The Seer and the Scribe (34 page)

The Abbot took hold of Brother Rudegerus's shoulders and hugged him fiercely, finishing the passage of Scripture in I Peter. “Resist him, standing firm in the faith. The God of all Grace will Himself restore you and make you strong.”

Brother Rudegerus collapsed, sobbing. He crawled to the far corner where the shadows were the darkest, and curled into a ball. There,
he rocked back and forth, in a state unreachable by human touch or voice.

Anchorage at Disibodenberg Monastery

6th of November, Before Prime

Hildegard bent over Jutta, humming a pleasant melody, hoping it would help lift her Anchoress' spirits as well as her own. She couldn't seem to get out of her mind an image of Volmar in the Infirmary, with Death sitting patiently at his feet. She'd seen Death's gaunt face a couple of times before, at Jutta's mother's and Uda's bedside, and now standing between earth and Heaven with a drawn sword in his hand, at Volmar's bedside. It was more alarming now, for it was not in keeping with the other glimpses of the future she had had of this young Scribe growing old beside her.

Jutta seemed to be responding to her ministrations. Her fever finally broke. Gently, she dabbed the sweat from Jutta's body. The fire Hiltrud had made warmed the common room. It had been wise for her and Hiltrud to move Jutta's bed beside the hearth that first night to take full advantage of its life-giving properties. Jutta had gone far too long without eating. Hildegard knew her despondency had something to do with the physiological effects of lack of nourishment, and wasn't only due to her long exposure to the cold. When she awoke, she would certainly be delirious and impossible to force-feed.

Try as she might to avoid it, Hildegard's mind kept coming back to Volmar. If her vision were true, a sudden death for Volmar would mean he was bound to die traumatically, before his time. She was overcome with guilt and anger. Was she the mistake, the reason, his timing was not in keeping with his true destiny? These fears plagued her as she prayed, “Enough, my Lord! Withdraw your hand. I beg of you, show mercy.” She repeated this simple prayer in her mind over and over as the melody she hummed turn sad.

The melancholy tune brought tears to Hiltrud's eyes. The servant girl sat across the room, mending a monk's cassock. She was too distraught
and was unable to return to bed, especially after Hildegard confirmed the fact that there had been two unexplained murders in the monastery. Hiltrud knew the only way to deal with it was to stay focused and busy.

Suddenly a man appeared in the doorway to the sleeping chamber. His silhouette cast a chilling shadow across the common room, and the air filled with the smell of evil. He was dressed in rags and wore a snow hood pulled down over his head, obscuring his face. Through the cutaway eye holes he glared into the room, taking in the presence of the three women.

Hiltrud saw him first. She looked up and screamed, pricking her finger on the needle. The sudden pain and the terror of seeing a stranger lurking in the Anchorage was too much. Overcome by fear, she slumped forward in her chair.

“Where is he?” the hooded man said, raising his cane menacingly. “I saw him come through the window and have waited long enough in the bitter cold for him to come out.”

Hildegard shivered—ice entered her veins. She rose slowly and reached for the poker resting by the hearth behind her. She could wield it as a weapon if she had to. It was long and made of heavy iron, the tip definitely sharp.

A shape moved behind Hildegard, its voice familiar and warm. The Voice of the Living Light cautioned her. “Put it down,” the Voice said gently. “Take instead the basin of water mingled with Jutta's sacrificial sweat over to the intruder.”

Hildegard released her grip around the poker and instead took the basin and approached the man in the doorway. Although her eyes were open, she saw neither the stranger nor the common room she was in. She was having a vision, a waking dream, and if she could continue to concentrate on the Voice, she knew she would feel no fear.

“So the coward sends a mere girl to protect him?” the hooded man said, clearly amused. He drew off his face hood and tossed it over his shoulder. He would have been considered a handsome man had not his sins marred his face and turned his eyes into more those of an animal than a human. Deliberately, he withdrew his sword from his cane and leveled it at Hildegard. “Where is the Holy Relic, Sister? Show me and you will live.”

Hildegard did not hear what he said. All she heard was the Voice telling her to repeat certain names. She did so dutifully, one after the other, in unison with the Voice: “Bayard of Bermersheim; Godfrey of Trier . . .”

The man froze. Fear suddenly crept into his eyes. “How do you know those people? They've been dead for years!”

Hildegard went on undeterred. “Sumner of Brauweiler; Amelia of Mainz; Letitia of Koblenz; Abul-Khayr; Khashram; Ishandiyar; Shadhan; Nafi'; Bashir; Yazid; Abu Idris; Hisham; Salih; Hamdun; Farqad; ‘Umar; Kathir; Abul-Qasim; Rashid; Anas; Makhid . . .” The names went on and on, terrifying in their implication, for these were the names of all the innocent lives wronged or murdered by this one man.

The man tightened his grip on his sword and his own sensibilities. “One more word,” he charged, vehemently, “and I will sever your tongue!”

Hildegard went on unrelentingly, “. . . Safwan son of 'Uthman; Dawud son of Masruq; Abu Yazid; Abul-Fath . . .”

Just as the man lunged forward, the sword's tip clearly aimed for Hildegard's mouth, the sword became so hot in his hand that it scalded his palm. The man threw down his sword, stunned.

Thankfully, Hildegard did not hear nor see what was happening to the man. She was submissive only to the words spoken to her from the Voice of the Living Light.

