the
reach of any person who might wander in, I hope?’
‘No, of course not!’ Setubar
answered. ‘No one but the infirmarian and I have access to such things in the
herbarium. We alone hold the keys.’
‘A prudent decision.’ There was a
thoughtful pause. ‘On another matter, do you supply the monastery with any
other substances apart from medicinal ones?’
‘We make our own ink,’ Asa said, ‘from
the wood of thorntrees. I collect this wood for I am very often in the forest.
However, the making of amalgam for applying gold leaf, the tempering of
colours, and the production of glue, these things I leave to others who
specialise in these arts.’
‘Yes, I see.’ My master then moved
closer to the body on the great table, whose ashen features were troublesome,
especially since there was a strange redness collecting on those parts beneath
the trunk, lower arms and legs. Later my master was to tell me that when the
heart stops beating the blood no longer circulates around the body, but
collects in the areas where the body happens to be lying for a time after
death, and this sometimes can indicate the length of time between a death and
its discovery.
‘There is no bruising?’ he asked.
‘No, preceptor.’
My master handed me the stub of
carrot and proceeded to his inspection of the body, firstly the feet, noting
that they were covered in a red mud.
‘This is curious . . . clay?’
The infirmarian peered at the dead
man’s feet. ‘So it is.’
‘But the abbey rests on dry, rocky
earth,’ my master said thoughtfully.
‘Indeed, though if one digs lower, as
I have occasion to do in the garden, a moist red earth reveals itself.’
‘I see.’
He continued working his way up the
legs of the body, the torso, arms, and finally the fingers and hands.
‘His hands are sticky.’
‘Brother Ezekiel had a sweet tooth,’
said the old man in reply.
‘Ahh yes, the raisins.’ My master
then searched the cadaver’s face, his ears, his eyes, and mouth. I looked away
as he opened it and sniffed inside. ‘Was the venerable brother suffering from
any illness or disorder that might account for his death? I can see his blood
did not circulate well around his legs for here we see evidence of past
ulceration, am I correct?’
‘Yes, if he were to bump his extremities
in the slightest, his skin would tear, and within a few hours a terrible wound
would develop,’ Asa answered.
‘And he was going blind, was he not?’
my master said, looking up.
‘Yes, for many years.’
‘We are then perhaps looking at the
body of a man who suffered from a disease known in the east whose designation
escapes me . . .’ He then quoted a medical text. ‘Just as the corpus of
a man does not respire aqua ,’ he said, ‘and a fish does not breathe air,
so do many innocent substances kill those whose organisms find them unsuitable.
It is only conjecture at this point, of course,’ my master stated, ‘but much
knowledge can be gained by using the art of diagnostics.’
‘Yes, the skill of the Greeks,’ said
Asa, who then became very thoughtful. ‘You remember his continual somnolence,
Brother Setubar? His thirst, and constant need to relieve himself?’
Brother Setubar grunted a little in
answer.
‘Of course . . . I am a fool!’ The
infirmarian slapped the side of his face with one hand, then.
‘No, it is not always easy to
diagnose,’ my master assuaged, ‘and yet his breath could have secured your
confidence in this hypothesis, for it would have been very sweet. Did his urine
have the familiar smell?’
‘Sweet?’
‘No, caustic.’
‘Caustic?’
‘Caustic . . .’ My master washed his
hands in a bowl of warm water and took his carrot stub from me. ‘One whose body
is afflicted with this condition cannot dissolve the materia of sweet potentia, it remains in the patient like a fermentum and infects the entire corpus .
The adepts from the far eastern lands have written a great deal about this
complaint.
reach of any person who might wander in, I hope?’
‘No, of course not!’ Setubar
answered. ‘No one but the infirmarian and I have access to such things in the
herbarium. We alone hold the keys.’
‘A prudent decision.’ There was a
thoughtful pause. ‘On another matter, do you supply the monastery with any
other substances apart from medicinal ones?’
‘We make our own ink,’ Asa said, ‘from
the wood of thorntrees. I collect this wood for I am very often in the forest.
However, the making of amalgam for applying gold leaf, the tempering of
colours, and the production of glue, these things I leave to others who
specialise in these arts.’
‘Yes, I see.’ My master then moved
closer to the body on the great table, whose ashen features were troublesome,
especially since there was a strange redness collecting on those parts beneath
the trunk, lower arms and legs. Later my master was to tell me that when the
heart stops beating the blood no longer circulates around the body, but
collects in the areas where the body happens to be lying for a time after
death, and this sometimes can indicate the length of time between a death and
its discovery.
‘There is no bruising?’ he asked.
‘No, preceptor.’
My master handed me the stub of
carrot and proceeded to his inspection of the body, firstly the feet, noting
that they were covered in a red mud.
‘This is curious . . . clay?’
The infirmarian peered at the dead
man’s feet. ‘So it is.’
‘But the abbey rests on dry, rocky
earth,’ my master said thoughtfully.
‘Indeed, though if one digs lower, as
I have occasion to do in the garden, a moist red earth reveals itself.’
‘I see.’
He continued working his way up the
legs of the body, the torso, arms, and finally the fingers and hands.
‘His hands are sticky.’
‘Brother Ezekiel had a sweet tooth,’
said the old man in reply.
‘Ahh yes, the raisins.’ My master
then searched the cadaver’s face, his ears, his eyes, and mouth. I looked away
as he opened it and sniffed inside. ‘Was the venerable brother suffering from
any illness or disorder that might account for his death? I can see his blood
did not circulate well around his legs for here we see evidence of past
ulceration, am I correct?’
‘Yes, if he were to bump his extremities
in the slightest, his skin would tear, and within a few hours a terrible wound
would develop,’ Asa answered.
‘And he was going blind, was he not?’
my master said, looking up.
‘Yes, for many years.’
‘We are then perhaps looking at the
body of a man who suffered from a disease known in the east whose designation
escapes me . . .’ He then quoted a medical text. ‘Just as the corpus of
a man does not respire aqua ,’ he said, ‘and a fish does not breathe air,
so do many innocent substances kill those whose organisms find them unsuitable.
It is only conjecture at this point, of course,’ my master stated, ‘but much
knowledge can be gained by using the art of diagnostics.’
‘Yes, the skill of the Greeks,’ said
Asa, who then became very thoughtful. ‘You remember his continual somnolence,
Brother Setubar? His thirst, and constant need to relieve himself?’
Brother Setubar grunted a little in
answer.
‘Of course . . . I am a fool!’ The
infirmarian slapped the side of his face with one hand, then.
‘No, it is not always easy to
diagnose,’ my master assuaged, ‘and yet his breath could have secured your
confidence in this hypothesis, for it would have been very sweet. Did his urine
have the familiar smell?’
‘Sweet?’
‘No, caustic.’
‘Caustic?’
‘Caustic . . .’ My master washed his
hands in a bowl of warm water and took his carrot stub from me. ‘One whose body
is afflicted with this condition cannot dissolve the materia of sweet potentia, it remains in the patient like a fermentum and infects the entire corpus .
The adepts from the far eastern lands have written a great deal about this
complaint.
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