The Fire of Eden Read online

  John survived the night, and the one after, and the three weeks after that. As that hot summer of 1185 waned, the prayers for John were constant, but news coming from the infirmary was scarce.

  “He is recovering but is not seeing visitors at this time,” was all Brother Lucius would say.

  But why not? Surely John’s best friend, David, should be allowed a visit, if not the others.

  Even Brother Andrew was tight-lipped about John’s condition. The secrecy of it all had led some of the boys to gossip that John had died and the monks were covering up the tragedy.

  All the routines had resumed: the monks met for their prayers seven times each day; the servants tilled the granges for the fall harvest; the boys drudged through daily chores and played games on the green lawn; and Xan continued his lessons with Brother Andrew.

  Yet there was little peace in all those routines. God had again allowed tragedy and suffering around Xan—why? Also, David’s words in the woodland often echoed through his mind.

  On the way to his lessons one afternoon, Xan stopped again at the tiny chapel outside the abbey’s infirmary, which was on his route to the library. This was a practice he’d fallen into since his return from Lincoln, though it was not quite an everyday event.

  Wherever Lucy traveled, she would go to the chapel in her free time. Coming to this little chapel somehow felt as though she were nearer to him despite all that distance.

  In the corner of the dimly lit chapel stood a fine carved statue of a saint: Benedict, founder of the black monks and author of The Rule that governed the abbey. Xan touched the statue’s hand in greeting and then knelt before the altar beside the wooden cross with the body of Jesus on it. The lamp was lit as always by the oak box of the Blessed Sacrament.

  This was a good and quiet place to reflect. None of the other boys ever came here.

  He made the Sign of the Cross and said an Our Father—his favorite prayer since Lucy had chanted it like an angel in that crypt below the old cathedral in Lincoln. He paused as always at the words, “Thy will be done on earth, as ’tis in Heaven.”

  The monks and Lucy and Sister Regina always spoke of God’s will. When life got hard, they’d say God’s will was a mystery, as though God wanted them to solve their lives like a puzzle.

  David’s words were God’s latest puzzle: that it was Xan’s fault John had fallen.

  This past year, he’d come to realize that John was a bully because John was so miserable with life. When Xan came back from Lincoln, he’d set things on a better path with John.

  Or had he? Perhaps his anger against John had turned into another form: a “friendly” competition. If he couldn’t beat John with his fists, then he wished to do so in every other way.

  But this was only right. There had to be an order to things among the boys at the abbey. The other boys already thought Xan was the cleverest—the one who solved mysteries and learned his letters. They thought he was the nicest. That’s why Joshua saw him as a big brother.

  John was none of that, as everyone knew. So, surely Xan’s success had been God’s will. After all, who was the better choice to be at the top of the heap here: him or John?

  But then tragedy had struck, and John had suffered. At least from David’s perspective, Xan wasn’t the nicest one at the abbey at all; he was just the proudest one of them all.

  Have I done wrong to John? Do I owe him an apology? He gazed at the cross and then ended with his most common prayer these days: that if Uncle William were to send for him, Xan might be granted the wisdom to know whether to become a novice monk or a merchant’s apprentice.

  He stood and bowed toward the altar. Time for lessons in the library.

  As he left the chapel, the midafternoon bells boomed from the church: nones was ending, the sixth prayer of the day for the monks. That meant Brother Andrew wouldn’t be at the library for at least a few more minutes. And Brother Lucius wasn’t in the infirmary, either.

  Xan peeked down the hall toward John’s recovery room—the same room where Xan had healed when he was first brought to this abbey after the bandits attacked Hardonbury.

  Just then one of the lay brothers exited the infirmary with a small tray of uneaten bread and fruit. “That boy is going to starve,” the brother griped.

  All grew quiet. Why wasn’t John eating, and why wouldn’t the monks allow him visitors?

  This chance to sneak into the infirmary had been laid before Xan, perhaps by Heaven itself. He approached the door and entered on tiptoes. Inside, the window was covered, so it was dim, even in daytime. A slim ray of sunlight shone across the bed.

