{"id":134,"date":"2013-11-18T20:55:07","date_gmt":"2013-11-18T20:55:07","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/centauriweb.hu\/en\/?page_id=134"},"modified":"2023-02-19T01:24:28","modified_gmt":"2023-02-19T01:24:28","slug":"short-story-well-under-the-sun","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/centauriweb.hu\/en\/short-story-well-under-the-sun\/","title":{"rendered":"Well under the Sun"},"content":{"rendered":"

He was also bothered that the itching may have been a remnant of his temporal life, and if so and\u2014God forbid!\u2014he was obliged to confess openly his part in the matter, what kind of disapproval he might have to face. For that very reason, he furtively but thoroughly scouted the others during vespers, Sunday mass, at evening prayers, at vigil, even kept his eyes peeled when others scratched, where and how much. When the early frosts came in late November, the leaves fell, insect life discontinued completely, at night the quacking of restless teams of ducks echoed off the ivy-clad castle walls, while by day gently snaking rosaries of cranes flew low above the tower of the basilica, he saw that the rest were also scratching. The server, Prius, Papyrus and Father Bungle just as much as the gatekeeper\u2019s dog or Cholesterin\u2019s cats. Even Abbot Gigas at the elevation of the Host, and more than once at that; in one hand the consecrated white Communion wafer, the body of the Lord, whereas the other, at the moment of metamorphosis, involuntarily scratched under the cover of the cassock. \u201cIf everybody scratches at once and at the same time, then there is nothing wrong with anybody. Why worry?\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Translated by Tim Wilkinson<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Chrysostom had been a noviciate for six months when he started to itch. On his back most of all, but later on the nape of the neck, his armpits, and finally the belly and his face as well. He did not ascribe it much importance at first. It was August, the pollen count was high, and the yard was full of straw, hay carts were making endless circuits round the castle, the nettles at the edge of the moat were up to the eyes; by day simply millions of flies crawled all over the walls of the pig fattening farm below the orchard, and flies were blackening even the Porta Speciosa\u2019s carved stone plaitwork and consoles of red marble; saucer-sized gadflies buzzed around Father Cripple\u2019s mules, and when the Sun set dense clouds of mosquitoes swarmed in a haze over the cistern. Plenty enough reason for itching, then, to say nothing of the gatekeeper\u2019s black mongrel, which in giving chase six times a day to Father Cholersterin\u2019s cats must have spread fleas round the yard from where, in the lower bowls of the monks\u2019 habits as they swept the ground, they quickly reached the furthest corners of the monastery, even unto the smallest personal shrine. No sign of itching was apparent, that may be, no dropsied swelling to suggest a botfly, nor the bumpy, flushed remnant of a mosquito bite, nor any minute reddish needle-prick to indicate that a flea had been busying itself, despite which Brother Chrysostom, a native of the village belonging to he monastery, scratched peacefully the whole summer long and did not worry about a thing.<\/span><\/p>\n

It grew cooler the autumn, and in the fogs mosquitoes, gnats, house flies disappeared, and even the fleas on the gatekeeper\u2019s dog preferred to retreat to their lairs rather than set off on adventurous voyages of discovery and have a taste of all the friars, monastics and deacons. But good Chrysostom still itched persistently, if anything even a fraction worse than he had done during August. That was when he first began to worry. He checked that he was not lousy, or had not picked up some form of mange, or whether by any chance a jigger flea had burrowed into his skin. He was also bothered that the itching may have been a remnant of his temporal life, and if so and\u2014God forbid!\u2014he was obliged to confess openly his part in the matter, what kind of disapproval he might have to face. For that very reason, he furtively but thoroughly scouted the others during vespers, Sunday mass, at evening prayers, at vigil, even kept his eyes peeled when others scratched, where and how much. When the early frosts came in late November, the leaves fell, insect life discontinued completely, at night the quacking of restless teams of ducks echoed off the ivy-clad castle walls, while by day gently snaking rosaries of cranes flew low above the tower of the basilica, he saw that the rest were also scratching. The server, Prius, Papyrus and Father Bungle just as much as the gatekeeper\u2019s dog or Cholesterin\u2019s cats. Even Abbot Gigas at the elevation of the Host, and more than once at that; in one hand the consecrated white Communion wafer, the body of the Lord, whereas the other, at the moment of metamorphosis, involuntarily scratched under the cover of the cassock. \u201cIf everybody scratches at once and at the same time, then there is nothing wrong with anybody. Why worry?\u201d went through Chrysostom\u2019s mind, though he did not rule out the possibility that this morbid self-observation was none other than a product of vanity. When he realised one day that he was praying for the itching to cease, he was ashamed, because that meant he was not leaving it to the Lord, not placing his trust in His will. If it was His will that he itch, then he would have to scratch, Chrysostom thought to himself, but no supplications at vespers on account of the itching! What a thing when poor beggars in the village and lepers at the edge of town had to implore for a crust of bread, for their very survival. If he was turning to the Heavenly Father on the matter of itching, then would it not be more proper to say a few Our Fathers for Abbot Gigas\u2019s itching to cease?<\/span><\/p>\n

