gloved hands deep into the pockets. The notes of the Sequence for the dead trembled in the lattice of naked branches. The measured tread of the monks following Brother Chrysostom’s coffin crushed the gravel under the ice, which crunched at the entrance to the small oblong of green lawn that had once been a medieval cemetery. Funny, I thought, it looks like dry season, but so cold, so cold. The dead leaves in the hedge which the snow had not covered, like dry season, but cold, so cold. Father Justin had been right about coming in the winter. I didn ’ t feel homesick though, not yet. But it was only my first day. My throat tightened. I wasn ’ t homesick, yet.
To find my name years later, his thoughts of me, amazes me, moves me. It was like he had died then. They had both died. I kept a low profile at school, except I learned tennis, and got really good, for his sake. He wanted that.
He tells a story moving over the sea, migrating in his mind. I follow.
The pelican’s young pick at its breast. They drinkblood. Images I’m reminded of.
Drink this… words, words change everything. Blue veins the colour of Quink ink. A poetry of pain.
The Grave
Take no notice of my swarthiness,
It is the sun that has burnt me.
Song of Songs
Aelred came to the cemetery at siesta time. It was a quiet, secluded spot above the abbey. It was a sun catch. That was what he liked about the spot. He brought the work he was doing on the translation of the psalms and sat on the grass in the open among the graves. The graves were in rows; a simple wooden cross over each plot. The only inscription was ‘PAX’ and the name of the dead monk with the date of his birth and death. He would be able to listen for the bell for None from here. His concentration flagged in the warmth and after-lunch drowsiness. He struggled with his translations.
In a corner of the cemetery was the small medieval chapel. Aelred wandered around it, reading the inscriptions on gravestones which had been leant up against the walls. One stone in particular caught his attention. There was a stone carving of a head. It was a young head, a boy, with curly hair. Under the head was the letter J. The other parts of the inscription had faded. He could just read part of a date, 17– As Aelred continued to stare at the face, he realised that it was an African head. He could tell by the lips, the nose, and the woolly hair the stone carver had given to the head. The portrait on the staircase came immediately to his mind. Could he be the same boy? Something in him wanted it to be the same boy. His fancy ran away with him. He invented a name for this head. Jordan, like the river. ‘TheRiver Jordan is mighty and cold, halleluia, chills the body but not the soul, halleluia.’ As Aelred hummed, he heard the singing and clapping, the chanting and wailing coming from the Baptist chapel down in the village of Felicity below Malgretoute. Toinette bound her head in a white cloth and went to pray there on her evenings off.
Jordan. He said his name. The wind whispered in the cedars of Lebanon. Jordan. He heard waves breaking on a beach without care. He heard the chuckle of salt waves meeting the fresh water current of a river. Then, there was an ocean.
Aelred thought of Father Dominic’s remark about the secret tunnel and about the runaway. His fancy enlarged upon a story building in his mind. He was filling in from his study of West Indian History at school in his last year. He was filling in his recent reading in the library of Master Walter Dewey’s exploits on the island of Antigua.
According to Amy, an old woman who worked in the Dewey house at Ash Wood, Master Walter had arrived late one night from one of his voyages. The ship had berthed in Bristol. They had had to put in at those islands called the Azores because of storms. Amy heard Master Walter grumbling to the groom of his many trials as he left the horse to be watered and stabled for the rest of the night. They might’ve
To find my name years later, his thoughts of me, amazes me, moves me. It was like he had died then. They had both died. I kept a low profile at school, except I learned tennis, and got really good, for his sake. He wanted that.
He tells a story moving over the sea, migrating in his mind. I follow.
The pelican’s young pick at its breast. They drinkblood. Images I’m reminded of.
Drink this… words, words change everything. Blue veins the colour of Quink ink. A poetry of pain.
The Grave
Take no notice of my swarthiness,
It is the sun that has burnt me.
Song of Songs
Aelred came to the cemetery at siesta time. It was a quiet, secluded spot above the abbey. It was a sun catch. That was what he liked about the spot. He brought the work he was doing on the translation of the psalms and sat on the grass in the open among the graves. The graves were in rows; a simple wooden cross over each plot. The only inscription was ‘PAX’ and the name of the dead monk with the date of his birth and death. He would be able to listen for the bell for None from here. His concentration flagged in the warmth and after-lunch drowsiness. He struggled with his translations.
In a corner of the cemetery was the small medieval chapel. Aelred wandered around it, reading the inscriptions on gravestones which had been leant up against the walls. One stone in particular caught his attention. There was a stone carving of a head. It was a young head, a boy, with curly hair. Under the head was the letter J. The other parts of the inscription had faded. He could just read part of a date, 17– As Aelred continued to stare at the face, he realised that it was an African head. He could tell by the lips, the nose, and the woolly hair the stone carver had given to the head. The portrait on the staircase came immediately to his mind. Could he be the same boy? Something in him wanted it to be the same boy. His fancy ran away with him. He invented a name for this head. Jordan, like the river. ‘TheRiver Jordan is mighty and cold, halleluia, chills the body but not the soul, halleluia.’ As Aelred hummed, he heard the singing and clapping, the chanting and wailing coming from the Baptist chapel down in the village of Felicity below Malgretoute. Toinette bound her head in a white cloth and went to pray there on her evenings off.
Jordan. He said his name. The wind whispered in the cedars of Lebanon. Jordan. He heard waves breaking on a beach without care. He heard the chuckle of salt waves meeting the fresh water current of a river. Then, there was an ocean.
Aelred thought of Father Dominic’s remark about the secret tunnel and about the runaway. His fancy enlarged upon a story building in his mind. He was filling in from his study of West Indian History at school in his last year. He was filling in his recent reading in the library of Master Walter Dewey’s exploits on the island of Antigua.
According to Amy, an old woman who worked in the Dewey house at Ash Wood, Master Walter had arrived late one night from one of his voyages. The ship had berthed in Bristol. They had had to put in at those islands called the Azores because of storms. Amy heard Master Walter grumbling to the groom of his many trials as he left the horse to be watered and stabled for the rest of the night. They might’ve
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