The abbot gives the knock, and with a supple, subdued ripple of robes, as one body the community rises.
“Iube, Dómine, benedícere.”25
The sun has set, and the steady warmth of candlelight shines on the huge shared breviaries set upon the slanting lecterns.
The response comes back: “Noctem quiétam et finem perféctum concédat nobis Dóminus omnípotens.26 Amen.”
Brother Cedd, embarrassed, his head bowed, feeling conspicuous, has taken his usual place among the other novices. He stumbled on Brother Cassian’s foot as he went past him, and Cassian put out a hand to steady him.
The familiar prayers unfold in peace; the short reading, the versicle and response, the silent examination of conscience, the Lord’s Prayer, the confession and absolution, more responses. Then the psalms, back and forth across the chapel like the tidal rhythm of the sea on a calm night; unhurried, blessed by darkness, by shadows, by the friendliness of long acquaintance.
In the monastic way of things, they alternate verses; and each verse is punctuated by a little firebreak of silence. It makes nonsense of the text, but it keeps a man awake for that very reason. Without that small break, it is so easy for the mouth to be left praying while the mind wanders off.
“Qui hábitat in adiutório Altíssimi”,27 begins Psalm 90 – and the cantor pauses – then finishes the verse: “in protectióne Dei cæli commorábitur.”28
The quiet sea of the chanting voices flows in their turn: “Dicet Dómino: Suscéptor meus es tu, et refúgium meum…”29 and pauses. Then takes up the chant again: “Deus meus sperábo in eum.”30
Brother Cedd loves Compline. Its serenity is imbued with unshakeable confidence, the peace of the soul whose trust is in God. He hopes Father Gilbert never manages to infiltrate the Office with polyphony; and notes that even thinking it tells him he imagines his own future is here.
As he participates in the cadences of the chant, he is conscious of the community as one living being, against whose side he can lean, can rest. The common purpose of prayer weaves a net of integrated intention that upholds him. He experiences it afresh, having questioned his place in it, and acknowledges how rare such a thing must be.
He wonders what on earth he’s going to say to the abbot, how he can possibly give an account of himself. Still the sense of uselessness and inadequacy wants to push him into absolute despair. Among the fine scholars and accomplished men in this abbey, what has he to offer that’s of any worth at all? How can he make any kind of contribution, or find a role for himself that will be of service to anyone?
At the same time, as he looks at the peaceful faces of his community, illumined by candlelight and also by the serious joy of this calling, he wants so much to be part of it.
Then, quite apart from that, transcending the exterior detail of his life and theirs, the extraordinary experience in the apple loft, the opening of his heart to receive Christ’s presence. How can this sit alongside the Eucharist? he puzzles. Is there more than one way to receive the living reality of Christ?
He tries to remember what Father Theodore has taught them, about touching Christ the living Word in the Scriptures and in the tradition of Holy Church. He feels sure Father Abbot has spoken to them many times about kindness and gentleness as a sort of Eucharistic grace… “Remember me”, the words of Jesus, and also of the thief on the cross. And now he can’t recall what it was Father John said.
But he does remember with absolute clarity William saying that all anybody has to do is humbly ask, and then Christ will come in. And he knows he is not the same now as before he said his “Amen” to William’s prayer. He doesn’t feel excited or joyous, nothing like that. Just this unlikely and entirely unfamiliar assurance deep inside, that despite his apprehension about facing Abbot John, and his conviction that he has nothing worthwhile to offer this community, somehow, regardless of the outcome, everything will be all right.
Then they are singing the Salve Regina, the Office is ended, they are in silence now. He does as Brother Thomas told him, stays in his place as the community quietly disperses. He sits with his eyes closed, listening to the discreet sounds of community movement: robes, sandals, the creak of wood. He feels men walking all around him, the subdued stir of their going.
The unexpectedness of a hand laid on his shoulder startles open his eyes. He looks round, and there’s Father Theodore, not wanting to walk away without the “Welcome home” of a touch, a nod, and a smile. He loves Father Theodore. They all do. And he knows the solemns call him just “Theo”. With a pang of insecurity, he wonders, how do you come to be so loved? Can it really be only by staying? Is a man’s own self honestly all that is asked? Is it enough?