Due to precisely that conscientiousness he could not free himself of the problem. When Chrysostom confessed that he was itching Abbot Gigas at first considered he was being misled by a malicious prank of some sort, a scoffing at the sanctity of confession, and so he did not give Chrysostom absolution. The poor monk then brooded over what might be the Lord\u2019s goal if he was expelled from the monastery simply for having made the confession. The next day Abbot Gigas summoned him with the aim of reprehending him. What was in Chrysostom\u2019s mind was that this was when he was going to be driven out from the company of the brethren. The abbot was strict but his decisions were carefully considered, and while the council inclined to blackballing the itchy novice, he wanted to know the purpose of confessing about the itching. Chrysostom gave the following response:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGiven that the problem has not gone away for a fair while now, I was thinking that if the Lord was visiting itching on me, maybe he wanted me to tolerate it. In the end I saw that it was a test for me as a celibate, and if I am scratching, it is because I am resisting.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas was astounded, bid Chrysostom to take a seat and began to suppose that the fitting place for such a pious monk was more among the Franciscans than in the ranks of a learned order. He was minded to make a suggestion along those lines but quickly recognised that this would be hard to accomplish without the little brothers taking offence. And that would be a great pity, because the abbot\u2014an innate Church diplomat\u2014cultivated good relation with the Capuchins just as with the Dominicans, the Benedictines, and even the hard-nosed Jesuits. But he then thought: what if the Lord has sent him to me in order to set me an example in pietism? Who knows what His purpose for doing so might be? Perhaps the brother is right, and one ought not scratch what itches. Whatever may be the case, let the good man remain among us until it becomes clear what use we can make of him, or to what end Heaven made him so pious.<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas explained that it was permissible to scratch as there was no passage in the Bible which forbade it, then, having given absolution, dismissed the brother, who was relieved, though his theological misgivings about scratching were not fully allayed.<\/span><\/p>\n

When his mother was able to visit him, during the Christmas celebrations, during the five minutes that Abbot Gigas allowed, Chrysostom enquired how his siblings were, and whether she knew of any remedy for itching. During the second part of the winter the monastery was quieter than usual, with the days being spent in meditation, though on the part of Chrysostom there was amazement that he was still itching; whether seated or standing, he itched intolerably all over, so one evening on opening his Bible at Genesis<\/i>, the First Book of Moses<\/i>, he spotted a minute cream-coloured bug as it hurried from Chapter 1, Verse 18 towards 3. 15. He quickly leafed through the whole book and he found more flea-like bugs of a similar kind at 37.20, at The Book of<\/i> Judges<\/i> 16.6, The Gospel according to St. Matthew<\/i> 23.27, and at Revelation<\/i> 20.1 no less than three. Brother Chrysostom just about despaired. He closed the Bible, crossed himself, took the sheet from the bed and, although it was forbidden, hung it out of the window and shook it, then laid it out on the table and smoothed it out. Bending over it, he tousled his hair then made a search for bugs. He repeated the process about a dozen times until he finally saw a maggot on the sheet.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLord God! I\u2019ve got lice,\u201d he sighed and, quiet hour or not, having remade his bed, he made his way outside to the misericorde and burst in on the abbot.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat has happened, brother?\u201d Abbot Gigas asked, given that Chrysostom was standing before him, drenched in sweat, scratching wildly, visibly on the verge of despairing.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got lice,\u201d the novice admitted, without mincing matters and hands clasped in prayer, eyes lowered, he stood next to the wall. The abbot thought a bit then escorted him out of the room..<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStay here!\u201d he told him, then made his way to Father Iodide, who later made a meticulous examination of Chrysostom\u2019s hair, collar, and even armpits, but he found nothing. Abbot Gigas shook his head with evident annoyance.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat makes you think you\u2019ve got lice? Not that itching you keep mentioning?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom protested quietly and respectfully but firmly:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, not it\u2019s not the itching. I actually found lice. There are hardly any still left on me, but the Holy Scriptures are crawling with them!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour copy of the Bible?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, my Bible. Especially Revelation<\/i>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Iodide smiled, but then, when he caught the look of displeasure on the abbot\u2019 face, his brow too darkened.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo, your copy of the Bible, in Revelation<\/i>? You\u2019d better bring us that Bible!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRight you are,\u201d said Chrysostom, rebuttoned his habit, adjusted the scapular, and rushed off to his room.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go inside!\u201d Abbot Gigas suggested to Father Iodide, who was counting on being able the discuss the matter in private now that the novice had gone. To the effect that poor Chrysostom, who had always seemed somewhat odd, had taken leave of his senses. Abbot Gigas, however, said nothing; he sat down at his desk and waited while Father Iodide cooled his heels under the painting of the Virgin Mary beside the half-shut door. He did not have to kill time for long; the monk came back breathlessly, the Holy Book grasped between two fingers. Abbot Gigas made room on the desk.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPut it down here!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom obeyed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOpen it at Revelation<\/i>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The monk marked the book before turning it towards Abbot Gigas. Before opening it, though, he warned his superior:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPay close attention, Right Reverend Abbot, because they are very nimble and they vanish into the binding in a flash.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, yes! Get on with it. Just open it!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

