Upon the death of German monk Ulrich Gottard (drowned in the pale and churning waters of the River Lech), a manuscript is delivered to the Roman Curia for consideration by the Holy See. Lord Protector of Cromberg Cloister, Father Benedict, writes in his letter of submittal that he deems the document a distressing epistle due, in part, to its bizarre and heretical nature. “It is most certainly a renunciation,” Benedict writes, “however unusual, however obscure.” What is perhaps most troubling to the Lord Protector though is the reaction the manuscript incites among the younger initiates of his German cloister. Like the drowned monk himself, these youths are said to be delicate and romantic. “Troublesome searchers,” Benedict calls them, “the sort that might wipe tears from their eyes at Matins.” He notes that these “followers” of Gottard began to meet secretly in a dimly lit chamber beneath the cloister’s chapter hall. It was there they attempted an interpretation of the manuscript, treating its passages as if they were some holy writ. The group began referring to itself as the “Re’em.” “These boys cling to one another,” Father Benedict writes. “They hold each other in such dreadful high esteem. And together, they find meaning where meaning is not.”
The narrative set forth in Ulrich Gottard’s manuscript—now well known in higher echelons of the Roman Church—unfolds over a series of days during a visit to the Holy Land soon after his taking of First Orders. An amateur geologist as well as a man of God, Gottard begins his writings with a description of certain curious formations of volcanic alkaline rock in the arid landscape surrounding Mount Sinai in Egypt. Gottard notes that the rocks had, in places, fused together and formed what looked like the arches of a “black and imposing architecture, crumbling on the stony hillside—as if left there by some ancient and unknown race.”
It was in one such glittering vault of blackish stone Gottard encountered the creature that would soon overwhelm his thoughts, as well as the thoughts of his future acolytes. “The animal stood upon its four legs,” Gottard writes, “and was the size and approximate shape of a Calabrese stallion. Its coat was pale in color. The hair of its pelt was longish, matted. This was not a domesticated beast, and yet its state did not bespeak brutishness either.”
Other attributes of the animal’s appearance were entirely unique. For unlike a horse, the creature was possessed of a cloven hoof and a short leathery tail. It watched the monk’s approach with a serene and thoughtful gaze, “as a sovereign might regard his subject.” The creature’s most striking feature was the single braided horn that protruded from the center of its head. “The horn,” Gottard writes, “in certain light, appeared semi-translucent and at other times, looked as though it was made of stone. There were even moments it gleamed, as if forged of silver.” The monk soon begins referring to the creature as a “re’em”—an animal mentioned in the Vulgate of St. Jerome (Canst thou bind the horned re’em with his band in the furrow? Or will he harrow the valley after thee?)
Upon returning to the village near the mountain, Gottard ascertained that such creatures, though uncommon, were at times sighted in the area. Their home—a valley some distance west of Mount Sinai—was accessible if accompanied by a suitable guide. Gottard, unable to banish the strange encounter from his thoughts, produced coins from his purse, and a guide was brought forth: a tall young man, dressed in white linen, introduced only as Chaths.
Gottard writes that, upon seeing the young man for the first time, he felt what might well be called an uncanny sense of recognition. It was not that Gottard had met the guide before, but in Chaths he saw something of himself. “He did not resemble me in appearance. His eyes were dark. His brow, delicate and smooth. Yet all the while, I felt as though the villagers had produced, not a guide for me but a mirror. There was some evident tether stretched between the two of us. It bound us, as a man’s reflection is fastened to him but is never precisely the same as him.”
Early the following morning, Gottard and Chaths set out to locate the valley of the re’em. They made their way through the rocky landscape, with Gottard stealing sidelong glances at this curious “mirror.” The guide remained a silent presence. Any given query from Gottard produced, at most, a few mumbled phrases in Chath’s own language. The journey lasted longer than the monk expected, and soon the guide indicated they should make camp for the night. This would allow them to arrive at the valley by morning light. “It would be unwise to approach after nightfall,” Chaths said in words finally plain enough for Gottard to comprehend.
“Are there dangers?” Gottard asked.
“We are in the desert,” Chaths replied. “There are always dangers.”