Nobody else looks at him; they are in the Great Silence now Compline is ended, and part of the silence is solitude, the withdrawal from seeking involvement and interaction. The treasure of the silence is the unadulterated company of God. In a community, this can be given only by common permission; you have to leave people alone. Brother Cedd knows that; but he’s grateful that Colin the postulant risks a glance and a quick smile as he goes by. He wonders if Colin has noticed he’s been away all day. Of course he has. What does he think about it, then? Does he care? Do any of them? Will it make a difference if he goes or if he stays, to anybody at all except himself?
Often after Compline, here and there in the chapel a man will stay on in his own private prayer. Not tonight. Brother Cedd, watching the chapel decisively empty, realizes that every man here understands the situation completely, and is withdrawing from intruding on what comes next.
Father Bernard, last to go, walks round the choir extinguishing the lights – all except the lamp where Brother Cedd is sitting, the light near the way out, Abbot John’s, and those of the two stalls nearest his. The sacristan puts the snuffer back in its place, and unobtrusively walks away; but he sets the lighted lantern down on the floor nearest the candle by the door. You think of others. This has been drilled into all of them by Father Theodore since the day they crossed the threshold. You are realistic about your own needs – don’t starve yourself, don’t beat yourself silly, don’t torture yourself with misery unshared – but you think of others, always, every time. Like that, thinks Cedd; you think it through. You leave them a lantern. That’s how they know you care about them. You leave them a light. You don’t take it with you. Maybe that’s the only kind of contribution they want of him. He hopes so, because he surely can’t think of anything better he could have to give.
Now this is it, then. Across the choir, his abbot is sitting perfectly still, not looking at him, but obviously waiting. With that horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Brother Cedd wonders how much trouble he’s going to be in. Time to find out. As he crosses over the flagged divide between the two facing sets of stalls, he wonders if Abbot John will actually tell him he can’t stay now. That you can’t just wander off for a day. Or maybe extend his novitiate for months and months if he doesn’t just tell him to pack his things and go in the morning. Or perhaps there will be a scolding, taking him to task, reminding him to confess it at tomorrow’s Chapter, asking him who he thinks he is to be taking matters into his own hands like this.
Brother Cedd kneels by the entrance to the abbot’s stall, in the pool of candlelight, getting the words ready in his mind – I implore you, Father… or maybe, Father, I do not deserve…
“Hello,” says Father John, with simple friendliness. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you safe back. Are you all right?”
Brother Cedd didn’t know what to expect, but not that, anyway. To be spoken to like a friend. He lifts his head, and meets the abbot’s gaze. The man looks happy, genuinely pleased to see him.
Father John gets up from his place in the abbot’s stall, and steps down to the stone-flagged way where Cedd is kneeling. “Budge up,” he says unaffectedly. “Make room for me.”
He sits on the floor beside him, leaning his back against the wood panelling that fronts the stalls. Brother Cedd, disconcerted, abandons his humble kneeling and does the same.
“What happened?” John asks him gently.
And it all comes tumbling out. The wretched inadequacy of his dull ordinariness. Bad at Latin, worse at Greek, only just able to sight-read. Can’t follow some of Father Theodore’s explanations of theology and philosophy. Bored out of his skull by some of the books they have to read. Not really sure how to go about his hours of private prayer – what you should do, what you should say. Nothing mystical happens. And then (now he really hadn’t meant to mention this, it just comes out somehow) some of the brothers drive him to distraction, irritate him beyond belief. Brother Cassian whistling absently through his teeth, Brother Felix always – always – having to be first, having to be right, taking Cedd’s ideas expressed tentatively in privacy and waving them about as if they were his own. Brother Boniface sitting next to him in chapel, sliding the notes like a man paid to sing slushy love songs in a tavern. Brother Robert – oh, save us – Brother Robert! Anything you say to him, anything at all, if there are two possible ways to understand a thing, you can guarantee, every time without exception he’ll take it the way you don’t mean, however far-fetched and unlikely that interpretation might be. How can a man so thick be so inventive?
