…and so the old monk lay upon the snow, naked but for his tattered rags and the whale skin gifted to him by the great elder. His breath came in ragged whispers, clouding the air, while his bones, light as a bird’s, pressed against the frozen earth. Around him, from chick to elder, the whole colony gathered, the congregation of those who had known him as the pilgrim of their forefathers, the one whose prayers had kept savage killers and pestilence at bay.
Now, with fever burning through him, he babbled, asking for a mercy that surely the Auks had long since granted him. He had come to them with words they already knew, with truths they had never doubted, and yet they had let him stay, had let him pray for them, suffer among them, and fade into legend before their very eyes.
Above them, the cloudless sky stretched endless and azure, waiting open. The monk smiled at it, remembering the great dome of the church from which he had set out on the journey that had carried him to the very ends of the world…
He had borne the name Stephanus for so long that there were days he forgot he had once been Pierre. For years he had been a brother of that once young, radical order, bound not only to his neighbors but to all of mankind. In recent years, he had felt a kinship with the animals, the birds, and the trees, speaking with them of the heavens and the Paradise his protofather had lost. The abbot knew his heart was true, yet many of his brothers called him foolish, while others thought him conceited. A cross to bear, he proudly called it. But he knew that pride was the gravest sin, and so Frater Stephanus asked both his spiritual and Heavenly Father to allow him to go on pilgrimage to the eastern lands. He hoped that by following the rising sun he might become like it, spreading love and glory to all.
“My child,” said the abbot, stroking his beard, “if you seek something, you shall find it, for it is written that whoever seeks shall find, and every door upon which you knock shall be opened, if only for you to be spat upon. But do not go to escape your temptations, for they are trials our Good Lord has assigned to you, and for that, you must thank Him.”
The abbot leaned upon the monastery battlements, gazing over the lush forests and fields that surrounded their small community. Frater Stephanus knew that whenever the abbot looked into the distance he hoped to see Frater Paschalis, the founder of their monastery, returning at last, old and decrepit but alive.
“I will not question your intentions,” the abbot said with a weary sigh, turning his gaze back to his disciple. “I can only pray to our Good Lord and ask our Holy Mother and our blessed founder, Saint Francis, for his intercession.”
The next morning, Frater Stephanus heard a knock at his door. The abbot stood waiting, presenting a walking stick as if it were a sword.
“Take only your Paternoster and your Psalter. Ask for a loaf of bread from the kitchen. I know you will not eat much of it yourself. Everything else will be provided to you on your journey. Never doubt that. Doubt only yourself. Trust the Good Lord.”
That was all that passed between them, for their brotherhood placed a high price on silence. Frater Stephanus bowed before his abbot as before an icon, for he was an icon, one of blood and flesh and sinew. He left his brothers without saying goodbye but prayed for each of them, naming every one before the Triune God and the Most Holy Virgin.
The morning was still cold, for these were the blessed days between Easter and Pentecost. There was dew on the grass, and the beaten roads were muddy, but he did not mind at all, for he had walked barefoot for a quarter of a century. The mud caked his feet, and he laughed, saying to a sparrow that it seemed he now wore shoes like a burgher. The sparrow trilled with amusement saying that despite being a grown man going grey, the friar still had the vision of a child. He remained silent as pride tempted him through those avian words. In his heart, he wept unseen tears, pleading for deliverance from that mortal sin, a prayer that would find its answer further east.
The sparrow followed him for a few days, supping and lunching at his side as Frater Stephanus shared his bread. When their paths finally parted, the sparrow wished to give the monk something to aid him on his journey. Having nothing else, it lent him some of its speed. The brother refused, but the gift had already been given, and the sparrow rose into the heavens. Frater Stephanus watched as his small companion vanished into the sky, only to see a hawk strike and carry it away. He did not weep, but he sang the Dies Irae for the departed.
