Chapter 33: Dona Nobis Pacem

 'It's a pretty village, isn't it?' said Paul.
'What's it called again?'

'Three Pines,' Gamache replied.

'Because of them?' He pointed to the 3 tall pine trees at the end of the village green.

'Yes. It's an old code. 3 pine trees planted together means safety. It was used as a signal centuries ago. It marked a sanctuary.'

Louise Penny
The Hangman

 ...................

"We do not want to merely see Beauty...we want something else which can hardly be put into words --
to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled air and earth and water with gods and goddesses and nymphs and elves."

Lewis saw this unquenchable longing as a sure sign that no part of the created world, and thus no aspect of our experience, is capable of fulfilling humankind. We are dominated by a homelessness, and yet by a keen sense of what "home" means.

Colin Duriez
Tolkien and C.S. Lewis - The Gift of Friendship

..........

The Miracle of the Wolf

..::According to all the sources, including the earliest source, "Legenda de vita et obitu sancti Guilielmi Confessoris et heremitae", all of which are close to Catholicism, Guilielmi performed many miracles. The best-known miracle was and still is the "Miracle of the Wolf" (1591). Because this, he is often depicted in company with a "domesticated" wolf, even in the monastery of Montevergine::..

........................

 ..::If only you knew how powerful you truly were. If only you knew from whence you came and that the wisdom is there for the asking. You are without limitation. You are beyond where fear can even conceive to follow. Fear is the necromancer that is within each of us, the part of us that doubts the very existence of the Great Spirit force. The Ghost Dance is the song of the Wind, its call shall be heard across the land.  Every tree, every bird that flies, and every scent that fills the air will speak its message.  It is time for the Children of the Sun to Arise::..

Robert Ghost Wolf - Winds of Change
                                                                     

..........

Daryl awoke. He knew not where.

His eyes glanced about him, but moving his head was still a challenge. It ached. Along with everything else.
   He saw nothing more than walls of stone on one side of him, and another wall of wood on the other. Light edged in softly from beyond that wall. A flickering light of fire or candle.

It was cool within these walls, but under blankets and sheepskin it was warm enough. Daryl closed his eyes with relief, drinking in the warmth, and pulled covers closer about him. Such a mercy to be warm at last!

As he lay, trying not to think about anything much, he realised he heard something far off in the distance, yet seeming to come from within these walls...a sound of music.

Song, or chant it was. The beauty of it, the gentle cadence upon his weary nerves soothed him. So softly sung, it seemed to disappear at times, and then return, like waves upon a shore.

Am I dead and hearing choirs of the Angeles? Daryl sighed softly. He hoped so. He was so tired, and hurt. He would lie here, forever, if only he could.
He knew a great thirst though, and endeavored to lift himself up in search of water.

'Ah, you are awake.' A voice from the outer room found him. The voice was followed by the cowl'd and robed figure he'd known from the gate. Death himself.
Death smiled genially.

'I think so,' Daryl croaked, as he tried to sit up, groaning. 'I rather wish I wasn't, though...' He gasped as Death reached under his arms and pulled him gamely into a sitting position.
   Water was poured into an earthenware mug and offered him. 'Can you grasp this?' Death inquired cordially.

Daryl did, and drank thirstily. 'Ah...thank you.' He attempted a focused eye upon his attendant. 'I...am not dead?'

'No,' Death answered, shaking his head slowly with a small smile.

'Then who are you? What is this place?' Daryl put a cool hand to his head, closed his eyes and lay back against the stone wall. He tried a deep breath but soon broke into a coughing fit.

The voice had retreated to the outer room. Daryl heard the sound of water pouring and then smelled a not unwelcome scent of warm herbs.
  'Here, drink this.' Death offered a cup. 'It is willow bark and camomile, a bit of licorice root, for that cough. And honey.'

Daryl drank gratefully. Indeed the hot herbal drink seemed to seep into his starved cells so that he drank it all down with gusto.