He stops abruptly. Criticizing the brethren like this is absolutely forbidden. You speak directly or you don’t speak at all. His own sense of inferiority might at least have made his abbot feel sorry for him, like a dog that grovels at your feet hopes not to be kicked. But what is coming out of his mouth now strikes him as sheer sneering spite. And he feels ashamed.
Slowly, in the silence that follows this outpouring, he makes himself look at his abbot to see how it is received. John is sitting, his head tipped back, leaning against the stalls, the biggest grin imaginable on his face as he listens to this.
“Oh, my brother,” he says, “you do me good. You sound exactly like me. Ashes in your teeth, isn’t it, sometimes?” He pauses. Then he says, still without looking at the novice: “And is that all it was? For this you wanted to leave us? Did you truly think anybody else was any different?”
“Well…” Brother Cedd struggles for an answer that doesn’t sound too hopelessly lame. “Everybody else is so patient, so accomplished, so kind. Apart from me.”
The abbot is laughing now, shaking his head. “Thinks every single man of us!” he says.
“Really?” Brother Cedd feels inclined to push this. He recognizes that such a conversation may not too often be possible. Self-preoccupation is wearisome in other people. He will probably have to shut up about this now if he stays; but it frets at him all the time.
“I watch the professed brothers sometimes, here in the chapel. They don’t look ill at ease – well, mostly. They look serene and composed, as though they have it all together, as though they’ve got the hang of it in a way I don’t think I ever will. That’s why I went to find Father William. Because he was the only man I ever saw sitting in chapel with tears running down his face. I thought he’d understand.”
The abbot looks at him then, taken aback. “William? De Bulmer? My brother-in-law? Is that where you’ve been? How did you know where he lives?”
Brother Cedd feels his face grow hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Father. I shouldn’t have been listening,” he confesses. “Back in May when the bishop was here, Father William was up in the novitiate talking with Father Theodore, and saying something about his house in Caldbeck. My family lives near Caldbeck, so I knew where he meant. There was only one place it could be, because I knew all the other families settled there. I thought if I found him, he’d understand what it’s like to feel so out of step, so confoundedly miserable.”
“I see,” says the abbot. “And did he?”
Brother Cedd hesitates. “He… well, he didn’t seem all that keen to talk about his own experiences. He said life is mostly about ordinary things – just the daily round and the work we do. He said nobody can ever live up to expectations. That if I found anything lacking in the community I should put it there myself, and that could be my contribution. And he said… well… I think ‘sulkiness’, ‘petulance’, and ‘self-pity’ were the words he used.”
The abbot digests this in silence. “That… erm… that doesn’t sound so very understanding,” he says then. “Not what you’d been hoping for, I’d guess. Was that… it sounds as if it could have been extremely hurtful.”
“I know.” Brother Cedd nods. “Doesn’t it! But somehow, it wasn’t. There’s something about him, that man. He’s quite frightening in a way, and not very approachable. And, yes, he didn’t pull his punches. But that wasn’t the main thing, Father.”
John waits.
“He said… that the whole point of life is coming to know Jesus – to actually meet him, he said. Live every day with him. He meant, be with him like you and I are sitting here together now. He said all I had to do was ask, and that would happen.”
He lapses into silence. John takes this in, asks: “And – did you?”
“I wasn’t sure how to, or what to say. I asked if he’d say the prayer for me, so I could just say the Amen. And he did. Just talking to Jesus as if he was really there with us, up in the apple loft! And, Father… I can hardly put this into words, it seems so personal – but when he did that, when he spoke to Jesus I mean, his voice was so full of love and trust. It brought out into the open the thing that made me want to go and find him, though I couldn’t have put my finger on it before I heard him make that prayer. It’s partly because one way and another you can see he’s been through the mill, but it’s also that hidden thing inside him… I’m not sure what to call it… but the thing it most reminded me of is love. I think it somehow makes him into a living link to Jesus. I can’t put it any better than that. But that prayer of his – I did say ‘Amen’, and it has made a difference inside me.”
