The Seer and the Scribe Read Free Page B

mysteries. Life is certainly full of contradictions and strange paradoxes. Why does anyone fall ill? Church doctrine tells us it happens when a person permits himself to become alienated from God. He is tempted by greed, pride, fear or any other low moral standards; in such a sinful state, he can easily become possessed. Then again, there are those who purport . . .”
    â€œI thought,” the young girl said, interrupting his philosophical discourse and crossing her arms, “I prayed to a merciful and kind Father, not one so disagreeable.”
    Volmar suppressed a smile. He’d said the same thing when he was her age. “I tell you what, I’m not the Infirmarian. The man in the far corner finishing a wrap on the man’s face is. His name is Brother Paulus. He will be here shortly. You can ask him this very question.”
    â€œYou told me who you are not, kind sir, but have failed to tell me who you are.”
    â€œMy name is Volmar. I’m a scribe 13 and, for now, Brother Paulus’s apprentice.” Volmar returned to his writing, conscious for the first time of how his own actions must seem through someone else’s eyes. When had he stopped feeling? When had he accepted such dreadfulness as commonplace? The smell was indeed rancid. Bed after bed lined the walls of the Infirmary. Here he came each day, to follow Brother Paulus around recording the pitiful cries of pain, feverish moans, and wild mumblings. The sounds of suffering were his daily chorus. If ever there was an outlying edifice of Hell, it would be here, he thought, where the beckoning shadows of death always seemed to linger.
    â€œMay I call you simply Volmar?” the young girl interjected, chasing away the dark thought crossing Volmar’s mind.
    â€œOnly if you grant me equal privilege in knowing your given name.” This time he managed a weak smile. Sometimes he forgot that he was only sixteen, not much older than this young girl, and yet, he had lived too much to feel as if he was very young.
    â€œIt’s Sophie. I didn’t know where else to bring my Grandda. His name is Silas.”
    Volmar wrote both of their names down on the sheet of parchment. “And how old is he?”
    â€œHe was born in the spring of 1053. That means he’s 58 years old,” she answered promptly.
    â€œInteresting—you know numbers,” Volmar said, impressed. He knew that his Abbot ascribed to the belief that names provide glimpses into one’s ultimate destiny. Maybe there was something to his theory. “I shall speak plainly, Sophie, for your name means Wisdom; and as I’ve suspected all along, you are very wise for one so young.” Volmar held her gaze directly. “Your Grandfather is seriously ill; bringing him here was the right thing to do.”
    â€œAnd I, young lady, concur with whatever my able young apprentice has said to you thus far.” Brother Paulus approached the two of them, patting dry the beads of perspiration on the back of his neck and forehead with a damp rag. To Volmar, Paulus looked tired and infinitely older than his forty-five years. He stood a head taller than most men and had a brooding expression in his deep-set eyes, the color of blackened pitch. In direct contrast was his long white beard and wild hair; obviously a man of presence and clarity of mind. Volmar longed to acquire the sharp logic and confident manner of his mentor.
    Brother Paulus continued, “Shall we find out what’s going on with your Grandfather, young lady?”
    Volmar was fascinated by Paulus’ unique approach to each patient. Paulus had travelled far in his youth and had been eager to study under many teachers before turning his hand to medicine. His self-proclaimed eclectic approach owed much to Hippocrates 14 , the Greek healer, and others whose works were harder to come by unless you were a scholar and could read the original Greek, or Latin, languages Paulus had mastered