The Apostle to the Auks, part 2
Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spiritum rectum innova in visceribus meis.
He came to them on a boat like those before him, yet he carried no spear. He brought only a book, and though he looked old and dried, he did not mind the cold of their land. He wore rags that soon fell away. One day, a bear brought him the skin of a seal. Wrapped in that skin, he was now dying before them, and they gathered close, together with the angels and the demons.
For a moment, the wanderer shrieked in fear, thinking them evil spirits. He clutched the book he had brought, from which he had read words of no concern to them. Yet he had also spoken other things, things they had always known. For the Law was already written in their hearts, and they were to sense that it was also written in his.
In Hermannstadt, amidst the cacophony of tongues—the German of the Saxon merchants, the Hungarian of the burghers, the vulgar Latin of the Vlachs, which they called Romanian, and the Church Slavonic pouring from the schismatic Byzantine churches—Frater Stephanus felt utterly alone and dejected. Though he found a house of his order, the brothers there were preoccupied with the newly declared schismatics, whose proselytism among the Vlachs was stirring something worse, reopening an old wound and making it fester with hate.
The Vlachs were a proud people, hospitable yet unwilling to forgive the King of Hungary for taking their land. Or so they said, for both the Saxons and the Hungarians believed they had come from the south as wandering shepherds. Frater Stephanus heard all arguments, yet he was unconvinced by any, for such matters did not concern him. The only land worth speaking of was the Kingdom of Heaven.
His only friend in that dark winter was a pigeon, who came three times daily to join him in prayer. The monk was glad, for he found it burdensome to pray alone with a sore heart. One day, when the pigeon was delayed and forced to hide from a cat, Frater Stephanus sat with his Paternoster, yet the words came mingled from his lips. He cried out to God and pleaded for the strength to pray with his whole heart.
“Lord, as the Psalter says, create in me a new heart. Or at least grant that I may pray with fewer words, as Thou instructed in days of old, as Thy Gospel teaches,” he cried, bowing before the double icon in his cell—one of the Savior, the other of His Most Holy Mother.
Having just returned, the pigeon heard the prayer and flew up to the heavens, seeking an angel to carry its friend’s heartfelt plea. And because the pigeon’s heart was as pure as Brother Stephanus', an angel descended upon the monk’s cell.
Coming as a white smoke scented with myrrh, the angel spoke with a voice that could only be heard in the heart:
“Thou shalt receive such prayer, and it shall never leave thee. But it shall be won with tears, for it is a pearl of great price. Steel thy spirit, yet let thy heart grow tender.”
Neither the monk nor the pigeon ever spoke of this encounter, for they feared to soil such holiness with meaningless words. That moment came in the bleak midwinter, just as the Easter fast was beginning, and from then on, the days passed more swiftly for Frater Stephanus. Perhaps it was the diet of ale alone or the lengthening days, but his prayers grew strong once more, flowing effortlessly from his lips like his avian companion soaring upon the wind.
Again, he set out after Easter, traveling upon dry roads but through a harsh land. The Carpathian Mountains were dark and treacherous, and a newly built castle watched him like a hawk. He did not go near it, for he sensed great evil lurking behind its walls.
He survived on a loaf of bread that seemed to last forever, though he did not spare crumbs and shared it with many birds and creatures. After a strenuous ascent, he reached the mountain peaks, and from there, he saw the rolling hills, the scattered houses, and the villages below, small as toys in the world's vastness.
He trekked through rugged evergreen forests, where wolves howled through the night, and across open plains, where tremendous and awe-inspiring beasts roamed in endless herds. They reminded Frater Stephanus of cattle, but they were hunched and heavier, rougher in form yet strangely noble—ugly yet majestic, like fearsome lords of the wilderness.
They chewed their grass in peace, their large, glassy eyes betraying no trace of fear as if such a thing had never touched their hearts. Some regarded the mendicant with silent curiosity, but none spoke, neither among themselves nor to him. As he left their lands behind, he heard heavy hooves behind him. Turning, he saw that one such beast had broken from the herd and was following him.
"Holy man, my kin have sent me to act as your guide and protector, for the land to the north, where you journey, is peopled by cruel and savage men," said the beast.
"I thank you, dear brother of the wild plains, but I would not wish to put another creature in peril," said Frater Stephanus, bowing in gratitude before his new companion.
"What greater love is there than to lay down one's life for his brothers?" the bison asked. "It is a question we have pondered since a mendicant much like yourself first walked among us in ages past, and still, we have not found the answer. Yet we smelled love and brotherhood upon your skin, stronger even than the lichen and mud on your tattered cloak, and we said among ourselves that such a brother should not walk alone." Moved by these gentle words, Frater Stephanus wept a few tears.