Death took a seat beside him.
  'I am Brother Sebastian.' (Ah, not Death then. Daryl was relieved and only slightly disappointed.)'You are in the monastery of St.William of Montevergine.'

'The Wolf Saint?' Daryl asked.
'You know of him?' Sebastian was pleased.
'Only the...legend.' Daryl was most puzzled. 'We are   not in Italy?'
'Alas, no. It would be much warmer, indeed.' Brother Sebastian was nothing if not pithy. 'You are still in Massachusetts, although rather far north. We are not far from New Hampshire. St.William of the North, one might say.'

How the...heck did I get this far north? Daryl's mind reeled with this enigmatic information.

'It is time for some garden work. Many herbs are raised here that are used in our medicines. I will check on you later.' Brother Sebastian stood. 'Ring if you need anything.' He nodded to the bedside table where a brass bell reposed.
  Daryl eyed it with vague horror. Bells right now would be quite beyond his aching head.
  'I am just fine here. Thank you, Brother Sebastian.'

Daryl listened to the footfalls of the gentle brother echo softly down the hallway, and sighed. His brain refused to question or even focus on anything. All anxiety and fevered haste seemed to have been beaten out of him.

Later. Later he could think. Just now, he would not question whatever fates had brought him here. He only knew that here, perhaps, he could rest and heal.
-- Imagine that.
   Daryl did. And slept.
                                                                             

..............  


'Someone is coming from the Estate.' Athena had a quick eye. She called to the others who all turned their gaze past the fields toward the Mausoleum to view a woman striding hard their way.

Fair of face and form she was, with long blond hair blowing like ripened wheat in the autumn winds.   'Diosa!' Em exclaimed. 'Sure if it isn't Shannon!' What the devil could this mean?

Em began walking to meet her, Llew following in her trail.
  'So! You found your mobile unit then? Or came you by broomstick?' A more inconvenient time wee Shannon couldn't have picked if she tried.

'Where'n the divvil have you been?!' Shannon stood at attention, hands on hips when they'd come close enough to harangue. She then took notice of Llew -- and notice again, her face a mask of shock and awe.
  'And just whoo might this be?' Or, perhaps what, she wondered.

'Shannon,' Emlyn answered, trying to remain calm, collected, and politely on top of it all, 'I would like you to meet Llew Llaw Gyffes, son of Gwydion, son of Math ap Mathonwy, Chief Bard, Druid and King of Wales...and myself. Llew, this is my dear friend Shannon Fitzgerald.'

Llew made a leg and a proper bow, sweeping an arm before him. 'Milady Fitzgerald...'

Shannon's eyes went wide as saucers as they  blinked repeatedly and glommed onto Llew, especially about the ears. 'I...' She stared unbelieving at Em.
  'I, am pleased to make your acquaintance...Llew Llaw Gyffes.' She managed a small curtsy only slightly wavering. 'Please call me Shannon.' Her eyes went back to Em, accusingly.

'And I am Llew, if it please milady.' Llew smiled and held out an arm. 'Might I escort thee?'

Shannon's alarm melted to butter as she unctuously took Llew's arm and began to sway her hips as they, (with Em trailing behind, rolling her eyes), made their way back to where Athena and Wolf Star were waiting with their raptors.

Emlyn could see what was coming, as she gazed narrowly at the chummy couple before her, seeing the Courtship of Gywdion and Emlyn being brazenly repeated in the tilt of the young folks heads together and in such charming words from wee Llew's clever tongue that he surely got from his wicked father...the girlish giggles coming from dear friend Shannon quite turned her stomach.
  Em knew something had to be done. And fast.

                                                              

.............

One fine late autumn day, after a night of storms, an odd sight was seen, or might have been seen, by anyone about to view it. However, there were only birds and chipmunks, fox and deer, creatures that crept and swam and flew about their business.

A large white owl was one of these. He flew above the strange pair who were mounted together upon a star horse, borrowed for the journey. What he saw were his friend, the native man with long black and grey braids, who sat before a younger male with hair like sunset and ears like very few others. Native, he wasn't.
   The owl noticed that the young one seemed to be there and then not; to phase out of time and space and back again. But only the owl could see this, with his nocturnal, amber and otherworldly sight.

