Alphaios was only vaguely aware of the commotion caused by his blood-soaked habit and the questions it raised. Violence of any kind was virtually unknown in the cloister, and the last serious accident at St. Ambrose had been years ago.
He retreated into silence, speaking only as necessary even to Brother John and Inaki. He noticed the looks from his brothers, but avoided even the most inviting and sympathetic of them. He sought to ease his mind in the rituals of the daily offices and found sustenance in the singing of the antiphonal prayers. But more than solace or succor, he sought return to centeredness, to stability in his spiritual core. He ached to let the mantle of the cloister settle softly over him. In Rome or Florence it would have been effortless. Here, it was an uneasy fit.
The city had shown him one of its natural colors. It had revealed to him the random cruelty of life in its streets. This would not have, could not have happened in cloisters.
But didn't "cruelty" imply intent, or at least some form of thought, before or during the event? Perhaps cruelty was the wrong word, for that would anthropomorphize the city, assign it human characteristics. But if not the city, who or what was responsible for these deaths? Could they really have been just senseless, especially the infant's, whose only guilt could have been the burden of original sin? Just causeless, serendipitous occurrences of no special note? Was there not more order, more benevolence on this mortal coil than that?
Alphaios felt a kinship with the woman. He had no reason to, other than she had become a familiar and welcome sight to him. But her keening, the twist of her handsome face into agony, would not leave him.
It crossed his mind that in some perverse way the woman and her family had been punished for his flouting the rules of the order—it would not have happened had he not sinned by going to the café. It even occurred to him that if he were not traveling outside the monastery to do his work, somehow the cosmic flutter would have led to some different outcome. He was too rational a being to ascribe such causations, however, and let these thoughts pass.
He didn't know what series of earthly events had preceded the accident, which truck driver had done what or when, but they held no interest for him. He wanted to blame God, but in the end couldn't even do that. He, like all before him, could only believe God's goodness would somehow compensate, no, encompass or incorporate the little family.
That he had deceived the souls of the departed with his contrived sacrament did not continue to bother him. That weight had been lifted from his mind. But though he had comforted her with his actions, his deception of the woman still living continued to gnaw at him. Perhaps it was because she must continue to live, always in mortal anguish over her loss.
The weekly chapter meeting was held four days later. Alphaios made a show of normality by attending, but he was physically exhausted and emotionally numb. He had no doubt that Brother Simon or Levi would make some kind of complaint. They would use the accident, or rather his involvement in it, to question the propriety of his working outside the monastery. He didn't feel up to defending himself, but knew it might come to that.
Prior Bartholomew began by leading the usual prayer. He then paused and indicated that this morning he would take the floor himself.
"My brothers, I have noticed loud whispers among us over the last several days. Quite uncommonly, they have centered on a habit that required special laundering." He looked directly at the launderer, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "A habit worn by Brother Alphaios and soaked in blood."
The room became still, the monks completely attentive. "Brother Alphaios need not tell you his story. I'll do it for him. A few days ago, he was a witness to an awful accident in which an infant and its father were killed by an errant truck. He helped the mother free the baby from under its father's body. The child was already dead. In the process, he and his habit became stained with blood. He provided comfort to the mother as best he could under such terrible circumstances. He was asked to remain where he was by the police and answer questions about what he'd seen. When he was done, he returned to the steps of the scriptorium, which is where I found him. As you have seen, witnessing such an event has troubled him deeply."
The room remained silent as the monks took in these details.
"God in heaven." It was Brother John, softly. He looked over at Alphaios, his eyes compassionate. Alphaios heard several other mutterings around the room, monks sharing John's sentiment.
"He should not have been outside the monastery to see such a thing." It was Brother Philemon.
This was the reaction Alphaios had been expecting. It must be a legitimate point.
"And what difference would that have made, Brother?" asked John. "The man and child would still be dead."
"And we would have no knowledge of it, and thus our pursuit of salvation would not be disturbed."
