a distance behind noticing the beauty of this nature. It seems winter hardened and stripped bare anything that once lived to set this season’s empty silence. Then I notice a quivering stalk in the grasses by a fallen log, and on closer look I’m staring straight at a large partridge staring right back at me too close to me for it to fly, trapped by his own shelter, completely depending on my human numbness, possibly blinded by its rote stillness. But my one arrow makes us a feast. As I am gathering the bird Auldouff has just stirred a flapping bew ahead of us, and in an instant several partridges are perching on far distant branches. By the time I’ve caught up with the brothers they’ve wasted several arrows missing the birds.

         Their pattern of hunt, now that we have one bird, is to set their base camp here before we begin the climb into the mountains where they will find the larger prey they seek, the deer and the boar. So here we spend a few days hunting up a few more birds, preparing arrows, and making a sledge to haul some yet unseen great kill back to the tribe and to lighten our travel of these buckskins and fleece we’ve brought for shelter.

         My prayer at this fireside is silent. Dear God, my prayer is for the spirit of that other life that stood perfectly still and looked me in the eye, that I made into food with my arrow. Let me remember the life gift as we are all living with shared spirit. Thank you God, Christ, Spirit, whatever names we make to sort it all out. Amen.

(Continues Tuesday, February 22, 2022)