'This is exciting for me,' said Llew, who gazed about and upward, watching the owl's flight as it paced them. 'I have never spent much time with the Druids, although I have been curious about their teachings. There exists a sort of college of Bardic knowledge which teaches all manner of mysteries...the language of trees and of the stars, of music and geometry, and the healing arts...I have learned much from my father, but it would be fine to learn from many scholars from other isles.'

Wolf Star handed the water sack around to Llew.
'Drink. You need to stay hydrated, and to eat more while you are in this world. It will help to keep your spirit from flying away home.'

Llew drank from the sack but made a face. It was water, but not as clear and clean as he'd been used to. This liquid seemed heavy and full of silt to him. But he knew he must comply if he wished to stay grounded.

'Do you stay in touch with these monks very often, Wolf Star?' Llew handed the water over.

'Not very.' Wolf Star hitched up the sack and handed Llew some dried fruit leather, snacking on a piece himself.  'They do live far from Athena's neck of the woods. But you will still stay safe there; it is within the boundaries of the firmament that Daryl has placed over us.'

'This Dary-el must be a very great magician.' Llew took tiny bites of the apricot leather. 'Is he Elohim, I wonder? I've noticed their kind all seem to have names ending with an El; Micha-el, Rapha-el...'

Wolf Star smiled. How interesting, to be from another world. As he, himself was. 'No, Daryl is human, a man like any other. The only difference is that he has refused to believe it.'

'Oh.' Llew chewed on that as well, shifting about. 'I think I am becoming heavier here already. My rump feels as though I've been sitting on rocks and not the soft fur of a horse. No offense to thee...' He smoothed and patted the horse's starry rear.

 'We are soon there. The monasteries lie just over that next ridge.' Wolf Star  pointed ahead to an outcropping of large boulders atop a tree covered hill.

'There are two different monasteries then?' Llew leaned dangerously sideways in effort to achieve a better view in anticipation. To him, it looked like hours away yet.
  Wolf Star nodded. 'You will see.'

                                                                         

............

Daryl slept long and hard. He had been dreaming of a baker kneading bread; hands busily kneading, kneading, molding the loaf and kneading again...
 -- 'Ow!' Daryl awoke.

He awoke to the sound of purring.
A fine large black cat with slitted eyes of green sat upon his belly, kneading it with furry paw and claw.
   'Well, hello!' Daryl looked down at his bed mate
who surely was the one who'd drawn blood from belly. 'And well pleased you are at that.' Daryl frowned, smiling.

                                                                                    

'Ach, I see you've met Melchizedek!' Brother Sebastian appeared at his bed side, lifting the giant cat from Daryl, who breathed much easier now.

'Basta, you great beast! The man doesn't need more wounds from you.' The monk let the cat slip like streaming velvet from his hands to the floor where the cat trotted off on errands of his own. Probably seeking more blood, thought Daryl.

'Melchizedek is a mouse's worst nightmare. I hope he wasn't yours as well. You're looking much better.'  Brother Sebastian took Daryl's pulse.'How are you feeling?'

'I think I'll live. Hadn't been so sure earlier.' Daryl coughed. 'I could eat something, I think.' He looked about for his clothes.

Sebastian handed Daryl a cowl'd robe, much like his own. 'Your clothes, what's left of them, are being cleaned. This should fit you meanwhile, and there are sandals.'

When in Rome, Daryl half-smiled, thinking that little saying quite dead on, as he eased gingerly into the robe. Not scratchy as he'd thought, it was actually quite soft and also warmer than it looked, though a union suit underneath wouldn't go amiss.
These brothers are a tough lot and used to the northeastern chill, as Californicated Daryl no longer was.

'After dinner, you are welcome to come share Compline with us.'

We'll see, thought Daryl, food and drink being uppermost in his immediate plans. However...as he followed along the stone hallway behind Brother Sebastian, it came to him how serendipidous it was; this place of refuge he'd just happened upon in the middle of nowhere. Hidden away in the deep forest, no one knowing he was here.
  Not such a bad setting for a man who did not wish to be found.