"This is what you have to say to our brother at such a time?"
Philemon had provided the means, so Brother Simon chose this moment to step in and assert himself. "Our brother is quite right, John. Now, knowing of this accident, we will pray for the souls of the infant and its father. But we've chosen to live apart from the world. We do not make the matters of the world our own."
"The mother," Alphaios forced out, his eyes on the floor. The monks turned toward him. "And the mother."
"The mother?" asked Simon. "Was she also killed?"
"No, but I pray for her soul as well."
Simon nodded solemnly. "Of course you do, Brother. So shall we all." After a brief pause, he continued. "But as Philemon has pointed out, and as you must agree, to the extent we burden ourselves with worldly matters, mortal matters, we endanger our own search for salvation. This is the very reason some of our brothers have long had concerns about your work outside our walls."
Alphaios knew Simon was correct, and had begun to wonder if he was right: the Order of St. Ambrose was a contemplative one in which prayer and spiritual pursuit were the essential vocations. Prayers for all humankind were of course offered, but in most cases these were prayers for safety from natural and manmade cataclysms and for the forgiveness of the inherent sinfulness of mankind. All else was conducted simply to feed the body and provide it shelter. Whatever anybody else thought of it, these men had deliberately removed themselves from the vagaries of the world for this singular purpose. For him, it might have been different—it had been the price of an education, and he'd never before thought to regret it.
But now, how did he reconcile the intense pull he felt from this city? How could he endure the pain that consumed him each time the jagged face of the woman came to mind—as it did every other waking moment—or the tiny lifeless body he had held so easily in one hand? The colorful and vibrant city he had reveled in just days ago had now caused his heart to seize. Joy and wonder had been replaced by awful grief. Was his experience in the city indeed a price to shrink from rather than a prize to be won?
Prior Bartholomew spoke up. "We discussed this matter fully before Brother Alphaios arrived here. It was by consensus we agreed to host him here at Cardinal Ricci's request."
"Indeed we did, Prior," Simon said. "With the understanding our way of life would remain undisturbed. Clearly that's not the case."
"How is that?"
"What should we consider a blood-soaked habit if not an intrusion? A blessing?"
"Certainly not a blessing." All in the room turned to Brother Timothy. It was rare to hear him speak in chapter. "Instead, a hardship for a brother who warrants our understanding and love."
"Ah, Timothy. But of course it is, and we give it freely."
"I'd be hard-pressed to describe just how, Simon." Timothy's voice was tight, controlled. "Let me ask you, were a brother to suffer an accident or some great emotional distress within these walls, would it still first be an intrusion into our prayers? Or would we reach out and provide comfort?"
Brother Levi flared. "But it didn't occur within our walls, Timothy. That's precisely the point." Levi had not left his animus behind. Mad Old George, it seemed, was still in the room.
Today, so was Brother Timothy. "Our brother suffers within these walls, does he not?"
"We all suffer within these walls! That is what we do. Suffer ourselves and each other, and pray for the salvation of our souls."
"And lose our love for our fellow man in the process?"
"Precisely, Brother."
Simon reached out and placed a calming hand on Levi's arm. He wouldn't believe it wise to deal in such extremes. For him, subtlety would be a slower but more certain course; some might see his moderating hand as a sign of deft leadership.
No wonder Brother Timothy chose to speak so rarely. But the old monk was not yet finished. "My brother, where is it written that our souls await our deaths to be judged? Our souls are within us today, here and now. Our eternity, should it be granted, has already begun. What we do with our souls here, however great our piety, does not go unseen."
Levi gathered himself to offer a retort, but Brother Samuel spoke first. "This intrusion wouldn't have happened were Brother Alphaios not permitted to work in the city. We should reconsider our agreement." All heads turned toward him except for Alphaios's. He remained still, his face impassive.
"Does my brother recall the accident that occurred in the manufactory," asked John, "that took Brother Christopher's arm and his life with it?"