Thus, the two traveled north together, covering many miles in a day and sleeping beneath the open sky, no matter the weather. And when the cold pressed too sharply against the monk’s frail body, the bison wrapped him in its heavy fur, sheltering him like a house of warm, breathing hide. They traveled ever northward, spring yielding to summer as the land rose with their journey, turning plains to plateaus. The nights remained cool, and the day's heat was never more than what a traveler could bear.
Many times, they glimpsed riders in the distance, but by then, they were already hidden in copses and thickets, for the timbre, as the bison called itself, had long legs to flee and a keen nose to scent out cunning and cruelty before it ever drew near. Our monk learned from the zimbru that those riders called themselves Cumans, and they hunted his kindred for generations, and though they were Christians, something ancient and violent lingered in their hearts.
One time when they were hiding as such, Frater Stephanus heard two crickets talking behind their back in their cricket tongue, not unlike how foreigners traveling to a distant land would shamelessly speak about the people around them
“Such a strange pair, the son of Adam must be a shaman,” Frater Stephanus
“Nay, he’s got a cross; he is clearly a Christian,” replied the other cricket. Frater Stephanus would have wanted to answer but was too afraid to speak because the riders were closed.
“Well, why wouldn’t a shaman also be a Christian?” said the first cricket.
“Because a shaman must first trust himself fully to work the spirits, and a Christian must first trust God fully to let the Spirit work in him,” said the other cricket. The monk started to weep at these beautiful words spoken by one of the least of the Lord’s creatures. The crickets, realizing then that the monk could understand, were ashamed and apologized, but Frater Stephanus blessed them.
One day, as Frater Stephanus was praying before a roadside shrine carved into a rock, fervently that he didn’t hear the shuffling of hooves, for he heard nothing but the words of his lips and the movement of the Spirit inside him, he turned to see a band of riders and his companion gone.
“Stranger, for whom are you spying?” their leader, an oak of a man with dark eyes and long locks of luscious brunette hair, asked in vulgar Latin.
“My lord, I am not a spy, merely a pilgrim,” answered our monk in learned Latin, the only one he knew.
“We watched you cross yourself, dog of Rome. Tell us, do you come from Milcov?”
“I don’t know of any Milcov; I come from the west, beyond Pest. I set out for Constantinople long ago, but I learned about the division in our house, and I just let my feet carry me where they go,” said Frater Stephanus.
“So you admit you’re with the Pope?” asked the leader.
“I admit I am with Christ, though as a Christian man, I must submit to the ones that have authority over me.”
“I am the lord of these lands; will you submit to me?” asked the Cuman leader.
“Of course, my lord,” the monk bowed.
“Then you must renounce Rome and its heresies; otherwise, you shall hang like a heretic. That is what I and my bishop have decried. " After these words, Frater Stephanus stood silent, praying in his heart with all his might. A single sentence resounded in his heart.
Thy will be done… Thy will be done… Thy will be done…
“Well, pilgrim, what shall it be?”
“I cannot renounce the principles of my faith just to please you, my lord, although it saddens my heart that I must offend you,” hearing these words, the Cuman leader spat.
“It saddens me that I must feel another Christian, but you who are of Rome are like weeds that will strangle the whole forest towards perdition,” and with these words, the Cumans riders bound Frater Stephanus, and put him on a horse, lick a sack. As they carried him, Frater Stephanus went through as many of the prayers that he knew by heart.
When they found a good tree and put on the rope, the Cuman leader crossed himself and started speaking in a strange tongue before putting the nose around the monk's neck. Frater Stephanus quickly recognized this as being the Paternoster.
The zimbru rushed from nowhere and everywhere and cracked the tree open and then like a nut, and Frater Stephanus was taken by the horse away from the Cumans for it knew the good heart of the monk. The zimbru was a whirlwind, and the Cumans fell off their horses and filled him with arrows. They hunted such beasts all their lives. The zimbru fought a valiant battle, kicking and stomping them, but he quickly fell. The horse told Frater Stephanus about the knife beneath the saddle and then bolted him down gently, for it knew he would only slow the mendicant down.
Frater Stephanus ran after his brother the zimbru had sacrificed himself, the faint image of the kind eyes guiding him. His feet were tired, and they hurt, but he kept running until they burned, but he kept running for he had the power of flight gifted by the swallow. His feet burned, but he kept going day and night, drinking from springs sometimes and taking a small bite if he couldn’t see the Cumans. They chased our monk for three days and just as many nights, but once he went into a mountain pass, sneaking into a crevice that their horses couldn’t get through, they abandoned their prey for it was not a man, but a demon, so they said. And their horses rejoiced, for they knew that the monk was holy.
The weather grew colder, and the wind cut into his face. And it was through a blizzard that he would finally see his point of rest. The monastery that he would one day learn was founded by Frater Paschalis himself. The monks took him in and bowed in apology, for they were sinners, and he was a saint. But Frater Stephanus did not understand their words; he felt the love that they exuded, blinding him with its soft light. Before them, he collapsed on the floor and slept for forty days, having visions that this weak pen could not be put to paper.
