Surprisingly, the brother, Frere Augustus
and the novice, Laurent, seemed to get along well. As everyone else had left, it
was just us three in the dining hall. Since we had pulled our hoods around our
heads to keep warm, I could not infer Frere Augustus’ attitude from his facial
expressions. But after knowing the monk for ten years now, I have learned to
read some of his mannerisms. When angry, he breathes more rapidly. With the
frigid temperatures during January, even inside the monastery, it’s easy to
measure someone’s breathing patterns by the vapor that leaves his mouth.
Whether the novice, Laurent, is in the same room or not, the brother, Frere
Augustus breathes at a steady pace. Although I’m not completely convinced, it
could be he finally understood the evil influence of his past deeds, once he
became victim of a similar deed himself.
In any case it promised to be a peaceful
supper. Of the three tables in the dining hall, we placed ourselves at the one
closest to the door. To my right sat the novice, and across from us Frere
Augustus silently prayed in thanks for our bread, wine and cheese.
We had not bothered to light the chandelier
suspended over the center table, but instead used two candles. The hall seemed
otherwise empty except for a grand tapestry that hung to my left displaying
Saint Michel holding a broadsword surrounded by angels. In the dim light, the
shadowy figures looked almost lifelike. All but one of the holy servants gazed
with admiration at the saintly defender of France. The one angel who was not
admiring Saint Michel looked down upon our table. One had to stare intently at
the angel to notice that the eyes had been cut out.
Years of silence have taught me to listen to the Lord. While looking at
the holy depiction, I beheld a vision so fleeting most would not consider it a
whim. On His instructions, I pretended to be ill, and signaled that I would take
to bed.
Following the divine inspiration, I snuck
into the room next to the dining hall. The wall that separated the two rooms had
a gap the size of a doorway hidden by tapestries on either side. From the moment
I slipped into the gap the grace of the surrounding wall hangings warmed me. A
reward from God!
Looking out through the missing eyes of the
angel, I had a perfect view of the diners’ profiles just as my vision
foretold. Even with their cowls up, it was easy to tell them apart. Frere
Augustus was half a foot taller, with long sinewy fingers that aided the devil
well when the mood struck him. Whereas the novice was of average height with
small tanned hands that spoke of toiling under the sun on one of the nearby
farms. Furthermore, he hadn’t acquired the stoop in his shoulders that years
of prayer had imposed on the brother.
After an amiable meal, Frere Augustus tried
to fill the novice’s cup with more wine. The novice showed his piety and
refused, pointing to his head, then spinning his stubby finger signifying
lightheadedness. Since Laurent had not yet taken vows he could have refused him
with speech, but perhaps after what he had done to the brother, however
inadvertently, he had felt guilty and had been silent ever since. Frere Augustus
hugged himself, and shivered, signifying the cold weather as an excuse for more
libations. The novice let out a misty sigh and let Frere Augustus pour him more
wine.
Although most learn to listen to God through
silence, Frere Augustus learned to imitate the mannerisms of others. This was
tolerated because the monsignor believed Frere Augustus to be a test of faith
sent by God. Those who could withstand his wit without laughing showed the
strength of their spirit. Of course the devil also sends us temptations. I could
not imagine God sending such an evil thing as laughter to a monastery housing
his most devout. But the Monsignor, who must deal with the outside world and
communicate with all of us, by necessity, has not taken a vow of silence. As
ungenerous as this may sound, after spending more than thirty years on this
secluded mountain, he may have needed some entertainment no matter its
inspiration.
And so through mimicry Frere Augustus
introduced the novice to the various brothers who had left not two days ago. The
small mincing steps of Frere Paul, the slight side to side sway of Frere Simon,
the disjointed almost spastic motions of clubfooted Frere Jean, and many others.
Although I should know better, his devilry almost made me laugh. The boy, who
was not yet under vows, drank heartily and laughed his heart out.
Frere Augustus reached the culmination of
his charades by imitating Monsignor Le Duc. Walking in Le Duc’s arthritic
manner to the dish cabinet, he pulled out the monsignor’s goblet. He had never
before taken his mockery to the point of blasphemy.