Frater Stephanus walked through the realm of his forefathers with the glee that accompanies every traveler at the start of a journey. Without intention, he settled into a routine of waking before dawn, saying his morning prayers, and then, after a few crumbs of bread, beginning his day with a lively gait and a prayer on his lips. There were many towns, villages, or at least an inn where he would ask for a cup of ale, for which he was asked only for his prayers, those good Christians believing them most pleasing to the Good Lord. On Wednesdays and Fridays, he would not eat, drinking only water from a well or a roadside spring. He would also forfeit his bread to a bird or some land critter, not just on days of fasting but whenever something in his heart moved him, for it was the same force that had set him on this pilgrimage.
The first days passed quickly, becoming weeks, and one cool morning he heard the joyous bells of Pentecost ringing from a little stone church on the edge of a town almost as small but bubbling with the new life granted them freely by the Holy Sacrifice. His heart leaped with joy, and he rushed to attend the service, for he missed Mass more than he missed his brothers. As he approached, he heard a choir of women and men of all ages, their voices mingling with the trilling of birds in a shared symphony. After the service, many of the burghers invited him to break bread with them, but the friar told them he must be on his way, lest he lose daylight and miles.
"Blessed friar," intervened the mayor, a short and round man, a fresh apple giant, who gently took him by the wrist in front of the little stone church with juicy, reddish fingers. We know you must be busy with some holy task and divine duty, but we plead with you to stay. For today is great, and your presence was ordained by the Most High to remind us poor sinners that the Holy Ghost is still with us."
And at this, the monk almost wept in embarrassment. He bowed and kissed the mayor's hand, and the mayor fell to the ground and kissed the friar’s muddy feet. All the women, and many of the men, began to shed tears, for the words of the Gospel had come alive, not in learned Latin, but in the lowly tongue of their poor hearts. The mayor took him in his house, and they feasted on freshly caught fish, mutton, and some game. The wine flowed freely in silver cups, and the friar did not refuse anything he was offered, for it is written that it is a great sin to scandalize one’s brothers. He slept in the mayor’s stable, and none dared protest his request, for they knew he was a mendicant. He departed early the next morning, burdened with a knapsack full of freshly baked bread, sausages, and even a jug of vintage. Before he crossed into the deep forests of the Holy Roman Empire, he gave the sausages to some wolves and poured the wine into the cups of weary young laborers who slept in a tent.
There came a land of thick forests and valleys guarded by mountains. With each passing day, the midday grew hotter. He stopped less and less in villages, for he did not know the cruel language of these people, and few spoke Latin. Still, they saw by his Psalter and Paternoster that he was a man of God, and they offered him room and board, filling his head with stories and requests unknown. Frater Stephanus could only reply with a nod and a prayer.
Frater Stephanus, wanting to make good use of the summer days, avoided stopping. Nevertheless, one Sunday, after attending a village service, for he knew that he could not miss three Masses in a row, he was asked by a town priest, an old, stern but loving man, to rest at his house, if only in front of it. The priest loved to speak in Latin, something he rarely had the chance to do, and he bored Frater Stephanus with news of recent happenings in the Church. Most of it he would have forgotten entirely if not for one particular bit that rested upon his mind like a raven on a scarecrow.
"Up there, toward the rising sun, they do not love the ways of the Pope. They do not hold greater love for the Patriarch of Constantinople either. They cannot love what they can name, what can be placed in an icon."
"Do they love God and His Most Holy Mother?" asked Frater Stephanus.
"Perhaps, in their own way," said the old priest. Frater Stephanus wished to ask more, but in his heart, he knew that the answers he would receive would not be the ones his spirit sought.
These he received further east as well, as he passed through a land as flat as a table, with undulating meadows cut by the two great rivers known as the Danube and the Tisza. One night, after crossing the second with the help of some fishermen, Frater Stephanus, as he moved bead after blessed bead of his Paternoster, was joined in prayer by an owl. When he completed the five decades, the owl dared to ask what brought a holy man through lands as ravaged by heathen hordes and internal strife as these.