Despite a long day of travel, the monk found he could not sleep. A wind called from the distant hills. Small animals scuttled in the shadows just beyond the reach of the firelight. Gottard spent much of the night considering patterns in the flames. He imagined he saw within them the re’em, walking in circles. Wherever the re’em trod, black formations of stone appeared to rise—elegant horns that pierced the earth. The creature shifted and turned in the light. It drew nearer, then moved farther away. The re’em no longer looked like a sovereign. Instead, it seemed to Gottard that he watched the dance of some ancient god.
After hours of this, the monk finally forced himself to turn from these visions. He regarded his sleeping guide and was surprised to find that the so-called mirror of the other man’s face had changed during the night. There was now something in Chaths’ features that reminded Gottard—not only of himself—but also of a boy called Aenor he’d known during his schooldays. Aenor had been a quiet sort, tall and thin, prone to exhaustion. He and Gottard often walked together along the stony banks of the River Lech. The boys skipped stones across the river’s silt-white waters. They talked of the life of the soul. They would sometimes sit together beneath a crooked tree. Aenor would put his head on Gottard’s shoulder, claiming he needed rest. Once, Aenor had taken Gottard’s hand and said, “My mother says I am handsome. Do you think I am handsome as well, Ulrich?” Gottard did not know how to respond to such a question. He merely waited in silence, gazing out at the white River Lech. Finally, the silence itself became an answer.
The sun rose like a bronze seal above the desert. To Gottard, the white sky looked like the closed door of Heaven. The monk went to kneel at the edge of the firelight. He wanted to pray in order to soothe himself. His memories of Aenor troubled him. The boy had been gentle and so kind. Gottard told Aenor that he could not love him. He loved only God.
“I bowed my head,” he writes. “As I began my prayers, I felt a terrible sensation. It was as if an invisible hand had pressed itself against the very surface of my soul. For the first time, my prayers felt as though they would not rise. They would not ascend the heavenly ladder. Instead, they remained trapped inside my own flesh. Confined in that prison.”
This disturbance caused Gottard to call out, waking Chaths. The guide blinked at him in the morning light.
“Can you hear my voice, brother?” Gottard asked the guide. His voice was pleading.
“I hear you plainly,” Chaths replied.
Gottard crossed himself. “And when I make the cross, can you see it?”
“I can see your gesture,” Chaths said. He stood and brought water in a wooden cup. “You must drink.”
Gottard did drink. He found he wanted to take Chaths’ hand. He wanted to feel the warmth of the guide, the life of him. “I recognize something in you,” he said.
“You should drink more water,” Chaths replied.
“Please,” the monk said. “You hold some secret.”
Chaths knelt beside Gottard at the edge of the camp. It was as if he too intended to pray. But instead, he only gazed out over the landscape that was covered in bluish rock. Finally, he said, “It’s not an animal you seek, Brother Gottard. Not as you believe.”
“What then?” Gottard asked.
The guide lowered his head.
“What else could it be?” Gottard asked again.
“The animal does not exist as other things do,” the guide responded. “Sight of it is thought to be caused by a fissure that develops in the brain. A fever—”
Gottard remembered feeling ill a few nights before he encountered the re’em. He’d attributed the sickness merely to the sort of malaise that often came on during travel. “You’re saying the creature is some kind of dream?” Gottard asked.
Chaths shook his head. “The fissure—it allows a man to see crossways. The animal walks there in that light.”
“I don’t understand. Crossways in the light?”
Chaths offered more water to the monk. “This will help. The water soothed me as well.”
“You’ve been afflicted by the fever too?” Gottard asked.
Chaths nodded. “That is why I am to be your guide.”
The idea that sickness had caused him to see the re’em troubled Gottard. Was it possible he chased some mirage? Was all of this a fool’s errand? “If I am sick,” he asked, “will I be cured?
Chaths looked at the monk solemnly. “There is no cure, Brother Gottard,” he said. “There is only the valley.”
Chaths indicated they should begin their journey before the sun rose too high above the mountains. Gottard did his best not to stumble upon the rocks as they walked. He felt ill from his sleeplessness. Perhaps, he thought, the fever might return. Soon, the two men came upon, not a valley, but a kind of tunnel in the low wall of a rocky outcropping. The same black volcanic stones that Gottard had seen upon his original encounter with the re’em surrounded the entrance to the tunnel. For a moment, the passage appeared to waver, fluctuating in shape and size. Gottard wondered if this anomaly was yet another symptom of the supposed fissure in the brain.