At that point, Chrysostom suddenly opened the Bible at the louse-infested passage that had been indicated with the help of the bookmarker, while at the same moment both Abbot Gigas and Father Iodide leaned forward curiously, and indeed on this occasion four or five milk-coloured, louse-like bugs scurried apart. Relieved, Chrysostom straightened up with a smile on his face; he said nothing, but he was proud of himself. Father Iodide inspected the pages, squashed one of the tardier cream creatures with a thumb, and turned to him:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut these are just booklice, Brother. They don\u2019t suck blood. The library is crawling with them. There\u2019s no cause for alarm.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom asked back what booklice ate, then, to be informed that they fed on bindings, dust, anything at all that can be found in old books. He was relived but also somewhat crestfallen as he made way out of the door, but the abbot called out:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJust a moment, Brother Chrysostom! All the same, it would be as well if you were to dust that Bible down a bit more often, and spend less time worrying about the itching!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Right then the thought occurred to Chrysostom himself that he would have done better by joining the Franciscans rather than a learned monastic order. He strove to satisfy Abbot Gigas\u2019s exhortation and from then on he wiped down the Good Book three times a day, before every common prayer, skimming through from page to page, and whenever he found a louse in it he caught it. He continued to try and ignore the growing itching. And not to scratch himself. He perfected his toleration of the itching to the point that in the end he was the only person in the whole monastery who did not scratch himself. He did not scratch even if he was sweating, and he spoke no more about the matter lest he have to comb again, as a result of which he did not inform Abbot Gigas about the bumps which appeared after his ordination, These were around his navel on a place that no-one would see. Later on a few also cropped up on his back. Hardly bigger than a mustard seed. Chrysostom kept an eye on them, but they spread no further after a while, and they did not change either, like warts or corns, and since the yellow or occasionally reddish juice oozing from the bruised stems of swallowwort is effective for these, he tried treating the strange warts the same way, but it had no effect. By midsummer one of them had even started to grow, and in under a week it had swollen to the size of an apricot pit and hurt no small amount. The blister was soft, and yellow in the centre. Chrysostom struggled for a few days, then one evening he lanced it and squeezed out the thick pus; the blister subsided, the pain diminished, and the lesion visibly started to heal. By the early spring, however, everything took a turn for the worse\u2014finally. The bumps began to spread, and at an extraordinarily rapid pace at that; admittedly they spared his face for a fair while, nevertheless they grew like boils on his legs, back and stomach\u2014the same painful, purulent blisters the size of apricot pits as before. Chrysostom had his work cut out to pierce them, to press the pus out of himself, and to hide his pain and despair. Collecting all his strength, he piously sang the Lord\u2019s praises, volunteered for all extra tasks, dug over the herb garden, scrubbed the crypt, and also looked after the chapel lamps, making sure they did not run out of oil. As was to be expected, however, the nodules soon made their appearance on his neck and face like a rash of spots. Abbot Gigas admonished him to wash his face more often, so Chrysostom washed not only his face but his whole body more often than anyone else\u2014given the chance, and if no one was looking, six or seven times a day. He carried lavender from the herb garden with him and scattered it under his bed of boards as he hoped the fumes emanating from the lavender leaves would have a curative action. There was no obvious result, though, but he was thrown into consternation when it struck him that what he was doing was tantamount to stealing.<\/span><\/p>\n

The time for confession came round.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have sinned, Father,\u201d he said. \u201cI repent it from the bottom of my heart, but I have stolen.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Bungle who was the confessor on duty that day was shocked: could it be that Chrysostom, whom he knew as an earnest and industrious soul, was stealing from the other friars or maybe the cloister? He ordered ten days\u2019 fasting, the reciting of one hundred Paternosters and one hundred Hail Marys, as well as leading Lauds for one month, in addition to being required to confess to stealing in Abbot Gigas\u2019s presence. Chrysostom, of course, would have more willingly fasted for thirty days or led Lauds for a year rather than have to go before the abbot, but being as that was what Father Bungle ordered, he reported in due course.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does this concern, Brother?\u201d Abbot Gigas asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

What ran through Chrysostom\u2019s head was: if only I could say that the garden hose had become blocked and the sage had shrivelled, anything at all, just as long as it was not having to say that he had stolen. He took a deep breath, fell to his knees and in true humility and contrition announced:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have stolen.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