  John lay sleeping upon the wool-stuffed mattress, propped up by a pillow, with the blanket pulled up to his waist. Scars had formed on his head; bruises had faded to yellow; one bandaged arm rested at peace on the blanket; a cloth was wrapped around his ribcage.

  On John’s other arm, two creatures—slimy and thick, like black worms—clung to his skin. Blood seeped from the wounds they were causing. They were healing leeches, used to suck out the poison from the blood.

  John’s eyes suddenly popped open. “Who’s there? Brother Lucius? I told you I’m not hungry.” He gawped across the room, as though staring at the wall.

  “’Tis me, John—Xan.”

  John’s voice hardened. “Why are you here? Didn’t Brother tell you I wanted to be alone?”

  So, John was the one keeping visitors away. All this time they’d blamed Brother Lucius.

  Xan came to the bed. “Everyone’s worried, John. I just want to see how you’re healing.”

  John turned his head toward him, yet his eyes were gazing at Xan’s shoulder, not his face. “Then take a good look.” John groaned, shifting his body. “Now go away.”

  Something in John’s eyes—they weren’t focusing on anything. Indeed, they hadn’t even changed at all when a tiny ray of sunlight streamed across his face.

  Xan waved a hand in front of John’s eyes. “Can you see me?”

  “Let me alone!” John could barely choke out the words.

  Xan moved his finger, but John’s eyes didn’t follow. He was blind.

  “John, I want to let you know that—”

  “I don’t care! Why won’t you just let me alone?”

  “All right, stay calm,” Xan said. “Just listen to one thing first.”

  He at least needed to say these words to John. His failure with Carlo in Lincoln had taught him that life sometimes doesn’t give people time to say all they need to say.

  John’s eyes, though sightless, betrayed the anguish he felt, both in body and soul. With no other choice in the matter, he shut his mouth and let Xan speak.

  “I . . . well, I guess I don’t know if maybe ’tis partly my fault you were up in that tree. And . . . and, well . . . I’m sorry if I did anything that caused you to make that dare.”

  Still John said nothing. From the window came the faint sound of a shovel scraping against a rock in the granges.

  John closed his eyes and turned his head away. Xan couldn’t force John to speak to him, just as Carlo had been powerless to seek Xan’s forgiveness in Lincoln.

  “I guess I should go,” Xan said.

  “Then go already.”

  “I’ll come back and see you again tomorrow, if you’d like.”

  John shook his head. “Just let me be.”

  The sound of the door down the hallway meant Brother Lucius was on his way back.

  “I need to go, John. Take care of yourself. And, I’ll . . . I’ll be praying for you.”

  John said nothing as Xan crept out and turned the corner.

  How terrible that John was so hurt; he must be ashamed of his blindness. Was it even possible to help him when he was so miserable from all this suffering?

  Xan made his way to the library, where Brother Andrew was already setting out the rough goatskin parchment that Xan would use for another Latin assignment. The monk’s brown and blue eyes had dark rings under them, almost as dark as the robe he wore.
Even his beard, now grown out and finally filled in, seemed dark and unkempt.

  “Are you doing well today, Brother?” Xan asked. “You look tired.”

  Brother Andrew gave a frustrated sigh. “’Tis all this fuss over my ordination.”

  The monk often talked about becoming a priest. When they’d returned from Lincoln, the abbot had said the dean and other church leaders in York had approved Brother’s ordination to the priesthood. Yet the months had dragged on with no formal plan announced.

  “What kind of fuss?” Xan said.

  “Praise God, the teacher of patience,” the monk complained. “Politics has found its way into my holy event, though I hear the abbot is negotiating with the dean in York.”

  “Negotiating?” A poor brother becoming a priest shouldn’t cause so much disagreement.

  The monk shook it off. “Never mind. ’Tis politics and the inner workings of our Church.” Brother Andrew pulled the Vulgate translation of the Sacred Scriptures from a bookshelf. “’Tis time for you to translate a passage in Latin from one of the prophets—perhaps Isaiah.”

