My Hallowe'en Story from a few years ago...
Posted by TMWeddle
on October 30, 2014
The Scribe
Posted by DanDeMon
October 30, 2014, 1:59 pm
Adapted from a Jesuit's
recollection.
In a noisy and roiling time many
years ago, a young man seeking peace and a life of
contemplation decided to dedicate himself to the Church,
and so went off to join a monastery.
At that time
Monks devoted their lives to a variety of crafts and
services. Some begged alms to aid the needy, others tended
vineyards or baked breads. The particular priory that
attracted this young man was devoted to disseminating
copies of their
manuscript library to all of the
churches in the land. There were letters from Popes to
Kings, Earls to Bishops, edicts, dicta, epistles…an
archive of correspondence from thoughtful, learned men who
shaped the history and traditions of the Church,
the
Government, the People. The archives were ancient and vast
and the land was crowded with churches. Making copies was
the work of many lifetimes.
This is how they
worked.
When the very first copies were made, a
monk took a manuscript from the archive and copied it with
quill and ink just as they had been initially written for
centuries. The original was then returned for safekeeping.
The next copy was made from the one most recently
completed so that the monks were always working from the
most newly finished version.
As a novice, the
young man was schooled to prepare the smooth and pliant
vellum onto which the copies were made. Later he would be
taught the script and allowed to copy the body of the
detailed Latin texts. Others, who had more skill, produced
only the large initial capital letter that began each
section, while others even more adept, carefully painted,
gilded and illuminated the letter, sometimes using brushes
with only a single hair. A slow and painstaking process in
a place where time did not matter.
The young man
settled into this gentle society and quietly made his
contribution.
After some time, the Abbot took the him
aside and asked:
“So, my son, you have been here a
while, and seem to enjoy the work. What do you think of
our efforts?”
“Holy Father…” the young man
said, “…it brings meaning to my life. But one detail
concerns me.”
“And what is that, my son?”
“Well, the copy I am making now is drawn from a version
that was finished only months ago.”
“That is true.
And the one that will be finished next year will be made
from the work that is being doing now. So it has been from
the day we were founded by Saint Barnabas the Bookish.”
“But don’t you see Father, if a mistake had been
made many years ago, it is still being copied forward
today. From time to time shouldn’t we check our work
against the original to make sure the copy is correct?”
The Abbot thought on this and said, “That is a
wise and prudent observation. Thank you. I will make this
task my own.”
And so, as a copy was completed, the
Abbot would take it down to the crypt and night after
night in the cool, stony silence, carefully check it
against the original, taking pains that neither tallow
from his candle, nor soot from his lamp would damage the
work before him. He would read from the evening matins,
and then at midnight retire to face the work of the new
day.
***
One night from the crypt a scream
was heard throughout the monastery. A wail of such depth,
despair and anguish that the bats flew from the tower,
circling in a swarm that occluded the moon's ashen glow,
as the bells resonated a low and mournful groan.
It is
remembered that the grasses bent under its weight and the
trees sighed, rustled in fear.
The roused friars
raced down the damp and slippery steps, their cassocks,
beads and sandals, flapping, clacking, slapping to find
the Abbot on his knees pointing through the yellow light
of his lantern to an ancient manuscript spread on the
reading table beside him. With tears awash, he turned to
them and cried:
“It's too late now, but the word
is 'celebro', not 'caelebs'…" His voice
cracked and dropped,
"...'celebrate'...not 'celibate'.”
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