The Seer and the Scribe Read Free Page A

he was applying to a drunken man’s bloodied cheek. Volmar gestured silently for Paulus to come. Volmar and Brother Paulus shared many hand signals. Volmar gave to Paulus the signal that implied immediacy. The young monk knew gratefully that nothing on this side of Heaven’s ivory floor was as fair as Brother Paulus’ Infirmary. Rich or poor, it did not matter; one’s medical needs took precedence over one’s station in life.
    The girl, no more than twelve summers old, was still blushing from her grandfather’s embarrassing outburst. “I’m so sorry about that,” she murmured apologetically, “If it is any consolation, sir, Grandda told me my soul was not only putrid but will burn forever in Hell.”
    Volmar tried to smile to reassure her but couldn’t find a smile inside him. The young girl looked woefully underfed and just as fragile as her grandfather. He could see reason struggling with emotion in her young face. Her eyes were an intelligent, yet turbulent, greenish-blue in color, and reminded him of the dark dampness of the earth. And yet her hair, as if to contradict such dankness, was the color of a candle’s glowing ring, cascading around her heart-shaped face. She looked comely except for the crimson scar running like the morning’s horizon across her pointed chin. Volmar spoke softly to her. “The old man is talking out of his mind. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” He wondered what else the old man had told her and how she had coped, for surely her daily life had been intricately woven into this man’s abusive nonsense.

    Volmar’s kind words broke the girl’s composure. Her full lips started to tremble. Then, as if permission had finally been granted, the tears and words came streaming out. “I-I think that there’s a fierce and bitter demon in Grandda. He curses in languages I do not know and has been spitting up all this white foam. I didn’t know where else to bring him. He didn’t want to come here. Maybe he has a fear of holy objects and knows he would not be welcomed.”
    Volmar struggled with how to respond to her fears and lamely muttered, “You were right to bring him to us, child. Perhaps he is under the spell of demon possession. He is also very sick and needs our help.”
    â€œTell me this, kind sir. There are plenty of evil people in this world, why would demons want to possess my Grandda’s soul? He’s the gentlest of all men.” She curled her hands into small fists.
    Volmar knew that feeling well, how little youthful strength could help. “Old age wakens many demons,” he added in sympathy, wishing he could command the diabolical legions of Hell to take back its wayward, unwelcome guest. His fingers tightened around his quill, longing to wield it as a sword and defeat all suffering in one fell swoop. Instead, he turned to making notes, first concerning possession of the old man’s knife, and then recording his observations of the old man’s condition. His effectiveness, he reminded himself, meant he needed to record what had happened, rather than be drawn into that bottomless pit of despair. Paulus insisted that Volmar keep records not only of his successes but his failures as well. It was Volmar’s job to record the date, the patient’s name, any observable symptoms, the treatment given, and the results that followed. To this purpose he devoted his attentions.
    The young girl came over to where Volmar was seated at the end of the pallet and peered over his shoulder, watching as his quill scratched the parchment.
    â€œI need to know. Tell me! Is Grandda’s soul no longer his own?” The young girl was unwilling to accept the young monk’s abrupt ending to the conversation she’d begun.
    Volmar relaxed his grip and put down his quill. Slowly, he ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “You’ve stumbled on one of life’s