  The monk opened the book on the table near the pointy stylus and stinky cup of black ink. “Say a prayer and flip a few pages, son. You can pick your own assignment for once.”

  Xan did so and, on the third page, stuck his finger in its center. “How about here?”

  Brother Andrew looked at the Latin words. “Interesting,” he said. “That will do quite well.” The monk stood as if to leave but then peered at Xan a long moment. “I am not the only troubled one here today, am I, son? What is bothering you?”

  Xan picked at a mat of hair on his head. Maybe Brother Andrew could help him unpuzzle all the thoughts he’d had, though the monk often spoke in riddles himself. “I’ve just been wondering . . . all these bad things that . . . well, why do they happen?”

  Brother Andrew studied Xan’s eyes. “Ah. You are asking about John again.”

  “Not just John—the orphans; Sister Regina; me. If God loves us so much, why . . .”

  The monk sighed. “You asked Sister Regina this question once. Do you recall her answer?”

  Xan nodded. “She pointed to the crucifix she wore. She says we all suffer in this world, even Jesus on the cross. But why does God let us all suffer? Can’t He stop it?”

  The monk folded his arms. “God may allow suffering, but it all started because of man in the Garden of Eden, when pride led to our fall. To understand it, we have to see our lives through the eyes of God. We do not live only for this world, Xan, but also for the one to come.”

  Xan ground his teeth. Another riddle from the monk.

  “For over a thousand years, son, we Christians have welcomed suffering. We are baptized into Christ’s body, so we take joy in his pains as well as his new life.”

  “But if we’re supposed to be glad about suffering, why is everyone sad when it happens?”

  “Hmm.” The monk straightened his scapular. “I suppose that we are sad because none of us takes joy at evil working in our world. Even Mary cried over the body of her crucified Son.”

  Xan had seen a painting like that in Lincoln Cathedral—Mary with Jesus dead in her arms.

  “Also, our Lord tells us to take up our cross and follow Him,” Brother Andrew added.

  “But what does that mean? Where are our crosses?”

  The monk’s expression darkened. “We each have our own cross. I believe yours has been to bear the death of your parents with faith. Mine is—well, that is not important now. And John? His cross will soon be known to you.”

  “You mean his blindness, Brother?” He probably shouldn’t have blurted that out.

  The monk’s eyes gleamed, his blue one more than the brown. “So, you know about that?”

  A knot formed in Xan’s chest. He had no choice now but to confess his sneaking to Brother Andrew. He did so with a bowed head. “I’m sorry,” he finished. “Are you angry with me?”

  The monk chuckled. “Not at all. By Adam, I wish you had done it sooner. Brother Lucius and I had a wager, and I lost by a full week. Now I owe him my ration of hearth cake.”

  Xan’s face grew warm. “You mean you knew I’d sneak in there? You wanted me to do it?”

  “Aye. Brother Lucius respects his patients’ wishes, but John does not know best. He awoke from his tragedy to a world of shadows. Now we must help him live in that world.”

  “But he won’t accept help right now, Brother. He just sent me away quite crossly.”

  “What he needs is the healing of his friends.” The monk opened the door to exit. “I will speak to Brother Lucius about sending him back to the dorm today. That will be best for him.”

  “John’s not going to like that,” Xan said. “And he’ll make all the other boys miserable.”

  “Then they will learn patience,” Brother Andrew said as he left. “Remember, when life brings darkness and pain, our faith must carry us ’til we finally see the good that God is working.”

  After the monk had gone, Xan quickly translated his Latin assignment from Isaiah. He needed to get back to the dorm as soon as possible to help prepare the boys for John’s arrival.

  3

  Darkness and Pain

  John emerged from his recovery bed late that afternoon. Brother Lucius escorted him across the meadow and down the green hill toward the dorm.

  Xan and Joshua sat in the warm grass with their backs to the cool dormitory wall.