That was all. But Abbot Gigas was not devastated, didn\u2019t jump to his feet. Coolly and quietly, he asked:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what did you steal?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLavender from the herb garden.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t you know that to take anything from there you needed Brother Varadic\u02c7\u2019s permission?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI did.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd did you apply to Brother Varadic\u02c7\u2019?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, then, it really was stealing,\u201d Abbot Gigas decided, pondered a bit, then asked somewhat exasperatedly:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo tell me then, what on\u2026 What did you need the lavender for?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFor my complaint.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not trying to tell me, Brother Chrysostom, that it was for the itching?\u201d the abbot exclaimed disconsolately.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, Right Reverend Abbot, no!\u201d cried Chrysostom. \u201cFor my boils! my sores! I have no idea what they are\u2014they just grow on me!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas gave a questioning look, so Chrysostom cautiously pulled his habit up to allow his shins, teeming with blisters, covered in blood and pus.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGod in heaven!\u201d the abbot breathed a sigh. \u201cDrop it! Drop it! Go out into the corridor! No, not there\u2014to the cloisters!:<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom dejectedly but trustingly stood by the well in the cloisters and inspected the familiar gargoyles and their depictions of the deadly sins as if he were seeing them for the first time in his life. The sky over the courtyard was blue as the Virgin Mary\u2019s veil, and a fresh, cool breeze whispered down from the clouds; a huge white bird was circling in the centre of the square space as in a fresco. Chrysostom wondered what it could be. A stork? No that wasn\u2019t so white. A heron? A pelican? A giant gull? A white eagle? A white crow? A vulture? An angel? At that moment Abbot Gigas arrived with Father Iodide.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell done, my son!\u201d said the abbot in acknowledgement of his obviously having waited so patiently. \u201cNow strip off!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom, with occasional glances up at the sky and the giant angel-eagle or raven-angel creature, happily set to undoing his habit in the spring breeze and glittering sunshine, in front of brothers of the Order.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLord have mercy on us!\u201d said Father Iodide in astonishment as he ran his eyes over the naked Chrysostom, then he whispered something in the abbot\u2019s ear.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell now, brother,\u201d Abbot Gigas turned to the wanly smiling Chrysostom. \u201cThis seems to be a case of the punishment having come before the crime. We don\u2019t know what the matter is with you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Even that did not sadden Chrysostom; as he stood there, mother naked, in from of Abbot Gigas and with Father Iodide, in the fresh and fragrant atmosphere beneath God\u2019s free, blue sky, without having to hide his hideous lesions but displaying them, admitting to them so to speak, he felt he had been released from a huge burden\u2014much like someone who confesses his sins and his faith. The feeling took such a firm hold on him that he was not disheartened even when the abbot said:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAs we don\u2019t know what the matter is, we can\u2019t allow you to go back among you brothers.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom noticed that the angel was swooping lower and lower.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s little choice but to leave the monastery for a while until you have healed or it is ascertained what the matter is,\u201d added the studious Father Iodide.<\/span><\/p>\n

The import of the words only slowly sank in. Chrysostom looked at the abbot in astonishment and imploringly at Father Iodide before finally prostrating himself.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot that! Fathers! Right Reverend Abbot! Don\u2019t remove me from this hallowed spot!\u201d before promptly launching into jabbering \u201cOur Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Iodide and Abbot Gigas looked at one another in commiseration.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe there\u2019s not much wrong with you,\u201d Father Iodide whispered.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut it would be wrong for us to expose the brother friars to such a risk,\u201d the abbot countered.<\/span><\/p>\n

The two padres then withdrew into the cloisters to discuss the matter and summoned the other monks, with Chrysostom being given strict instructions not to move from the quadrangle. He stood there the whole of the afternoon.<\/span><\/p>\n

Evening drew in. The air temperature cooled off just a fraction, the stars came out, and with them, Abbot Gigas together with Fathers Varadic\u02c7, Iodide and Bungle. The abbot bided his time in the flickering light of the torch with a grimmer look on his face than usual, from which Chrysostom knew at once that he was not going to say anything. Father Bungle spoke in his place:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy dear son, we truly pity that this must be your fate, and we do understand, but what you must understand is that we cannot take the risk that those sores might spread to the other brothers. Two choices are open to you. You must either leave the monastery and return only when you are better, which would be best both for you and for us and may even be most nearly God\u2019s will too. Alternatively, having seen your piety and having no wish to add more grief to your afflictions and pain, we can also offer you the chance to stay in the monastery, but only on condition that you are isolated from everyone else.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Full of hope and curiosity, Chrysostom, listened to what Father Bungle had to say, who, after a brief pause in which he looked across at Abbot Gigas. The latter nodded barely perceptibly, so Father Bungle went on:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAs you well know, the monastery well ran dry years ago and gives no water. That is the one place where we can be guaranteed of being able to separate you from the others but in such a way that you remain with us, if only partly so. The well is very deep, so you will be completely on your own, and there is no way of knowing how long you would have to stay before you can come up, so take your time in thinking it over!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom responded with tears of joy, and he would have liked to jump over to the reverend Abbot to kiss his hand, but both he and the brother monks shrank back.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not possible, my son,\u201d said Father Iodide<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNon possumus<\/i>,\u201d added Father Varadic\u02c7.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe well, then?\u201d inquired Abbot Gigas.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Right Reverend Abbot. God bless you!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFair enough. Then just wait here while Father Bungle get your things ready and brings a chain for us to lower you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo soon?\u201d asked Chrysostom.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you having second thoughts?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I\u2019m only asking if it has to be this sudden?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Bungle whispered something to the abbot, whereupon the latter turned to the sick monk one more time:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFair enough. Father Bungle will stay with you tonight, keep vigil with you and pray with you for you to get better. For matins we\u2019ll open the gates of the Porta Speciosa so you can hear the monks saying prayers for you and for good health of the monastery, after which you will have to be lowered.<\/span><\/p>\n

His voice choking with gratitude, Chrysostom inquired:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what about the stealing?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The abbot contemplated:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think you have done penance enough; I absolve you. Keep on you toes, and make good use of this night!<\/span><\/p>\n

