CHAPTER XXX

 

The Year 1120

The Great Forest – Late November

 

Berold the butcher had heard of the unusual hermit tree in the forest. The sight of the curiosity did not disappoint him. He stopped to rest his donkey and pray in the tree chapel. When he was done, he circled the ancient oak, looking up with wonder at the towers in its upper branches. He almost tripped over the monk who sat whittling on a three-legged stool at the foot of the stairway made of branches.

“I beg your pardon, good Dom,” the butcher said.

“Are you lost?” asked the monk.

Berold shook his head. “Not at all, Sir. I was traveling this way, and I stopped to pray for a safe journey.”

“Ah. Well then, you are certainly welcome.”

“Do you live in this tree, Dom?”

The hermit nodded. “I built those towers myself.” He rose from his seat extending his hand. “I am Dom Christopher.”

Berold was delighted. He had not expected to meet the hermit himself.

A slender cat with deep brown markings and oversized ears was walking around Berold’s donkey, sniffing curiously. The cat’s tail had gone very fat, but apparently it was curious enough to brave the danger of the larger animal. The donkey brayed, causing the cat to jump with an odd little screech. It arched its back, flattened its ears, and hissed.

“Now, Gertrude, that is no way to treat our guests.”

It surprised Berold to hear the monk talk to a cat as if it were a person.

“She is named for the patron saint of cats,” Dom Christopher said. He pointed to the donkey. “Is that yours?” he asked.

Berold nodded.

The hermit patted the animal. “What a fine creature. Carrying quite a burden, isn’t he? Is it a long journey you are on?”

“My name is Berold, sir, Berold, the butcher, from Rouen. I am bound for Barfleur.” He puffed his chest out proudly. “I have been summoned as butcher to King Henry the First.”

“Well, now, that is quite an honor. You must be a skilled craftsman with a knife.”

Berold blushed shyly. “I do my best, sir.”

“I’m a bit of a master with a knife myself. Artistically speaking, that is.”

Berold liked the hermit. It would be impossible to guess his age. The monk was a tall man with a kindly face. He had bright gray eyes that looked like they could see right through you, and bushy eyebrows like fuzzy caterpillars. What little hair was left on his head was gray, but his beard still had touches of gold. The rounded shape of his body under the brown robe he wore suggested a man who ate well and enjoyed his food.

“You must be hungry having traveled all that way. I was about to have some dinner myself. Would you be so kind as to join me?”

Berold smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

“Well then, Berold, shall we relieve your donkey of his heavy burden and let him graze? I believe he will find the bounty of the forest floor a tasty treat.”

The small cat Gertrude had climbed the tree and was dragging herself on her stomach along a branch that looked barely strong enough to hold her weight. She dangled precariously over the donkey’s head, flicking her tail. The creature ignored her, standing stoically as the men lifted the weight from its back.

Gratefully, Berold washed the dust of the road from his hands and face in the monk’s rain barrel. Already feeling much refreshed, he followed Dom Christopher up the amazing vine-like stair to his tower cell.

Even on the streets of merchants among the artisans of Rouen the butcher had never seen anything like the shelves of small wooden saints in the monk’s tower. Each statue would fit in your hand. All were carved from wood with intricate and beautiful details, polished and oiled until they shone.

He picked up a statue of Michael the Archangel. Dozens of eyes had been carved into its wings. “These statues are beautiful,” he said. “You spoke truly when you said you are a master with a knife.”

“Well I would hope a man of the cloth would have no occasion to lie.” Dom Christopher appeared from the other room where he had been bustling noisily. He placed a loaf of bread, a portion of yellow cheese, some fresh grapes and apples, and a large jug on the rough-hewn table in the center of the room. He stirred the coals until the fire crackled, swinging the spit that held a small pot over the flames.

“Those are my saints. I suppose you could say each one is like my child, for I create them from only the spark of an idea.”

“How do you get them to look so real? Do you work from drawings?”

The monk shook his head. “Don’t need to. I simply look at the wood and see the saint inside waiting to be revealed. Then I pick up my knife and carve away all the excess. I think about each saint’s story, and sometimes they seem to tell me how they want to be portrayed, as if I can hear their voices in my mind.”

He laughed at Berold’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, you need not worry, son. I am quite sane. It is all in my imagination, you see.”

Berold blushed. “Forgive me.”

The monk patted him on the back. “Most travelers who pass this way like to buy a saint as a memento or a good luck charm, depending on their level of superstition.”

Berold smiled. “I think your saints are amazing. I would like to buy one for a memento of my journey. This is the greatest adventure of my life so far.”

“Delightful!” Dom Christopher exclaimed. “How wise you are for one so young. Already you have discovered the best way to look at the journey of life. If we find adventure in our days, our lives are full ones.”

“I had not thought about it before, good Dom. But I had also never walked the road and seen the things this journey has shown me.” Berold grinned happily. “Are your saints expensive?”

“Whatever offering you would like to make is the price of a saint, son. The money does not go to me. It goes toward the restoration of Wandrille abbey, which was sacked not once but twice by Vikings. I can trace my own ancestry back to some of those fierce invaders. Perhaps my saints are a way of making restitution. You may have heard the abbey bells chiming the hour of prime as you came up the road.”

Berold nodded. He picked up a statue of a smiling saint whose arm was wrapped around a winged ox. “I like this one,” he said.

