Traveller Inceptio
6

6

The monk stood before Michael and wept in an open-mouthed cry unlike grief or fear, more like—joy? He didn’t appear to be as afraid for his life as one would have thought when confronted in the depths of the forest by an armed man.

To make matters even more disconcerting, he moved forward until his face was but a hand’s breadth away. There was an impression of rotten teeth and bad breath, an almost physical assault from which Michael immediately recoiled. Many of the monk’s teeth were absent. Obviously he rarely shaved, as his face was covered with stubble that could have been blonde or grey. His age was almost impossible to determine. He was particularly mindful of thick hairs and pocked blackheads that decorated the end of the monk’s bulbous nose as pale grey eyes adoringly gazed up at him. Michael froze uncomfortably.

Without warning, the monk surged forward, as if to give Michael a hug. It was all he could do to fend the smaller man off with raised hands. Thankfully, he stopped at the last moment. Michael had no desire for any close contact with the damp wool that stank heavily. He scanned his surrounds as he realised this monk would be a perfect distraction for brigands, for he had become completely immobilised by the man’s unexpected emotional reaction. As he watched, aghast, the sobbing monk sank slowly to his knees, his eyes never leaving Michael’s face. Tears poured down his weathered, whiskered cheeks and soon the childlike weeping began to distress. Michael had seen weeping in many places—weeping of mothers for sons, of fathers for children—but nothing quite as mysterious as this. He crouched in front of the monk and reached to touch the man’s grubby hands, his other hand still on his short sword, just in case.

On reaching out in comfort, his hand was grasped and held by the monk’s hard, heavily veined hands: hands with swollen arthritic knuckles aggravated by a life of hard physical labour. Before he could react, the monk kissed Michael’s hand passionately. There was an impression of a bristly face and a damp slobber of snot, so the initial reaction was to pull away. Yet he uncomfortably patted the monk’s shoulder and made soothing noises before he retrieved his hand and stood, encouraging the other to rise. More kisses were threatened, so he hurriedly addressed the monk in Latin, supposing he could speak the lingua franca of clergy throughout Christendom. “Peace be unto you, brother,” he said as he gave the slobbered hand a tactful wipe on the seat of his breeches.

“And to you,” was the automatic sob in response. There was an accent and the words were understood, though at first difficult to decipher.

“What is your name?” asked Michael.

“My name?” the monk asked, as if stunned at such a question. “My name … my name is Oeric, Lord. Brother Oeric,” he replied quietly and briefly averted his eyes.

“Oeric. Greetings, Brother Oeric, my name is...” He paused. He knew it was best to provide his name in a format best suited to the local language. “My name is Michael.” He said it as ‘Meekal’ to give the pronunciation he assumed would suit.

At the name, Brother Oeric wailed loudly and again placed his trembling, worn hands over his face. Before Michael could react, the man again fell to his knees and bent to place his face onto the leaf litter. Michael again scanned the surrounding forest uncomfortably.

Indeed, they were alone.

He again knelt and awkwardly patted the prostrate Brother Oeric on the shoulder. “Oeric, Brother Oeric, is something wrong? Why do you weep? Come now, stand and tell me. What is the matter?”

After what seemed to be a titanic struggle, Brother Oeric managed to retain some control. Rising to his knees, he wiped his freely running nose and eyes on the cloth that hung over his chest, a simple square of wool with a head hole that was his scapula, designed to protect his long, brown tunic. Michael noted the silver line of snot and decided that if another hug was attempted, that was good enough reason to keep the monk at arm’s length. The monk wore a simple, one-piece robe of rough, raw, dark brown wool that enabled him to blend effectively with the forest. Attached to his scapula was a cowl, a large hood that offered protection from snow or rain in a fashion similar to the hood Michael wore on his own cloak. Michael watched the small man clutch his shaking hands together in a moment of muttered prayer before he looked up again.

“Lord, I give thanks that you are here,” he said with eyes that were again downcast. He paused and gazed up adoringly, a look that was supposed to be a quick glance but which ended in a stare akin to wonder.

“Thank you, Brother Oeric. I also give thanks that I’m here,” Michael replied quietly as he stood. He waited for Brother Oeric to continue. There was something distinctly odd about this, standing in a forest in such a chance, emotional meeting. Brother Oeric’s hands shook again as he continued to struggle for control, his voice quivered, and he looked down as he continued. “Lord…”

Michael interrupted gently. “Brother Oeric, please call me by my name. You don’t need to call me Lord.”

“Yes, Lord. Yes, Lord Michael. I have cried unto God that we receive his blessing and his help. I came into the forest, Lord...um…Michael, to plead for God’s favour, for his kind and loving care,” explained the monk quickly. His voice had dropped to a mutter, a mere whisper. Brother Oeric was small but made himself look even smaller as he hunched over, gnarled hands grasped around his simple wooden crucifix, his shoulders rounded and his head bowed. He did indeed need to have his tonsure tidied. The tonsure should have been a neatly shaved pate on the top of the head as a sign of a monk’s humility. It looked like the monk’s barber was a few months overdue.

Michael raised his eyebrows and smiled encouragingly. He saw the monk glance at his mouth and Oeric’s eyes widened a little and his head again bowed quickly. “Lord Michael, I give thanks to the Blessed Virgin, Mary, Mother of God. Thank you, Lord, thank you, Lord…” He took a sobbing breath and resumed weeping.

Michael sighed. He needed to gain control of a situation he had clearly failed to understand. “Oeric, brother, where do you live? You cannot live in the forest, surely?” he asked quickly before another continuation of histrionics.

Brother Oeric paused and took another sobbing breath as he struggled to decipher Michael’s Latin, thus saving himself from another downward spiral into the leaf litter. He appeared to brighten and to gain a sense of purpose. “Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me! Yes! The Blessed Virgin be praised! Yes, we must leave this place now and get to shelter and to Brother Aldfrid and the brothers at the monastery.”

Michael was relieved to hear there was a monastery close-by. As Brother Oeric had no possessions, he stood a moment, as if gathering himself mentally and spiritually, then, with a furtive glance to Michael to follow, collected his staff, and confidently headed off into the forest.

As they walked, at first he said nothing, murmuring prayerfully into the hand that clasped his simple crucifix while casting furtive glances at his new companion, as if to make sure he was really there. Michael constantly scanned the forest without comment while Brother Oeric walked on. The small man carried himself with a slight limp, favouring his right knee when clambering up a steep slope or when crossing some of the many creeks. On more than one occasion, Michael was tempted to toss the little man into a creek to give him a much-needed bath.

The monk was very thin and his ankle-length tunic heavily stained, but he carried himself with a determined purpose that made a brisk pace through the forest.

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