................

'As it is the fourth day of October, the feast day of Saint Francis of Assisi, today's reading will honor our humble brother Francesco, who, although he was the founder of the Franciscan order, refused to be ordained a priest, and remained a deacon though out his remarkable life.'

Daryl was deep in his stew, which was delicious. A fine thick brown stew, laden with garden vegetables and a bit of meat, which he guessed was rabbit, as it reminded him of his own lapin stew he'd made at Athena's...so long ago now. Crusty dark bread with rosemary accompanied, freshly baked, and was also nothing less than divine, as was fitting.

He found he also rather enjoyed being read to during the meal. It gave one something to hear other than the chewing of a couple of dozen assorted monks arranged about him upon long benches on either side of the great dark oaken table before them.

'We all know the story...' continued the orating brother, who lifted an arm to the right of him, drawing attention to the painting on the wall, Daryl now noticed, of St.Francis of Gubbio, bending over Brother Wolf, and making the sign of the cross over him, '...of how Brother Francis convinced the townspeople to feed the wolf, so that he would leave their livestock alone. And so the creature did.
   'How many men have been made to feel they must become wolves to survive? To take what they need by theft or force? If only we were truly our brothers' keepers, and took care of one another, no one need go hungry or want for shelter.'

                                                                                   

Daryl noted then, a few of the monks shifted curious eyes his way. Hm. Did he resemble such a man, a ravenous wolf beneath his lambs-wool habit?

'And here, our own St.William,' the orator lifted his left arm, to the other painting which faced St. Francis. 'Again, with his own humbled wolf, who surely had attacked William's poor donkey, only out of hunger. "Beasts" we name them, but it is only men who would kill not out of necessity for survival, but due to their own failings as men.
  'Our gentle beasts: the donkey, the horse, the dog, sheep and goat, all live to simply get along in the world, and are pleased to serve mankind, if treated gently and with respect due to a fellow creature of le bon Dieu...'

Daryl was impressed. He'd never heard more gentle words spoken from a pulpit, certainly not in the hellfire-and-brimstone preaching he'd suffered through in whatever Protestant church he'd been dragged to as a child.

That church would never have hung portraits of saints with wolves over their dining hall... The orating brother's slight accent he now recognised, with that "Le Bon Dieu". Well, we are close to the French Canadian Great White North here. A bit too close, he worried. But, still...it was safer here than any where within a hundred miles, not to mention kilometers.

A couple of young men, novices, Daryl presumed, came with trays and removed the empty bowls, leaving fresh pitchers of water along the long table.

'As it is the feast day of Brother Francis, we will have our petite celebration, non?' The orating monk smiled, looking Daryl thought, rather like his own imagined version of Friar Tuck, hands clasped above his rather well-padded middle, and eyes crinkled to slits over his smile. 'Brother Bernardo tells me that the new barrels of beer are ready to be sampled.'

                                                                           

The young lads returned then, laden with trays of even larger pitchers, (of the promised new beer Daryl hoped), as well as plates of nuts, cheeses and apples.
  'Let us give thanks unto le bon Dieu, Brother Bernado and all the brewer confreres who have worked so diligently upon the perfecting of this year's harvest.'

All bowed their shorn pates, fringed with what hair they had, and the orator began a prayer of thanksgiving in dulcet Latin tones, as Daryl, though wolf he may be within, bowed his heretical head and joined the brothers in humble gratitude.

After all the mugs were filled with with the dark, rather thick beer, sediment swirling to the bottom,  the brothers cracked nuts and offered cheese around the well-worn table, polished to a shine over all the deep cuts and scratches, scarred by countless hours of wear and tear by legions of hungry monks.

Then, to Darly's surprise, the orator, a brother Louis, he found, raised his mug in a toast, and then began to sing. En Francais, and Latin. Louis' clear tenor rang out, joined here and there by other Franco-American brothers in various voices. Those who kneweth not the linguistics, either hummed along or contented themselves in sampling the excellent, and no doubt home-made cheeses, and of course, more beer.