Both men feel the quality of silence undergo a subtle shift. This happens sometimes. Silence becomes presence, something holy, a place you don’t want to leave and don’t easily forget. Holy ground. The abbot closes his eyes. Thank you, William. Thank you, Jesus.
Then he brings himself back to the question he must ask. “So. What do you want to do? Things got bad enough that you had to take some time out. That’s all right. I understand. What do you want to do now?”
Brother Cedd swallows. “Well, I’d better explain myself to Father Theodore in the morning. And I’m very sorry I just walked off without saying anything. But will it be all right if… can I just come home, and carry on?”
The abbot nodded. “You can indeed. If ‘home’ is what it is to you, then here is where you should be. And, Brother Cedd, I don’t want to put any kind of unhelpful burden onto you, but I think you ought to know, you are not the only man here to feel inadequate. This day long I have been asking myself what kind of a useless abbot must I be that you couldn’t come and talk to me, and I know Father Theodore has been worried to death about you. And Father Clement, sitting outside in the dusk near the porter’s lodge all this evening, waiting – do you not know how much he depends on you? Haven’t you realized how vital to him is your skill in lettering and illumination, now his sight is fading? I think it just about tore him in two when he saw that you’d gone. It’s been a long day for him.”
Brother Cedd looks at the abbot, shocked. “But… my work in the scriptorium is nothing special! Anybody could do it.”
“Oh, aye, of course,” says the abbot, getting up, reaching out his hand to Brother Cedd to pull him onto his feet: “but that’s not what Father Clement says. Still, what would he know? Come on, lad, it’s getting late now. Time for bed.”
Cupping his hand round the candles near his stall and then Cedd’s, he blows them out. Father Bernard wouldn’t let that pass, thinks the novice. “Always snuff, lads; never blow.” Still, at least the abbot does pinch out the smouldering spark at the top of each wick before he leaves it.
As they reach the archway through to the south transept and the night stairs, the abbot blows out the last candle, stoops, and picks up the lantern. But then he pauses. Brother Cedd looks at him in enquiry. When John meets the young man’s gaze, his eyes are very serious. “Brother Cedd, I’m in two minds whether to mention this. What I’m about to tell you now is a great trust. You must never pass it on, not to anybody. Do you understand me?”
Cedd nods, round-eyed, wondering what on earth this can be.
“My brother-in-law, William de Bulmer – it is of utmost importance that we be discreet about where he lives. I don’t know if word reached you of this, but during the time he lived as part of this community, he attempted to take his own life.”
Brother Cedd feels this information jar through his whole being in brutal shocks. John, holding the lantern, sees it in his face. “Oh. You didn’t know. Maybe I should not have told you. Never mind.”
That image flashes back in Cedd’s mind again as if it were playing out before him right here and now; the white, strained, exhausted face, and the tears rolling down unchecked. Tried to take his own life. Whatever happened?
“The thing is,” the abbot continues, “as I expect you realize, that is a felony; and by some unfortunate mishap – we do not know how – the bishop got wind of it. For one reason and another he has a very low opinion of my brother-in-law. He has tried quite hard to track him down. So, though William comes and goes, we are discreet; we do not discuss who he is or where he lives. And we are vague about his personal history, if asked. His life depends on it, do you see? Please don’t tell anyone – apart from Father Theodore, who also knows where he is. Don’t let it be known where you went, or to whom. Just keep it close, keep it safe. Brother – can I trust you? I do hope so.”
“I will never tell anyone but Father Theodore, upon my life,” the novice promises soberly: “ever.”
Father John looks at him carefully, and nods. “Thank you,” he says as they come to the bottom of the stairs: “because I love that man. He is very dear to me. He’s not easy company, but you couldn’t wish for a stauncher friend. In any time of trouble, he’s like a rock. I’m glad you found your way to him. He gave you good advice.”
He is speaking one shade above silence. They must not violate the holy peace of the night with conversation. The abbot gives the lantern into Cedd’s hand so he can see to climb the stairs. The moon lights his own way along the cloister to the abbot’s lodge.