The sky was smouldering that night. Chrysostom was curled up, stripped bare, on his habit yet did not feel in the least cold; it was a mild night. Around midnight, Father Bungle, who since eight o\u2019clock had been intoning hymns with him, said:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFair enough, my son. We can do no more; this still leaves you time to say your prayers. Have a rest now, and heed the advice that the Right Reverend Abbot gave. Make good use of the night, lie back and marvel at God\u2019s bountiful heaven. That\u2019s what I\u2019m going to do.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Without saying a word further, Chrysostom stretched out on the cowl. It was the first time he had felt no itching. He lay there until dawn without scratching himself, gazing at the stars, the clouds, the first blush of daybreak, when the gates of the Porta Speciosa were opened and Father Bungle gestured, so he pulled on his garments, got to his feet. He waited for the Dei Gloria then sang so lustily that those inside could hear, and when the Mass came to an end he knelt down at the edge of the well. Not long after, Father Bungle came back with a goodly length of chain, attached it to windlass and tugged hard on it a few times.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cReady to go, brother. We\u2019ll send down all the things you\u2019ll need straight after you.<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom took another look up at the sky.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGod be with you,\u201d Father Bungle proclaimed.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd with your spirit,\u201d Chrysostom responded before obediently, almost cheerfully stepping on to the lip of the well, grasping the chain, and starting to lower himself.<\/span><\/p>\n

Scrambling downwards, his habit riding up to his waist, hanging on to the chain as it scraped the inside of his thighs, chafing his sores, Chrysostom was afraid like never before in his life, but he resolved to stick it out and not cry out. He was greatly relieved to get to the bottom, though it was not as dry as he had been led to expect. The ice-cold water reached his knees, on top of which there were several bones in it, making him feel like shouting up for them to pull him out, but in looking up he was dismayed, and he could not get a sound out of his throat. The fear that he had felt during his descent was sheer bliss as compared with what took possession of him down below. When he saw the tiny bright disk that was the sky from that moment on! And at the edge of he sky the shadow of Father Bungle\u2019s distant silhouette. Chrysostom felt tinier than the tiniest booklouse, and to make things worse it was improbably dark down there.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you all right, Brother Chrysostom?\u201d came the bleak, distant, cavernous voice of what up above was Father Bungle\u2019s still warm and friendly, nearby voice.<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom\u2019s lips pressed together, then burst apart, his mouth opened colossally and he yelled. But how? Not a sound escaped from him; all that left him was a frightful darkness, like a bat from a church tower. Chrysostom\u2019s face was covered with tears without a word of complaint; he wriggled and gaped like a fish struggling in a landing net, and hope evaporated in a trice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHalloo there, Brother Chrysostom! Are you all right? Answer me!\u201d the distant voice boomed, and since Chrysostom was unable to give an answer Father Bungle raced off to the refectory, where the friars were getting ready for breakfast. Abbot Gigas rattled off grace, made a sign to Fathers Iodide and Loggia and sped off with them towards the cloisters. By the time they had reached the brim of the well Chrysostom was feeling better, having got over the initial shock and zealously recited Psalm 23. Abbot Gigas and the others leaned anxiously over the well, from which could be heard, softly rising from the deep, pitch-black darkness: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name\u2019s sake.<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Bungle clutched his head, and Father Loggia said:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s pull him up!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas shouted down:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cChrysostom, answer!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

What was heard from down below was: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas went for Father Bungle:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow could you send a man down without a light? Bring me some lamps immediately!<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Bungle dashed off. Before long a light was dangling before the psalm-singing Chrysostom\u2014the warm, friendly light of a fine, red hurricane lantern. Chrysostom clutched it to his body and looked up as if the Lord himself had heard his prayer. He saw three shadows at the edge of the well, and at last he heard the calls.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cChrysostom, Chrysostom! Can you hear me?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYe-e-es!\u201d the friar yelled back heartily.<\/span><\/p>\n

The rest of the day was taken up, with some overturning of the monastery\u2019s order, by equipping Chrysostom new habitation. As shouting was none too effective in the echoing well, they brought out from the deacons\u2019 room a board, out of which Father Nimbus sawed an attractive piece, which was sent down to Chrysostom, along with a dozen sticks of chalk, for him to write down what he had need of. In order that the poor friar did not have to stand about in the water, they lowered some planks, dowels and nails, canvas, a little table, a chair, bed linen, a mirror, a razor, a vat to wash in, anything that Chrysostom wanted, although he did not ask for much. The bustle around the monastery well went on until the evening. When there was nothing more that Chrysostom asked for, and the monks could see a tiny figure waving cheerily up at them from the dim light far below, even shouting out \u201cI\u2019m fine, brothers! Go about you own business now,\u201d they dispersed only gradually. Father Bungle indeed had to be helped away from the cloister as he was completely worn out from the previous night\u2019s vigil, then the uncertainty which had come after Chrysostom was sent down, and finally the panic which had ensued. He was despondent and felt qualms of conscience, even though Abbot Gigas later went over to him:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe, too, should have thought of a lamp. We sinned as well!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

That was little solace, though, for the conscientious Father Cripple. In order to avoid any further unpleasantness, the abbot refused to allow the well to be left alone.. For several days he organised a watch, with Father Cripple attending to this on the first night.<\/span><\/p>\n