                                                                              

The feast was indeed a holy haven of happy  humble men in habits, until the bell tower began to chime the seven o'clock hour. Monks then quickly and quietly finished off their cups and set all leftovers upon trays, which were whisked off by the novices and all began to file into the chapel.

'Compline, mon cher invalide...' Brother Louis was at Daryl's side, taking his arm. 'You will digest your dinner and bien biere much better when you sit with us together under the benevolent gaze of le bon Dieu, Maker of all things, including our bon hommes here, and your own good self, non?'

Daryl found he could not argue, not in the steel grip of Brother Louis, as he was hustled off to chapel. Weren't the 'bon hommes' or 'good men' how the old Cathars referred to themselves? Curious...
 
In his wildest dreams, Daryl had never imagined, when he'd left Athena in the forest, that he would wind up in a monk's habit, in a monastery hidden in a wilderness, drinking home-brewed beer and praying to 'le bon Dieu', surrounded by men who had renounced the world about them.
   In his present circumstances, he actually wondered if that was not such a bad way to spend his time...for a while.

........

The chapel was lit by candlelight, as was most of the monastery, Daryl was discovering. It also added needed heat as well, in this mostly stone edifice. Their gentle light was rather welcome to his battered brain and easy on the eyes for one who had, perhaps, seen altogether too much of late.

Brother Louis disengaged Daryl and proceeded to the right of the pulpit. He also acted as the musical director, Daryl had learned. He was hoping to hear something like the chants and hymns he'd caught upon waking that morning.

From the rear of the minster, the priest entered bearing a hyssop wand with which he sprinkled the monks, and Daryl, with holy water. Daryl couldn't help feeling a bit of excitement, rather like how one feels in anticipation of a ballet or opera.
 -- Introit...

Drama and mystery. As a ceremonial magician, Daryl knew these intentions well. It was a sort of mystery school, was it not? Just because it wasn't entirely a mystery, and open to those who would so choose it, did not alter the intent; to present and engender a meditative and altered state of consciousness. Especially in ye olde Latin Mass.

                                                                             

'...Aspergus me...' chanted the priest, sprinkling all as he proceeded to the altar.

'Domine hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me...' the monks chanted in response, in unison, the antiphon in the old Latin way which delighted Daryl, pagan though he be.

He knew a bit of this chant, from knowledge gleaned far back in the attics of his memory, secreted in those ancient Greek and Latin texts wherein he'd also studied the Kaballah alongside the Alexandrian Mysteries of Egypt.

'Thou shalt sprinkle me Lord, with hyssop, and I shall be cleansed; thou shalt wash me and I shall be made whiter than snow.'

Daryl closed his eyes, drinking in the waves of sound, murmuring along when memory sparked, and he soon found himself in a meditative state...

He awoke to a sudden rising of voices lifting together about him: 'Kyrie eleison...Christe eleison...Kyrie eleison...'

The priest lifted his hands. 'Gloria in excelsis Deo.' He then sat. Brother Louis then stood and held up his arms, nodding; and a great culmination of voices rose together and Daryl was taken by surprise when he heard feminine sounds of alto and soprano as well!

He turned his head to the rear of the church and saw a dozen or so nuns, all gathered together there amongst the candles, incense and monks, and singing along in their high, clear voices.

'Ex in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Laudamus te, Benedicimus te...'

Daryl was quite transported. He was, in fact, becoming rather fond of this place. (And glad he hadn't skipped Compline, as he'd been considering.)
From whence had these sisters appeared?
   Mysterious ways, indeed...

As he studied the nuns grouped at the rear of the nave, he couldn't help but notice one who stood out among the others...owing to the facial tattoos upon her lovely brown skin. She reminded him of something, or rather, someone -- Wolf Star.
                                                                                         

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CLICK BELOW TO LISTEN:
Ghost Dance
Robbie Robertson Red Road Ensemble