Dom Christopher scratched his beard. “That is an interesting choice, to be sure. The great Saint Luke was a brilliant man. He was a physician, you know, and the author of one of the gospels. Oddly enough, I wager you did not know that Luke happens to be the patron of butchers.”

Berold looked surprised. “No. I did not. Perhaps there is something to superstition after all for me to unknowingly choose the patron of butchers.”

The monk nodded. He took the saint from the young man’s hands and placed it back on the shelf.

“Perhaps there is. We shall never know for sure. But that is not the saint for you.”

“Why not?”

“Take this one instead.”

Dom Christopher handed Berold a statue of a bearded man. The muscles in the man’s arms and legs looked so real it was hard to believe he was made of wood. From the knees down, the hermit had carved waves, like the saint was walking in water. Even a few small fish swam around the base. The saint carried a curly headed boy on his shoulders and a staff in his hand. The child looked down at the saint lovingly. Berold noticed that this saint’s face was a mirror image of the monk himself.

“That is Saint Christopher,” the Dom said, “my patron, of course.” He beamed. “Handsome isn’t he?”

Berold chuckled. “Quite. And you think Saint Christopher would be better for me than the patron saint of butchers?”

Dom Christopher nodded. “To be sure.”

“But why?”

“Know you Christopher’s story?”

Berold shook his head. “Forgive me, but I know little about saints in general.”

“There is no shame in that, my boy. Saints were ordinary people who rose above their lower human natures to become extraordinary in the eyes of God and men. They are role models who remind us that we have the power within us to transform our lives as well. Saints make fine symbolic friends. They provide lessons in holiness, or the oneness with our Creator that makes us whole.”

The monk poured wine from the jug into two tankards. “Come, Berold, sit down. I shall tell you about this Saint Christopher. He is the patron of travelers, bachelors, and those in peril from water. He is a handy saint to have in your possession if you plan to cross the sea.”

“That is a good point.” Berold smiled.

The hermit raised his tankard. “To your health,” he toasted.

Berold broke bread with the hermit. With the first bite he realized how hungry he was. While they made short work of the delicious humble fare, the monk told him more.

“Christopher was a giant, you see. His could not have been an easy life, for anyone who is different in this world becomes an object of ridicule. He lived apart from other men, perhaps for that reason. His hermitage was on the banks of a very dangerous river.”

Berold turned the statue over in his hands, studying the workmanship. “Who is the child riding on Saint Christopher’s shoulders?” he asked.

“Well,” said the hermit, “one day this child came to the giant and begged him to help him cross the river, for it was urgent that he reach the other side. Christopher hoisted the boy onto his shoulders, took his walking stick, and stepped into the flood. Unbeknownst to Christopher, it was the Christ Child he carried.”

“Oh!” Berold rested his chin on his hands, caught up in the hermit’s tale.

“It is said as he crossed the river, not knowing it was Our Lord Himself he carried, the giant’s burden became heavier and heavier, until it felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders. The current was strong, threatening to sweep him away. He considered turning back, for the struggle to cross the stream became very great. But Christopher never gave up, even when the water threatened to pull him under. The pain in his cramping legs was great, the water icy cold. His shoulders ached from the immense weight put upon them. But Christopher persistently carried on until he got to the other side and stood on solid ground again. An important lesson for all of us, do you agree?”

Berold nodded.

“You can imagine the giant’s surprise when he discovered the great burden he had borne upon his shoulders was our Savior Himself. Humbly, he knelt to receive the Christ Child’s blessing and gratitude for his fortitude.”

“That is a wonderful story,” Berold said. “I like this saint very much.”

“Saint Christopher is a powerful ally indeed,” said the Dom. “It is said he holds a special place within the sacred heart of Jesus.”

Berold smiled. “And does he come with a superstition too?”

Dom Christopher laughed. “Of course he does. It is believed that whoever looks on the image of Saint Christopher will not die on that day.”

“Well that is good enough for me. I shall buy him.” Berold drew his purse from the inner pocket of his cloak and counted out a fair amount of coins. He slipped the saint carefully into his other pocket, buttoning it up to keep the statue safe.

“What a fine cloak,” Dom Christopher said. “A cloak like that will protect you from the most frigid cold.”

The bubbling stew in the pot the hermit had set on the fire boiled over, making the lid dance and sending sparks flying when the liquid hit the flames.

“Ah!” said Dom Christopher, “The main course is ready.”

He ladled generous servings into wooden bowls, placing one in front of the butcher. “Now come and eat some more. Tell me, what news is there of Rouen?”

Berold enjoyed his visit with the hermit. The food and wine refreshed him, as did the conversation. He found the monk to be worldly wise and witty, full of fascinating anecdotes. For a hermit, the man was more aware of current events than anyone Berold knew. The Dom seemed to know everything about the king, his accomplishments, his history, and his politics.

“I thought hermits withdrew from the world,” Berold said.

The monk laughed as he poured them more wine. “The only real withdrawal from the world is called death, son.” He shrugged. “But perhaps I am unusual. I have a tendency to make my own rules, you see. But since I am technically a hermit and prohibited from performing most of the sacraments, I cannot see any harm in being a nonconformist.”

When Berold and his donkey were ready to set off down the road again, the butcher knelt to receive the monk’s blessing. He was surprised when Dom Christopher turned and blessed the donkey also.

“You do not have much farther to go. Godspeed, Berold.”