From then on things went fairly smoothly. Chrysostom had no complaints; he did not wish to be a burden on his fellow-monks, so he prayed a lot, intoning mostly psalms, and he kept to the monastery\u2019s rules even down there, in the depths of the well. At cockcrow, when the churchwarden hurried to the basilica in order to set out the sheets of music on the benches and light the candles in the cloister, he would make a stop at the well and call down: \u201cDaybreak! Rise and shine!\u201d Chrysostom, unseen by anyone, would get up immediately, tidy himself, and wait. He himself was surprised, but after a few weeks he could sense even slight noises and sometimes even picked out fragments of Gregorian chant which wafted across from the services in the basilica, so that he knew the point the brothers had reached in their devotions up above. Of course it would take a bit of time for the precise allocation of roles to become clear, and which brother was to go to the well to haul up Chrysostom\u2019s waste, who would send clean water down, who would take away his clothes to burn outside the monastery, while Father Varadic\u02c7 compounded and prepared the ointments with which the entire community, from the gatekeeper to the abbot, hoped Chrysostom would be healed. Even Abbot Gigas was surprised by the number of little errands the friar on duty would have to go to the well, but in the name of compassion he expected everyone to fulfil their assigned duties without a word of complaint.<\/span><\/p>\n

Down below it was freezing for Chrysostom. The bottom of the well was not just dark and dank but also cold. Snow in the monastery\u2019s water tank, if it piled up in winter, would often linger until May, so you can imagine how much chillier it was in the well at twice the depth. The bottom of the water tank could still be seen even when it was empty; the bottom of the well, never. Chrysostom looked on constant shivering as being part of his penance, but the time when the growing cold got so bad he was unable to sleep for a week, he vomited, had visions, and was tormented by a mortal fear of dying, he thougt: \u201cThe Lord surely cannot want me to freeze. My sin cannot be that great!\u201d and he asked the friars to send him down some firewood. The only trouble was that the smoke wouldn\u2019t rise out of the well, or rather it did so only after a while, by which time it was billowing at the bottom of the lift and Chrysostom was in danger of being choked. At that juncture a new man, Chrysostom\u2019s successor and himself a noviciate, was designated the task of putting bricks to warm up in Father Cholesterin\u2019s enormous oven and hoisting those down to the ailing brother-friar. When the weather turned to the rainy season, Chrysostom requested that a roof be carpentered over the well, and by the morning of the next day Father Nimbus had knocked together an attractive gambrel roof, but when Chrysostom realised that he now could not see even what little of the sky, no more than a coin-sized spot, he had been able to see until then, he implored them to dismantle it: he would rather take shelter in a recess in the wall of the well when it was raining. The sickly monk put up with many annoyances of that sort, but he truly did make an effort to withdraw, and his fellow-monks quickly got used to the idea that the extra work he caused for them was part and parcel of life in the monastery. There was just one thing in which Chrysostom knew no limit: confession.<\/span><\/p>\n

Taking confession and communion were two things that Father Bungle, since he still felt twinges of guilt on account of the business with the lamps, voluntarily took upon himself. He had no idea what he was taking on! Chrysostom was constantly of a mind to confess and take Eucharist, and of course the latter could only be done in the setting of a Mass. There was no way that could be handled via some well-mannered board, but to do it by spoken word dragged it out for a painfully long time. Father Bungle would yell down:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe Lord be with you-ou-ou-ou.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Chrysostom would wait for the echo to die down before bellowing back up as loud as he could.:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd with thy spiri-i-i-it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Or Father Bungle would yell:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLift up our hearts unto the Lo-or-or-ord.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

To which Chrysostom would roar back hoarsely:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe lift up our hearts unto the Lo-or-or-ord.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

At certain times the ritual would so wear Father Bungle down, not just his throat but his spirit, that he would introduce into the Mass a short intermission (or pause for meditation as he called it) and flop down beside the well. In these intervals, as a way of, so to say, signalling that he was still there in spirit, Chrysostom would bawl up:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBlessed be the name of the Lo-or-or-ord!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In the end Father Bungle shared his doubts with Abbot Gigas. To be specific, that he was far from sure if all this was worthy of the sanctity of the Mass. After due deliberation, and with reference to the fact that Chrysostom, when it came to that, was himself an ordained priest, he gave him permission to say Mass to himself down below, and moreover to take Eucharist. Father Bungle passed on that news to Chrysostom as an item of glad tidings for the monastery and his own life, or the Gospel truth; now he, Father Bungle, was only obliged to take confession. The situation truly did get a lot better. Chrysostom took great care in preparing to hold ceremonies in the well; he was given an old chasuble of Father Iodide\u2019s, the whole day long he sang the Lord\u2019s praises, he said Mass, and when he considered himself to be of pure heart, he held Eucharist. That, however, was the snag. Although he lived a life that was ever purer, more innocent, and engrossed, he regarded himself as being ever more sinful. It was not uncommon for him to have just received absolution when he found himself having to ask for confession again. Neither Father Bungle nor the other fellow-monks who increasingly took his place could see Chrysostom; they were not able to see in his eyes the sincere, childish desire to seek immaculacy, perfection; they did not see his face, which glinted with a lunatic gleam in the dank semidarkness as drops of water off the lip of the well hit his brow; they did not feel, like Chrysostom, all hope, faith, passion, and cleanliness, all meaning, suffering, pain and happiness of existence, was concentrated on the rim of the well that shone above him\u2014awaiting final absolution from it. How much of that did his fellow-monks see? It made no difference what they hauled up: cold bricks, leftover scraps from a meal, slops, always there would be the board, and on it \u201cI want to confess!\u201d Into the bargain the things he began to confess to! At first the trouble was he regretted that he liked the taste of his food, and even that he was happy after taking Communion. Later on it was to confess that maybe he was a holy man. Father Cholesterin kept his vow of silence, but nevertheless hinted to Abbot Gigas that things were not on the right track with Chrysostom, so on occasion Abbot Gigas himself would hear his confession, whereupon he would profess his sins in even greater detail than normal. After a long period of tranquillity, Chrysostom again became the focus of monastic tittle-tattle, a constant topic at the supper table. In the end, the clerics came to the view that it was sinful and dangerous to condemn the pious soul of this unfortunate brother to such idleness.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe trouble is Chrysostom is getting bored, and he has nothing to do. Let us give him a task,\u201d Father Nimbus advised.<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas was in complete agreement. The only question was what task could be set someone who was covered in sores, with a festering and shivering body, ill and by now possibly half-mad, who had spent three years crouching at the very bottom of a pitch-black, dank and icy well, nearly eighty feet underground. Chrysostom was repeatedly included in the litany of the Sunday High Mass; Abbot Gigas did not shrink from approaching the friars, somewhat shamefaced and admitting that even after consultation with other senior members of the religious order he had been unable to come up with a worthy occupation for Chrysostom.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI pray that the Lord may shine a light on someone, and someone will dream something up for the sake of saving our sick brother. In the name of the Father, the Son and he Holy Ghost, Amen,\u201d Abbot Gigas concluded the Mass.<\/span><\/p>\n

