Smudge and the Book of Mistakes Read Free

tangled strands of straw, a lion that resembled a mouse. And worst of all—there were smudges!
    â€œYou mean I must do the same thing over and over?”
    â€œYes, until it is right.”
    â€œBut it will never be right.”
    â€œOf course, it will. See here.”
    Brother Gregory turned to the last page of his book of mistakes. The paintings were as fine as the masterful work he did now.
    â€œIt will only take practice,” he told Smudge. When he saw Smudge wince he said, “God gives us talent but we have to meet God halfway.”

    There were weeks of a ’s. Thousands of a ’s marched through Smudge’s dreams. There was ink on his robe and ink on his hood and ink on his nose.
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    The snows fell silent as feathers on the monastery roof. The gulls flew south. The snows melted, the gulls returned to the island. The first bit of spring green poked up amongst the rocks. The monks had their yearly baths in preparation for Easter.
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    Smudge was working on his e ’s. It was so hard to get that little enclosed space just the same in all the e ’s without actually getting out a ruler and measuring but Brother Gregory wouldn’t allow that.
    â€œYou must develop your eye,” he said.

    Brother Ethbert peeked into Brother Gregory’s cell to see how the Christmas Story was coming along.
    â€œHe’s only at the e’s,” Brother Ethbert told Brother Bede.
    Brother Bede gathered his courage and went to the abbot.
    â€œDear Abbot,” he said, “it will be years before the Christmas Story is finished. Heaven forbid, but what if you never live to see it? Let Brother Ethbert do the lettering.”
    What Brother Bede could not know is that an angel had come to the abbot. At least the abbot thought it wa s an angel. It was something between a great shadow from the pine tree outside his window and a kind of rosy glow that comes over everything when the sun sinks down at the end of the day.
    Because he was a little hard of hearing and because angels tend to whisper in your ear, what the abbot thought the angel said was that he would live to see the Christmas Story finished. The abbot knew the longer it took, the longer he would live.
    â€œDon’t bother me with details,” the abbot told Brother Bede and sent him on his way.

    The little green lettuces sprung up from the warm earth. There were cockles and winkles in the rock pools. There were fresh peas in the soup and strawberries for dessert. The feast days came and went.
    At last Smudge drew a perfect z. The top looked firmly in one direction while the bottom explored an entirely different direction. A firm and decisive line drew them together.
    â€œLet us begin,” Brother Gregory said.
    He took out his finest parchment. He set out his pots of paint:
red ochre from the earth, the yellow of malachite, the brown of lichen, the green of verdigris, and the precious blue of lapis lazuli. In a secret formula known only to Brother Gregory the colors were mixed with white of egg, fish oil, and a smidgen of glue.
    â€œYou may rule the lines,” he told Smudge.
    Smudge had practiced lines until everything he saw was divided into horizontal sections. The lines he drew were perfect.

    Brother Gregory marked the places where his illustrations would go, which initials he would embellish, and where along the margins his flourishes would decorate the text. He indicated the pages on which he would paint miniature scenes to illustrate the Christmas Story.
    Smudge’s hand trembled as he picked up his goose quill and dipped it in ink made of soot from slowly burning oak fires. Such ink would never fade. Smudge trembled, knowing that what he wrote would be there forever.
    â€œ And it came to pass ,” Smudge wrote.
    The A stood on its own feet, legs apart, just daring you to defy it. The n had a gently curved top and just the slightest indication of looking to the right. The d put a firm end to the