Samuel looked annoyed. "I was here only a short time, but yes, I remember Brother Christopher. God rest his soul."
"Did we pray with him, and then for him, when God called him home?"
"Of course, Brother."
"Have we stopped making shoes?"
"No, John. What are you getting at?"
"Let's say, heaven forbid, that one of us chokes during a meal, and we're unable to dislodge the offending piece of food. Does that mean we all stop eating? Does it mean I should stay out of the kitchen and stop cooking?"
"Of course not. What point are you trying to make?"
"Tragic intrusions into our lives can happen. It's a part of mortal life. Just because Brother Alphaios encountered a tragedy outside these walls does not mean he must stop making shoes, so to speak. Simply because he sought to provide solace and became bloody in the process is not reason to force him to starve. In such instances we grieve, we offer each other such comfort as we are able, and we continue our vocation having incorporated those events into ourselves."
John's words apparently hit a chord. For the moment, the room was silent.
Brother Timothy stood up from his bench, an action nearly unheard of in chapter. He raised his frail body to its full bent height. He was trembling, and when he spoke, his voice was high with emotion.
"We have strayed far from our purposes, my brothers, to come to this uncharitable moment. Here we sit and take liberties not only with our founder's charter, but even with our Christianity. It's one thing to remove ourselves from worldly distractions so as to seek salvation. It's quite another to deliberately withhold compassion from one of God's children who is in distress. Or for some of us to pretend such love while truly penurious of heart. Show me this proscription against love, my brothers. Bring out this charter from which we stray so much! Let us examine it."
Timothy was visibly tiring, and his voice dropped. "We are weary of this life, my brothers, and our hearts have become small and hard. But we make our own load heavier by withholding our love from God's children. Compassion lifted Jesus's burden; it was indifference and hate, not compassion that made his burden too much to carry." Unsteady, he reached a hand back to guide himself back down to his seat.
Timothy's intensity raised Alphaios from his lassitude, and he looked around the room. In the immediate silence, he heard several murmurs of agreement. Some monks had eyebrows raised, wondering what drama might come next. Levi sat stone-faced, seemingly unmoved.
Simon affected boredom with the issue, his manner and tone dismissive of his brother's passion. "We've had this discussion before, Timothy. Now, Samuel suggested that our agreement with Cardinal Ricci be reconsidered in light of this incident. I recommend we—"
Prior Bartholomew held up a hand. "I appreciate your concern, Simon, and that of all our brothers. I believe where this event happened is unimportant. Brother Alphaios deserves our compassion. He witnessed a tragic accident, one of God's mysteries that occurred without apparent reason—at least no reason we can comprehend. None of us is immune. But that, my brothers, is not the central point. Had Alphaios not acted in the manner of the biblical Good Samaritan, his habit would not have been bloody, and we would not be discussing this matter now. Which of us would choose to turn aside when faced with a tragedy such as this? Which of us mistakenly recalls that Christ rebuked the Good Samaritan for his deeds?"
He let the questions hang in the air. They met silence.
"Which of you wishes to re-examine our charter in light of this discussion, as Brother Timothy has proposed?"
A half-dozen hands rose slowly to shoulder height. Brother Timothy appeared exhausted and did not raise his.
"And now, my brothers, which of you wishes to revisit our agreement with the cardinal, and then tell him why?"
Not a hand was raised.
Simon's face was red, and Levi was shifting in frustration at this turn in momentum. Brother Samuel busied himself looking at the floor.
When chapter was over, Alphaios remained seated, eyes closed, heart beating hard in pain for the woman, in deep confusion for himself. Slowly, he became aware he was not alone. When he opened his eyes, Brother John was sitting to his right, Prior Bartholomew to his left. Another eight or ten monks remained in their places. Brother Maynard was there. Brother Haman sat beside Timothy, helping the older monk support his weight. Together they found and engaged in a comforting, simple silence.
~*~*~