Not long after that, Chrysostom received a lengthy letter from the Reverend Abbot in person, nicely sealed as was proper. The letter read as follows:<\/span><\/p>\n

   Brother Chrysostom,<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

   Together with the Fathers, I have pondered greatly as to what might be the purpose of your afflictions. For one thing is sure, and that is that the Lord intends nothing without its having a purpose. In recent times, I have to admit, we ourselves have been remiss as we ought to have given thought earlier as to what message the Good Lord is sending.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

   I shall be brief.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

   It is our sacred duty, beside work a prayer, to meditate, and most particularly on the matter of God and the world that He created. I think that in carrying out the affairs of the monastery we somewhat lost sight of that. Maybe the Lord sent you to us, and placed you in this situation, in order that you should do what we have omitted to do. After all, no one has as much opportunity for meditation as you do. One might even go so far as to say that you were sent here in order to remedy the omissions of an entire cloister. So help us, I implore you! I ask in my own name, but I am expressing the same request on behalf of all the clergy , indeed our whole church. We are organising lectures and spiritual exercises especially for the noviciates and deacons. We would like you to share with us the wisdom and thoughts that you have acquired during your own prolonged meditation and in the course of prayers and vigils, so that we may learn from them, young and old alike. You should feel free to formulate theological tracts, to express any thesis you may have in connection with Church dogma. I beg you to give this thought and send word. <\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Laudetur Jesus Christus!<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

In an enthusiastic reply, Chrysostom took it upon himself to do penance for the whole monastery, and to make up for the periods of meditation that were omitted, so it was not long before much paper, ink and a fair few books were being lowered to him. It may have taken a few weeks for his craving for confessing to subside, but there was no question of it: the tactic worked, and Chrysostom did not feel more sinful on that account. It may well have been that he was happy for the first time in his life. Every morning the churchwarden would bellow down \u201cDaybreak! Rise and shine!\u201d Twice a day the noviciates would let down piping-hot bricks, and disposing of his dirty clothes and slops became a daily routine; once a month Father Varadic\u02c7 compounded ointment for his wounds, which were sent down into the well in an enormous jar on the first Sunday of the month. Everything went so smoothly and in such a run-of-the-mill fashion that Chrysostom was practically forgotten about. They knew, of course, that with the piping-hot bricks, the food, the drink, the ever larger quantities of wine that were needed for celebrating Mass, the paper, the countless candles, oil for the lamps, books, clothes, holy water were going to a bother-friar, but somehow it all became a bit like making an offering in accordance with a pagan rite.<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas looked through the first of Chrysostom\u2019s writings and saw that they were of zero theological value and they were cast in a rudimentary language, but he did not have the heart to crush the enthusiasm of the sick fellow-monastic, because they had achieved what was intended. Chrysostom, to all appearances, was living a much more balanced life, there were fewer worries, and anyway after a month or two he warmed to the task of writing. Whatever he sent up\u2014slops, an empty jar or bucket or wine-skin\u2014there would always be beside it a carefully rolled up scroll of his latest manuscript. Not that anybody read it. Abbot Gigas thought it would be a sin to burn them; after all, it was he who had requested Chrysostom to write, so he called for the papers to be sprinkled with flowers of sulphur and placed in a smokehouse, to which end a rack was built which enabled the papers to be somewhat impregnated with smoke without the writing becoming sooty.<\/span><\/p>\n

One sunny spring morning, the priest on duty was Father Bungle, who was often sick but still eager to be of service. He pulled up the bucket for Chrysostom, and as the day was as bright and fine as the day long ago when Chrysostom had been placed in the well, the thought crossed Father Bungle\u2019s mind that it was a long tine since he had seen Chrysostom confess; indeed, he couldn\u2019t think when he had last heard anything about him. It also set him wondering why it was that the younger monks competed so keenly to be the ones to take Chrysostom\u2019s confessions. It soon occurred to him that Chrysostom had not confessed for many a long day, so for the noviciates giving them the task of hearing his confession was a guaranteed break; more often than not, they did not even bother to go to the well. When he had worked this out, he hastened to see Abbot Gigas. First and foremost, he drew attention to the culpable negligence of the monks who had recently joined the order, but secondly he enquired what had happened to Brother Chrysostom. Abbot Gigas thanked Father Bungle for his vigilance, and he was ashamed to admit, being the monastery\u2019s Father Superior, that he had noticed nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Next day, after lunch, Abbot Gigas and Father Bungle went to the well. Abbot Gigas shouted down:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan you hear me, Chrysostom?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