"Brother Owl, I am seeking my salvation, but I will gladly receive whatever the Good Lord grants me on this journey. Pray, I would like to know more of the love and faith of the eastern people," he said, and he told the owl about his talk with the old priest.
"Dear friar, I think it is best we ask my neighbor, the táltos, for he harbors such love for the unnamable."
"I ain’t talking to no priest, bird," came a raspy voice from the bushes.
"I am not a priest, dear friend," said the monk.
"Just the same, just the same. You reek of meekness," said the voice. Frater Stephanus smiled faintly, then cursed himself for falling into temptation.
"Meekness and humility, and you want more of those. You’ll see what that gets you with them Vlachs and Rus," and a mean laughter roared through the thicket as clouds covered the clear sky.
"Wicked shaman, why do you not answer the queries of our guest, seeing as you are already speaking to him?" the owl insisted.
"Guess I could. But I do not want to be charitable. I am not a Christian," replied the táltos.
"But he is our guest, and thus protected by laws older than any covenant between Man and Creator."
"Bird, you are wise for a fool," came the reply, and a rustling was heard. In the darkness, a tall figure stepped before Frater Stephanus. He was more oak than man, with a beard and hair uncut for what seemed decades, amulets hanging from every fold of his robe.
"I see that you too have the storm in your eyes. In a way, we are indeed brothers," said the shaman. Frater Stephanus contemplated the word brother, as if hearing it for the first time. There was something that separated them so completely, yet that very distance seemed to pull them closer from some other place beyond words. The táltos sat beside him, pulling forth a jug and a clay jar.
"Here, Christian, let us sup together. People leave this for me," he said, pulling the cork from the jar and taking a deep swallow. "Milk and honey, left as an offering to something ancient. Something your church would see forgotten. But as long as men till the land, they shall worship it. And if they do not work the land, they worship something else. The smith worships the anvil and the fire, and the warrior his sword and spear. The hunter prays to the forest and even to the beasts he kills. Do not scoff, for you too believe in your God because you worship Him."
Frater Stephanus chose silence, for he had long ago learned from his abbot that peace was better than justice. He did not wish to partake of the milk or the honey, but instead took out a bit of hard bread. In silence, he offered some to the owl and to the shaman, who sat sulking, offended.
"Did they not teach you that with your sign, you can undo what has been done in the name of other powers?" the táltos asked, tracing a crooked cross in the air with his bony fingers, shining white in the high moonlight. "All the same, know that there will come a time when you shall eat what has been given to these powers, and you shall face them. I have a brother and a guildmate in the far north, and he is waiting for you. You shall be glad to see him, for no one shall hate you like your own people, Christian."
He rose, stroking his beard, and stretched his limbs as if shaking off the weight of the night. "I leave you be. The time of harvest is upon us, and before the first grey light of dawn, people shall be knocking on my little hut’s door to ask for storms or sunshine."
Frater Stephanus, not knowing what to say, reached for the táltos' hand to kiss it, but the man pulled away and disappeared like mist into the bushes.
"You have offended him, dear friar," said the owl. "He does not share his food with just anyone. And know that he never lies. You shall see what evil lies in the lands of the Vlachs and the Rus. Hermannstadt shall be your final refuge, and I ask of you to winter there. Though it is a house divided, it still stands. Unlike the passage of Rucăr-Bran, through the Carpathians, whose roads shall have vanished when you arrive."
Continued below, where the road twists into shadow, and the omens of owl and táltos take wing, becoming prophecy.
Really love how the philosophy and geology of the land is intertwined within the story, really looking forward to its continuation next week.
It’s an awesome writing ✍️ I’m not sure (100%) where you are going with this mysterious fable… but it’s a good thing - not knowing 😁 - but yes it’s a long one. But I’m interested to read the ending.
The sad thing, I can relate to Stephanus… 😅