They were a ragged bunch, these forty monks. They had an abbot, a starets, but he was a man of very few words. In the thirty-three years that Frater Stephanus stayed with these north-eastern long lost brothers, these savage men who sometimes wore chainmail shirts and slept for years alone in some cave nearby, Frater Stephanus never heard the abbot speak more than a few sentences altogether. They could not fill a memorizer page and were commanded to run that lean business, their small fortress of stone and wood. They would stock up on whatever the many pilgrims and spiritual children brought regularly, at least four times a year, and what they could grow in their garden.
At first, they were surprised at how Frater Stephanus crossed himself, for they were deep in the north and had not seen a single Latin since the death of Frater Paschalis, and only the abbot remembered him, but he never spoke a word about that. Frater Stephanus talked to them through the Psalter, finding the passages in their ancient Psalter left by their founder. So, for many years, their discussions were spiritually chatted through the legacy of Blessed King David. They taught them to cross himself with two fingers, for their Saviour was both man and God. They taught him how to let go of his thoughts through the Penitential Psalm's words, call onto the Name of the Lord, and wait on Him, with few words as the Gospel commands. He learned the Prayer, and it came into his heart one day. And sometimes it would go away, and a deep sadness came over Frater Stephanus, for he remembered the Zimbru, the swallow, and the brothers he left behind. He wondered if things could have been different, and then he saw that he was assaulted by demons through his thoughts and cried onto his Saviour with a broken heart, and through the cracks, Grace came in. And he chased It through ardent toils, wearing weights as he prostrated. He ate rarely, worked hard, and talked little with his mouth, but through the love growing in him. Eventually, the abbot came to him, hugged him, and showed him the forest. Seven years our monks spent in a cave, where he talked only to bears and birds. He came to his brother only four times yearly to partake of the Blessed Sacrifice.
If a hawk had not approached him one early spring morning, Frater Stephanus would have spent thirty-three more years in that cave. “Holy one, I bring sad news to you. My master's is approaching fast. They come raiding, and they are merciless. We hail from great plains, and the wideness has made the blood of their inhabitants mad with fury and desire. The vastness has given birth to a desire to encompass all under their dominion. They believe that because they can see it, it is also theirs to take it. They worship many gods, and they have shamans such as you, but their true God is the sword, for they do not want power but conquest. So I say to thee, oh sacred anchorite, tell your brothers and whom you can, for they shall have no mercy and never be satisfied. We shall swoop through this land like a pest and devour all eventually,” said the hawk and departed.
The abbot, a withered old man, more of a skeleton who some said had now the age of the Prophet Moses, told the brothers to leave behind the monastery and spread their love amongst the scared people, being candles of lights in the coming night. But he took Frater Stephanus aside and gave him the Psalter of Frater Paschalis, saying, “ One of the brothers could read, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste. But it shall be lost either way, for you cannot go where your brothers are going, my child. You have a journey to complete, and this. He spoke these in pure Latin and hugged the wanderer who had come to them ages ago and was now to journey again.
Frater Stephanus went north guided by nothing but the Grace. After many miles, the wanderer met a shaman who told him that the waters just further up were the ends of the world. That there is nothing there but monsters. He told him that he should go back south for the book he had, which was needed by his old monastery. Yes, indeed, the shaman spoke; Frater Stephanus was also needed back, for he was holy. And hearing this, Frater Stephanus spat and said, “Get behind me, Satan.”
The shaman vanished. And further up north, by the waters, he saw the ghost of the zimbru, his brother, and wept bitter tears like a herb that cleansed his soul. In his heart, the deep dark crevices, Frater Stephanus cursed the demon using the form of his lost friend, yet repentance was the primary pursuit of his being, and thus, the Grace did not leave him, thinking he knew he was unworthy.
He found a boat which took him to the auks, the great long-lost birds. The sea was infinite and fierce, and the wanderer saw their holiness from the first moment, like a lamplight guiding the ship of his soul.
…and now another boat is coming to take him from his brothers. He asks for water, and they each give him snow from their beaks. With trembling hands, he blesses them as they pass, a blessing that endures to this day, even though these beautiful birds are long gone. They covered his body, which smelled of roses with skin, threw snow and dirt over it, and then put on the book that the wanderer held so dear. Those pages have flown away quickly, but their Words live on.
Enjoyed this read a lot, especially the landscapes once more really coming through with this one again. Some beautiful descriptions
Well, maybe this is the way --- for a happy ending...
I really enjoyed it. It has a very special style of writing, and the language is really well done. I understand that it might be difficult for many to read online, though... But you should be proud, Stefan, for creating such an inspiring and captivating tale!