“Throw the water from the basin at his feet,” the Voice continued softly, “and tell him thus:
Look evil in the eye, stare down the jaws of iniquity, swiftly burning at your feet. Fall on your knees and repent of your wickedness as Hell welcomes its own
.”

The water splashed from the basin onto the flagstone floor. In its puddle the man was given a vision. In it he saw a chasm beginning to form, a chasm with sharp pointed teeth and a tongue, rough and oozing blood, a monstrous yawning mouth opening into Hell. Mercifully, Hildegard was seeing with the Spirit's eyes and was standing in a blinding light that had taken root below her feet. Its radiance spread its warmth as a protective shield around her, so none of this hideous transformation was visible to her. She continued obediently to recite the names of the man's victims. “. . . Sulayman son of 'Umar; Thawr; Mahistî daughter of Suwayd; Jahân Khâtun daughter of Hamdun; Pâdshâh Khâtun daughter of Abu Idris . . . .”

The man alone witnessed this living, breathing nightmare. In it were the emotions of all he tortured. Although muted by time, they were still palpable, the pain and misery of far too many deaths. The horrors surrounded him.

A heavily cloaked companion rose up from the gaping mouth. Its misty tendrils reached upward, taking the shape of a long flowing cape. The cape of this netherworld creature fluttered, turning into black ravens with their bellies bearing the recognizable faces, not fully formed, looking diabolical, yet unmistakably of all those people the man had wronged or murdered. Now the names Hildegard had patiently recited had faces, grisly and gruesome, distorted by their own rage at the time of their injury or death. These human-faced birds swarmed around the man, pricking him with their sharp claws, taunting him with their moaning and bitter accusations.

“Leave me alone,” the old man cried, his arms bleeding, his face filled with terror. He bent and retrieved his sword and with several clean swings, beheaded a few of these feathered tormentors. Their heads fell to the floor and rolled like dice into the stone crevices. To the man's horror these human-like birds grew new heads and mocked him more than before.

The dark, black-faced creature wrapped his winged cloak around the man, carrying him aloft into the flaming tongue of the netherworld. In its cavernous mouth the man witnessed many souls, not just the ones he'd sent to an early death, like black birds hovering over steaming waters, wailing and calling to him by name. All had black souls like his and were cut off from eternal light, consumed in the depths of their despair in this abyss for eternity.

“I am a gentleman and a monk!” the man screamed in protest, his face illuminated as if lit up from the inside by flashes of lightning.

The unearthly, golden-eyed companion seemed to find it all very amusing.
“You flatter yourself.”

“I've killed in the name of war. Why am I being persecuted?”

The companion acknowledged the man's question, without speaking.
“This is the seat of Eternal Hatred, built from the stones of your disobedience, covetousness, greed, and anger. In your quest for power and fame, you've neglected and destroyed your family and even your friends.”

“Are you talking about Donato?” the man said, choking on the name. “Donato was weak. He wasn't up to the challenge before us. How could I be expected to share all the powers of the Holy Relic with him? The Holy Spear is my destiny, not his.”

The companion nodded and continued to communicate without words, explaining to the man that there was more to see and that here for eternity one must suffer according to their crimes. It was to be a ghastly revelation.

“Come,”
the companion said,
“you cannot hide from the truth through arrogance.”

The man could not resist, though he longed to, the companion's invitation to accompany him on a tour of Hell.

“Enter the dismal chambers you've been building. As you see, there are many who share these chambers with you,”
the companion said, leading the man to the depths of his own stone fortress. In one, the cheaters were being gnawed on by a beast with no eyes; in another, the thieves were hung suspended by their feet, their bones broken and separated; and in the third, the wrathful were suffering from possession by demonic creatures, forcing them to commit humiliating and horrible acts.

At long last they came to the final chamber. The companion said,
“This one will be your residence.”
In it, the man saw murderers being wounded by knives that moved about of their own will.
“Harken unto my words,”
the companion said this time without emotion.
“All were condemned by the judgment of God and hurled from the heights of his authority, forever.”

The man screamed in terror and forced open his own eyes. He saw before him the young nun he had threatened. She had collapsed to the floor, entirely spent.

“I will leave this place, before I am forced to surrender to its living Hell!” he said aloud, his voice shrill with indescribable fear.

Hildegard heard his movements but though her eyes were open, she could only see a screen of fog, blurring the intruder and his living nightmare.

Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery

6th of November, Before Prime

Volmar sat up in the bed, sipping a strengthening tonic of woundwort and Saint John's wort in wine, with a hint of poppy syrup added. He still felt dizzy and nauseous, but very much alive, to his own astonishment and relief.

“Come on, little brother, you must drink it all if you want to feel better,” Brother Johannes said, tipping the cup until Volmar had finished every drop.

“You will live, my son. But don't you ever tempt Death like that again, do you understand?” Paulus took the cup from Johannes and sat it on the table nearby. His careful and sober judgment, though harsh, was reassuring. “With cyanide poisoning, as in all poisons, there is a considerable range of sensitivity among human individuals. Thankfully, you've been blessed with a strong constitution, or perhaps as I suspect it's your sheer stubbornness which has kept you alive. The dosage appears to have been insufficient to cause loss of consciousness, which surely would have led to your death, just as it did for Matthias.”