  Most of the other boys were playing in the field. Xan had told them of John’s condition and answered their questions as best he could, though David had remained distant and cold.

  “Everyone, John’s back!” David said, seeing John and Brother Lucius approach in the distance. But his excited expression evaporated beneath his dark curls as he looked upon his friend’s condition. John’s face hadn’t changed much—except for the haunting eyes—yet he seemed a different person. The John of the past had been proud, bossy, obnoxious, and loud. The boy who hobbled to them with a severe limp, gripping tight to the arm of Brother Lucius, seemed empty and timid.

  “What do we do, Xan?” Joshua asked. “Brother Leo’s not yet back.” The monk had many duties: cellarer, head of Penwood Manor, and overseer of the boys’ dorm.

  “We wait,” Xan said. “We just wait and pray.”

  Joshua recited an Our Father, just as Lucy would have done.

  But waiting wasn’t easy. Especially not when Xan had something to share with John. That passage he’d translated from Isaiah was exactly the kind of message from God that could give John hope. No wonder Brother Andrew had liked it so much.

  By the time John made it to the dorm, all the boys had filed outside to see for themselves.

  “Children,” Brother Lucius announced, “your friend is back, but he will need your assistance for—well, at least for a while. Who will take him upstairs to the dorm?”

  Silence. The boys looked as though they would rather pull a dragon’s tail.

  “I’ll help him,” David said, stepping out of the crowd. “What do I do?”

  “Let him take your arm, child,” Brother Lucius said. “Very good. Do not let him stumble.”

  John didn’t say a word, but a stray tear escaped down his cheek as he stared into nowhere. David held his trembling hand upon John’s arm as he led him to the dormitory door.

  “Just take him to his mattress and let him rest,” Brother Lucius said. “Brother Leo will return soon and give you further instruction.” Then the monk bid them farewell and left.

  “Can you see anything?” David asked John, as they entered the dorm.

  “Just take me upstairs, you simpkin,” John barked. Red-faced, David obeyed. “Get out of the way!” John grumbled at a child on the steps.

  No one dared speak until the pair had gone inside. Then the lawn erupted in a fireball of talk. This new version of John was far too different from the old one. And now there was no one left to challenge Xan—no competition for leadership.

  After a wh
ile, Brother Leo returned, and the boys followed him upstairs, where John lay staring into nothingness. The monk spoke more gently to John than ever, but he would not reply.

  At supper, John refused to go with them to the refectory, and when they brought him back food, he nibbled at it in silence while they said their evening prayers.

  The next morning, Brother Leo tried to rouse John from the bed, but he refused to get up. Not even the threat of the paddle could make him move.

  “You will never heal this way!” the monk said, stomping down the stairs.

  David had been given “John duty” as his chore for the day, while the others went on to their usual labors. Xan and Joshua worked at the fountain, scraping summer algae from the stone.

  “I think I liked John better as a bully,” Joshua said, as he chipped at the green slime.

  Xan just smiled. Some changes in this new John weren’t entirely bad. If he could accept some kindness and help, he might be easier to get along with. But for now, John was swimming in a pool of self-pity, just as Xan had after Mother and Father died. But he’d had Lucy and Sister Regina to help him. Who did John have—David?

  At break time, Xan headed back to the dorm. Maybe he could be the one to help John. That quote from Isaiah might be just what John needed to hear.

  Except David stopped him at the top of the stairs.

  “I need to talk to him,” Xan said.

  “Well you can’t.” Apparently, David had taken it upon himself to make sure Xan didn’t interfere with John’s misery. “You’ve already ruined things enough already.”

  “Can’t you see he needs to come out and join the world again?”

  David took a step back. “Nay, he needs to be alone. That’s all he wants. Why can’t you do the one thing he wants?” He raised two balled fists to his chest.

  Xan stood his ground, like Brother Andrew with those guards on the road to Lincoln. The monk had proven there were more ways to win a battle than through violence.

  “You’re a good friend to him, David. But I know how it feels to sit around all day and pity yourself. I might be the only one who can help John right now.”