The Seer and the Scribe (13 page)

The old woman's strange words at first did not sink in. “Whose life, dear lady . . . the Anchoress?”

“No, brother; not the pretty one named Jutta nor the servant girl Hiltrud.” The old woman's breath smelled of rotten plants and decay. “I saw it all in a vision. The frail child with the gray eyes, the one they call Hildegard.”

Volmar blanched. How could this woman know of his sinful obsession?

“God has poured out His grace into this child like a river of many waters. Someday, she will compose and sing chants to the praise of God and his saints. Through the favor of God, those wise eyes will see through the diabolical fog that oppresses the church and will serve all, both rich and poor, well.”

Volmar swallowed hard. Often when he was on duty in the Infirmary he would hear the idle ramblings of the elderly and suspected that this old woman was sleepwalking and confused, having awoken and wandered into the middle of the enclosure processional. And yet, she knew of Hildegard and his affection for her. The old woman's uncanny
insights had him stumbling for words. “Please, kind woman, may I help you back to your pallet?”

She refused his proffered arm. “I'm not dreaming,” she chided, making a disapproving sound with her tongue against her few remaining teeth. “Hear me out, Volmar. Do not trivialize this meeting, for these are the words God spoke to me.”

“Who told you my name?” he said, facing the old woman directly. Only then did Volmar become aware of the milky clouds floating in her unfocused eyes. He passed his hand over her eyes several times, but she did not blink. The old woman was blind.

“It is not your name, but Hildegard's name that will be remembered in centuries to come.”

Volmar pictured Hildegard, the unconventional, peculiar girl of last year, dancing and singing in the clearing. She'd become his fantasy; a coveted, secret image so intoxicating that he had to say many prayers to beg forgiveness for his errant thoughts. “Our lives have intersected before,” Volmar admitted, finding the woman's blindness even more distressing. “She was here, a year ago, when they laid the cornerstone for the Anchorage.”

“Hildegard will become a cornerstone for the faithful, young Scribe. Kings will seek out her wisdom and Popes will ask her advice. She will not give in to the oppression of this corrupt religious order. She will live separately and be a voice for God through her music, her healings, her writings and drawings, and her visions; but first she must learn from your teachings and compassion. You will always love her deeply.”

“Love her deeply?” Volmar repeated. These were foreign words for one who had promised to forsake the love of a woman for the church.

Suddenly there was a hush, as if everyone were holding their breath. The Bishop arose from the Anchorage's entrance, returning after walking through all three rooms with the Abbot, blessing the place with holy water and burning incense, a practice echoing once again the final ritual practice of blessing the corpse before its burial. One by one, the biers were carried under the door's archway, the Bishop confirming each of the young women as they entered with five prayers of blessings and signs of the cross.

Volmar turned to challenge the old woman directly, but saw to his surprise that she was gone. One moment she was by his side, the next moment she had mysteriously disappeared.

Sophie approached and gave Volmar's wavy black hair a small affectionate tug instead of taking his hand as she once did. “Hmm, what's troubling you?” she asked. She could always read his mood.

Volmar turned to Sophie and gasped. She had on the same dark blue cloak and exquisitely embroidered dress worn by Hildegard over a year ago!

Sophie blushed deeply and smiled back. “It was a gift from Sister Hildegard. You do like it, don't you? She had all her clothes sent over earlier to the Infirmary especially for me.” She twirled around, allowing the heavy brocade skirts to billow out. “Come now, Brother Volmar, don't you love it! Brother Paulus thought I was one of the esteemed visitors, at first. I feel so spoiled!”

Volmar was speechless. Although the monastic life demanded austerity and self-denial, he was pleased that Sophie didn't have to comply. Her nature responded to beautiful things—he knew it to be the artist inside her. Over the past year, he had marveled at how Sophie had given up many of her childish ways. While occasionally he missed the comfort of her small cold hand in his, he admired now how she would use her hands. They were like magnificent drawing instruments, moving through the air to draw for him pictures or busily carving a delicate hollow tube for Brother Paulus, so he could hear with more clarity the sounds a stomach or heart were making. Sophie's face, though, had matured the most; with a sense of purpose, it had a charm all of its own, at once lively and animated, or solemn and thoughtful, like it was now.

