The Seer and the Scribe Read Free

melodic signal. He watched as, one by one, the community of cowled black-robed monks dropped their tools in the fields and solemnly made their way to the cloisters. Even those raking leaves under the orchards had to leave their work to join their holy brothers in worship. It was a comforting ritual he had once observed and delighted in.
    It was then that Matthias saw his pursuers galloping up the far hillside, heading to the monastery. An older and younger man dressed pretentiously as gentlemen, both on trained warhorses. There was a distinctive, familiar odor to the lust those two possessed for spilling blood. Together the two riders pushed ahead of the crowd of people and passed effortlessly ahead of everyone else through the porter’s arched gate.
    Matthias felt exasperated. Now he would have to retreat to the south and return at a later time, after the dismal winter winds and snow had thawed. He knew this was his penitence 9 .
    He spurred on his horse with the heels of his fine leather boots, thinking bitterly of all the lost years in this chasm of his life. He was a man without a country or a cause, existing alongside the living, but essentially dead. He’d already spied on his younger brother, Amos, who held his estate, his children, and—as he had found out nearly seven years ago—warmed himself at night lying beside the wife of his youth. Matthias had paid handsomely for a deed committed in the terrors of war and now he longed for release, freedom from the burden and obligation he carried tucked inside his belt.

CHAPTER 2: THIS SIDE OF HEAVEN’S IVORY FLOOR
    Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery
    Harvest Festival, Later That Same Morning
    It was effortless, really. From years of practice, Volmar slipped his hand under the cloak of the elderly man and lifted his knife. Its blade was thin, unsheathed and as sharp as an angry woman’s tongue.
    The Infirmary 10 was bustling with activity. Removed from the main buildings of the monastery, it served the people directly. It was the third day of the harvest festival and practically the entire village was present with some sort of gluttonous 11 illness or combative complaint. With patience, Volmar settled the old man beside the open hearth on a small pallet, where the roaring fire lent color and warmth to his ashen dampness.
    â€œKiss her cheek, will you!” the old man bellowed, taking the shoulders of the young monk in an iron grip and pointing him to the young girl cowering in the shadows. He heaved himself upright and sneered, “She’ll purr for you like a kitten.”
    Volmar ignored the old man’s blather and the girl’s obvious humiliation. Calmly he removed the old man’s worn, muddied boots, appalled at the condition of the man’s feet. They were worse than anything the young monk had ever seen in his past seven years at the Infirmary. With care, Volmar continued removing the man’s patched cloak and dirty outer garments before tucking him under the blanket with only his stained and frayed tunic on. The old man struggled, jerking and twitching his jaws, which were speckled with stubbly grey hairs and dried food. Pulling free, he yanked a fistful of Volmar’s dark black hair and brought the boy’s ear close to his swollen lips. “There’s a smell to souls,” he muttered, his breath a rancid whisper, “and yours is putrid.”
    â€œAll souls are marred by sin, my good man,” Volmar answered, unclenching the man’s fist and reaching for a clean rag. “After all, who can say, ‘I have kept my heart pure; I am clean and without sin?’” 12 Volmar quoted the Scripture passage automatically. Years of rote memorization occasionally had their value. Gently he wiped the whitish frothy drool from the corners of the old man’s mouth as he searched the great hall for Brother Paulus. Their eyes met instinctively, as the older monk clipped the final round of linen bandage