Chaths indicated that Gottard must be silent once they were inside the tunnel. The horned creatures were not easily disturbed, he said. But there were other things that lived in the valley beyond the tunnel. Things that did not appreciate the presence of men. The young guide seemed troubled as he spoke, as if he could perceive some future the monk could not. Gottard wanted to provide comfort to Chaths. He reached toward the guide. But the guide pulled away, indicating that Gottard was not to touch him once they were in the valley.
It is in Gottard’s description of the valley that the sense of his manuscript begins to falter. For what he saw after emerging from the other side of the tunnel does not correlate to any known topography in the vicinity of Mount Sinai. “It was a landscape, verdant and lush,” he writes. “Like a garden allowed to run wild. There were large bright flowers, maddening things with fleshlike petals as big as a man’s hand, and springs that spilled forth miraculously from stone.” Further along, the landscape began to change and the earth became covered with what Gottard describes as a new variety of rock. The monk posits that the pressure of ancient volcanic activity had caused crystals to form. The large crystals protruded from the earth and were of varying colors: deep vermilion, saffron, and azure. Sunlight streamed into the valley at an odd angle (crosswise, thought Gottard) striking the crystals and causing a prismatic effect.
The deeper Gottard and Chaths moved into the garden, the more it seemed as though they were walking on the floor of a strange inland sea. The waters of the sea were composed of wildly contrasting colors, so utterly immersive that Gottard soon began to feel as though he was drowning. He fell to his knees finally, and Chaths came to support him. Gathered in the guide’s arms, Gottard forgot he’d been warned not to touch Chaths in the valley, and he put his hand on the young man’s face and then on his neck. Chaths was beautiful in that moment. “Not like a mirror,” Gottard writes. “He was entirely himself.”
It was then that Gottard heard the sound of hoof on stone, and he turned to look out into the valley. Standing between two of the great crystalline formations that rose from the earth was the horse with the single horn. And yet, this was no horse. Gottard was now certain of that. The re’em approached the two men, lowering its head. Colors that rose from the surrounding crystals appeared to intensify. They shifted to paint the body of the pale beast. Gottard, in his delirium, believed that the horn itself began to bleed. He realized the protrusion was made of neither crystal nor bone. It was some form of condensed light. It ran in streams down the creature’s face, filling its black and thoughtful eyes with color.
Gottard reached out to touch the braided horn (for the re’em was now close enough for him to do just that). Yet before he could touch the horn, he sensed a second approach. Chaths had said the re’em were not alone in the valley, and Gottard realized with great and trembling fear that this was true. The monk writes: “The being—for it was a sort of being that approached—proved too large to actually be perceived by my eye. It seemed instead that the atmosphere, the very air of the valley, grew dense. And it also seemed that the being sang in a voice that was too loud to be heard by my ear. Yet I could sense the sound of it, nonetheless.”
“What advances?” Gottard asked.
“I am sorry, Brother Gottard,” Chaths replied.
“What do you mean you are sorry?” the monk asked, turning to look at his guide. The young man was alive with bleeding color. Light swam across his body. He stood with his palm against the neck of the re’em.
“You are not permitted,” Chaths said.
Gottard felt a horror at this. For he wanted to understand this place, to understand the re’em. And even more, to understand Chaths himself. “Who grants such permission?” Gottard asked.
Chaths did not respond.
“It was then,” Gottard writes, “that the approaching form—the great intelligence—enclosed me. I felt as if I was drawn up into the palm of a vast hand—a hand too large for me to see. Chaths watched from his place in the garden, as did the re’em. I was lifted high enough I could perceive the entirety of the valley. All of it was alive with maddening color. I saw the lush and fleshlike flowers shining. I saw a whole heard of re’em running—making rivers in the shifting light. I was drawn higher still, until I felt that I was being pulled out into the heavenly spheres. I could hear the spheres singing; they joined their voices with the voice of the great being. And still, I was drawn upward, toward the cold Empyrean itself. When finally I awoke, I found myself on the hillside where I’d first encountered the beast. I lay beneath the crumbling black architecture there, already forgetting the colors I’d seen. Such was the dullness of our world. I called out for Chaths. My call went unanswered. The guide had remained in the valley. Likely he’d known all along he would stay. Perhaps that was the fate of all guides. And there beneath the black rock, I fell into a new delirium. I dreamed that I too would one day guide someone to the valley. And then I would finally be permitted.