“I've never had anything so warm or soft. And look at all these pockets, Volmar. Wait, there's something in this one.” She reached in and removed a roll of parchment. It was sealed and addressed to Volmar. “For you,” she said, handing it over to the young monk's trembling hands and added teasingly. “Is there something you're not telling me, Brother Volmar?”

Volmar responded with a pained, guilty expression, which she took to be merely disappointment over her bold accusation.

“Sorry,” Sophie added hurriedly, “I'm just curious, that's all. Please let Hildegard know how eternally grateful I am for her beautiful wardrobe.
Let her know the clothes fit perfectly. Brother Paulus has kindly offered a cupboard to be moved to my cell, so I can store and care for them properly.”

Volmar tucked the missive inside his leather pouch. “Thank you,” he said, closing the clasp on his leather pouch. “You do look lovely, Sophie. I'll let Hildegard, err, Sister Hildegard know how grateful you are for her gift.”

“I've never witnessed the rituals of an internment,” Sophie went on, her eyes shining from his rare compliment. She gazed over towards the Anchorage.

Volmar nodded. “It is hard for us mere men to know God's intentions,” he mumbled, the token answer she expected from monks whenever they faced something they felt was wrong.

Sophie wisely left it at that, seeing how Volmar wore his look of total concentration that she knew so well and had learned to respect.

At length, Volmar turned to her and asked as calmly as he could, “Sophie, is there a blind elderly woman in the Infirmary's care?”

“No,” she said, putting a finger to his lips, “shush!” She turned to the Anchorage and became very still as the final moments of the ceremony took place.

The last robed pallbearer exited the Anchorage. Abbot Burchard heaved the massive oak door reinforced with iron plates hard enough to close it. The Bishop took the key from his ring of keys and turned it securely, locking the clasp, saying, “May God protect your entrance and prevent you from coming out.”

Common Room of the Anchorage

Feast of All Saints, 1
^st
of November, Friday, the Year of Our

Lord 1112, after Enclosure Ceremony

Hildegard jutted out her lower lip and blew gently, trying to remove the dust Bishop Otto had sprinkled on her and which clung stubbornly to her eyelashes. As she heard the key turn in the lock on the door, Hildegard felt her racing heart slow to a steadier, relaxed pace. She attributed the aching sensation in her stomach to hunger and the unaccustomed chill to the stout stone walls which now enveloped her. In preparation for the ceremony, Jutta had insisted that they fast for three days.

Hildegard lifted her hand, stiff from the lack of movement over the past few hours. Tentatively, she ran her fingers over her bare head where her hair had once been and thought fleetingly of the superstition of combing one's hair to comfort one's brain. Living in the Anchorage would hold few if any of the familiar comforts. In here, the three women were completely removed from the world. Then again, Hildegard thought, as she set aside the stub of the candle which she earlier had to blow out and the cross which was to be hung over the head of her bed, she had always felt set apart from others.

The waxing moon broke through the clouds and streamed in through the small window, bathing the room with its soft and lingering light. For the first time, Hildegard could survey her surroundings. They were sparse, as she anticipated, but adequate. She was grateful to see in the far corner the massive silhouette of what she recognized to be her glass-fronted bookcase. She was pleased to see the shadowy stack of her writings and drawings, finding comfort in their presence. Here was the room in which she would spend all her waking hours. In the gloom she could just make out a couple of dark objects on a table nearby.

Hildegard stood and felt her way over to the heavy wood trestle table. On it she found one of the objects to be an oil lamp, its wick trimmed and filled with oil. The second item was a large basket filled with items of food and a small flask of wine. The moon slipped behind the clouds, plunging the room into darkness. Thankfully, though, from where she stood, she could see on the other side of the table a smoldering rustic glow in what appeared to be the remains of a fire in a wide stone fireplace. She went and took a piece of ember, blowing on it coaxingly until a flame darted from it. Using this to light the lantern, she then threw a few more logs onto the fire to warm the room and welcomed its warm glow.