With a hand seemingly shaking from old age
Frere Augustus pretended to drink from the chalice. He then handed the holy
vessel to the novice, who held it in awe. In the dim candlelight the gold cup
glowed, the silver cross affixed to the side shone and the ruby mounted above
the cross sparkled. Clearly, the boy knew he would commit a blasphemy by
pretending to drink from it, and as drunk as he was he had the piety to put it
down.
Frere Augustus splashed a small amount wine
into the goblet, raised it past his hood until it disappeared completely, as if
drinking from it. He set the cup down and filled it with more wine, then offered
it to the novice who waved it away.
Frere Augustus rocked his body back and
forth and rubbed his belly in an exaggerated laughing motion, punctuated by
large puffs of breath. Then he held his fists against his face and swayed his
body from side to side as if crying. Trying to make the boy feel guilty.
Three days earlier when the novice had just
arrived, Frere Augustus had treated him to his first imitation of Monsignor Le
Duc. Laurent had roared with
laughter. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he, too, mimicked Monsignor Le Duc,
just as well as Frere Augustus. The other monks around him smiled with
amusement. Frere Augustus, the only comedian in the monastery, was unused to
fighting back the urge to laugh at other’s humor, and had burst out in hoarse,
but audible laughter. It meant that he would have to begin his ten-year vow of
silence anew.
Doubtless, it was the novice’s desire to
atone for his mistake that led him to commit such an egregious sin.
After taking a drink from the monsigor’s
cup, it appeared Laurent was performing some of his own mimicry. He dropped the
cup on the table, and his body bent to and fro at unnatural angles. The rapid
small mists of air spoke of respiratory problems. I realized then that God was
punishing him. He vomited then fell backward on to the floor, lying motionless,
breathing stopped.
Frere Augustus examined the body, and
performed the last rites. Then, curiously enough, hoisted the body over his
shoulder, picked up a candle with his free hand, and left the room.
I edged my way out from the gap and ran to
dining hall’s threshold, following the brother and novice with my eyes.
Frere Augustus carried Laurent to the
nearest door leading outside, gently set the novice down and lifted the plank of
wood that held the door fast.
His curious actions stunned me; he treated
the body of Laurent without any thought of sacred purpose. I felt I should
intrude, but knew instinctively that God did not want me to get involved just
yet. I had to wonder what the brother had been thinking. Maybe he feigned
drinking from the cup and passed it to the novice knowing he would be struck
dead. It could have been revenge for the novice’s mistake of making him laugh.
If so, I understood his feelings more than a
holy man should.
Six years ago, I burst out laughing while
watching Frere Augustus perform his evil antics. If possible, his bitterness may
be deeper than mine. I have to serve four more years of silence while he has
ten. The one time the brother’s breathing showed his anger was yesterday, when
all the other monks had left to go back out to the world. Both he and I had to
remain.
Frere Augustus opened the door and lifted
Laurent over his shoulder. He took the candle and walked outside. I left the
dining area and scurried up to the exit. Brother Augustus carried the novice
down the steps, then set him on the ground. He made the sign of the cross,
prayed, and crossed himself again.
After receiving another divinely inspired
whim, I closed the door and barred it just in time to hear a loud thump on the
other side. Two more thumps followed, then a much louder bang, and then nothing.
The silence could be a trap I dared not look outside right away. After praying a
quarter of the way through my rosary beads, I opened the small hatch built into
the door and peered outside. Frere Augustus lie sprawled face upward, his cowl
tilted back revealing his face. It was too dark to be sure, but his forehead may
have been bleeding, and tiny puffs of air left his mouth. He was still alive,
although by morning he would be frozen to death. The monsignor, who went to town
to guide the novices up to our monastery, would not be back for another day at
least. I closed the hatch, and knelt down and prayed that God give me strength
to keep the door closed, and honor his wishes, and that both Frere Augustus and
Laurent be forgiven despite their many blasphemies.
I prayed through my rosary four times to
save the monk’s and novice’s soul then got up and went back to the dining
hall. My first thought was to simply clean up, but then it had occurred to me
that I had not yet eaten.
After finishing the remains of the bread,
wine and cheese, I held the monsignor’s goblet, for the first time. It wanted
to tilt forward because of the extra weight of the cross, almost imploring me to
drink the last drops of wine. Frere Augustus’ diabolical influence had not
faded enough. I slowly raised the vessel to my lips, but a faint scent of bitter
almonds repelled me.
Copyright ©2005, William Moal All Rights Reserved