It was ever so slight but unmistakable; a moan had come from Jutta, whose bier was placed on the stone floor between Hildegard and Hiltrud. Hildegard took the oil lamp and knelt down beside her Anchoress' side. Carefully, she lifted the now blood-encrusted shift up to Jutta's thigh so she could survey the extent of the leg iron's damage. Jutta had insisted on wearing it regardless of the ceremony, much to Hildegard's chagrin. Suppressing a sigh, Hildegard examined the wound. It was an old familiar wound, deep and jagged like the teeth marks left behind by a raging bear. It had never been given the chance to heal properly. Thankfully, Jutta would not be protesting her ministrations this time. The new Anchoress appeared to be in a self-induced meditative state in which physical pain could not be felt. Softly, Hildegard took the key from around Jutta's neck and loosened the leg iron, gently releasing the last lock and drawing it away from the woman's thigh. Hildegard knew she had to work quickly. Otherwise, the wound would get worse if she left it unattended.

As a child Hildegard remembered Uda commenting once on how the Disibodenberg monks were excellent beekeepers. She said a small prayer, went back to the table, and lifted the food items one by one from the basket. There was bread, cheese, nuts, lentil beans, and . . . “Yes,” she said out loud, “honey. Thank you, Lord.” Placing the honey on the table top, she uncorked the pottery jar and took one of the wooden spoons from a hook to stir it.

By this time Hiltrud had moved and was now curled up on her bier, her knees to her chin, softly crying. Hildegard had questioned the wisdom of forcing a servant girl to comply with a life of enclosure. No one had listened to her. The consensus was that two young noblewomen
could not go without a handmaiden, no matter where they lived. Hildegard crossed the room to her and gave her a wooden spoon dripping with honey.

“It's so sweet,” Hiltrud said, putting it to her lips. She handed the spoon back, grateful for the unexpected kindness.

Hildegard dipped the spoon in the jar once again and gave it back. “Our heavenly Father has given us nature and in it, healing. There's bread and cheese on the table. Help yourself.”

Hildegard left Hiltrud licking the spoon and knelt once again beside Jutta with the honey jar. Carefully Hildegard ripped off the edging on her own white shift. Using it as a cloth she dipped it into the jar of honey. Gently she smoothed the honey over the area of the wound, wrapping it within a crystallized protective shield. When she had completed this task, she corked the honey and left the rag nearby to apply another layer in a few hours. She then reached for the oil lamp and motioned for Hiltrud to follow her into the next room. They both nodded with satisfaction when they saw the small adjoining privy with three wash basins. However, the rest of the furnishings were bleak compared to what they were both accustomed to. Three straw pallets sat on sturdy wooden platforms. There was a small bedside table and, on it, another oil lamp which Hildegard lit. The extra glow from the light made the high ceiling and the plastered walls feel less cavernous. On each of the beds were folded thick woolen blankets. The two of them dressed the beds, shaking the mattresses to check for bugs before folding and tucking in the blankets.

“Much better,” Hildegard remarked after the last bed was made. “Hiltrud, I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. Why don't we take time to rest?”

“What about Sister Jutta?”

“Let her sleep. When the bells of Matins sound, we'll see if she's strong enough to join us for our devotions and prayers.” Hildegard squeezed Hiltrud's hand, worried over how cold and clammy it felt. “Don't worry. We will make a comfortable home for ourselves here, Hiltrud. Rest now; there will be plenty to do in the coming months.”

Hildegard pulled the coarse wool blanket up under her chin, letting her mind wander back through the day's momentous events. Beside her, in the next pallet, Hiltrud was soon snoring steadily, having finally given in to sleep's tyranny.

Hildegard turned to her side, tucking her arm up under her neck, trying to get comfortable. Often in quiet moments like this, her thoughts strayed to Volmar. She'd sensed his pain during the ceremony and knew a door had closed between them. “Anything worthwhile, child, takes time and sacrifice,” Uda had gently reminded her, as she often did when the doubts overwhelmed her. Surely, this was her destiny; not the one young Volmar's heart yearned for. She needed confirmation, reassurance. In the darkness, Hildegard stretched out and with her mind she tentatively reached across the chasm between this world and the next, searching for the familiar warmth of the Living Light, a comforting presence she'd known since she was three.