There was no answer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cChrysostom! Hell-o-o-o!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The friar eventually shouted back:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cReverend Abbot?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBrother-er-er! When did you confess las-as-as-ast.!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

After a long interval, during which Abbot Gigas and Father Bungle looked at each other, the reply came back\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know-ow-ow-ow!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

That evening, Chrysostom received a letter from the abbot, in which the latter enquired why he was neglecting penitence, when that was at least at much a part of meditation as comparing the synoptic Gospels, studying the exegesis, or looking for proof of God\u2019s existence? Or could it be that that you no longer have a single sin? he posed the question somewhat ironically. Chrysostom did not understand why he was receiving a letter like this when he wrote at least once a day and sent his notes, among other things, on the subject of confession. Admittedly, it had been a long time since he wrote about that, but evidently the Reverend Abbot had forgotten what it had said. If that was what the abbot wanted, though, he would confess.<\/span><\/p>\n

A bit later, the abbot reappeared at the well.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cChrysostom! Hell-o-o-o!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat-t-t-t!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you want to confess-e-e-ess!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOf course I do-o-o-o.!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe abbot fastened his little basket to the chain and lowered it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSend up the list of your si-I-I-ins!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The basket had hardly touched the bottom when a yank on the chain indicated that he could haul Chrysostom\u2019s sins back up. What Abbot Gigas read on the paper, to his great disconcertment, was: One thing troubles me greatly, and that is that I regret nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n

The abbot could not believe his eyes. He read it again, but it made no difference; there was no ambiguity about the sentence. He looked down into the well, as if he wanted to check that it really was Chrysostom who had scribbled this. But who else? He wrote the following response: You\u2019re well aware that I cannot give you absolution for this! He cogitated a little, then after screwing up he sheet of paper into a ball, threw it into the well. He leaned forward to listen, then after a long wait the yell came back:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know-ow-ow \u2013ow.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFollowing this scandalous incident, indignant, ashamed, flushed, perplexed, angry, and with very mixed emotions, Abbot Gigas stomped back and forth until Father Bungle found him by the entrance to the library.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are Chrysostom\u2019s most recent writings?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Bungle muttered in alarm:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI gave then to Brother Cripple.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The abbot stormed through the library, the narthex of the basilica and the nave, across the cloisters and back to the monastery before bursting in, without knocking, on Father Cripple, who sprang to his feet from his kneeling position in front of a personal shrine.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are Chrysostom\u2019s most recent writings?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBrother Typhus usually puts them in the sacristy,\u201d Father Cripple stammered in dismay.<\/span><\/p>\n

At that the abbot, just as he had come, cut straight back in the opposite direction through the monastery, the cloisters, and, after a hasty genuflexion, through the basilica before rushing into the sacristy, where the churchwarden was just in the process of folding the freshly laundered altar cloths. The abbot let fly at him<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are Chrysostom\u2019s most recent writings?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re usually here, under the pyx.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas searched furiously among the missals, hymnals, breviaries and formularies but did not find them. He looked enquiringly at the churchwarden, who spread his arm:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf a lot have piled up, then they are taken over to the smokehouse.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The abbot went back to the basilica, then, after a renewed genuflection, hastened in front of the altar and the entrance to the crypt before stealing out from the side aisle opposite into the connecting corridor and from there into the library. He steamed past an astonished Father Bungle at such a lick that even his scapular was set fluttering. He ran out onto the sun-baked bastion, down the well-worn little staircases, under the maple-trees of the shaded great circle of the castle, straight for the pig fattening farm, with the smokehouse as his goal. Inside, though, were hanging hams and sausages from three pigs, with smoke billowing out through the door. The abbot asked the hired help who was sweeping the yard where Father Cholesterin was, to which the hired help answered by pointing to the far side of the pig farm.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOnly just before, he went that way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Hitching up his cassock, the abbot sprinted over the pools of blood and found Father Cholesterin in the house of easement behind the pig farm. He rapped on the door:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCholesterin, are you in there?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d groaned Father Cholesterin.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHurry!\u201d ordered Abbot Gigas, and when the fellow-monastic climbed out he was asked\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow can I fish Chrysostom\u2019s writings out of the smokehouse?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Father Cholesterin started answering with the unflappable calm that was customary for him:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, when the hams and sausages\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRight now, immediately! How can they be pulled out now?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll send in the hired help to get them,\u201d said Father Cholesterin. He then explained to the man what to look for and where, tied a scarf over his face, and pushed the lad through the door, and he, almost choking from the smoke, staggered out a few minutes later. Abbot Gigas snatched the big bundle of papers out of his hands and was just about to set off when the hired hand said:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s more.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBring the lot out!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

After the fourth trip, Father Cholesterin got hold of a handcart. When they were finished, he had the handcart pulled round to in front of the priory, called over Father Varadic\u02c7, who just then was heading for the orchard, and they lugged everything up to the abbot\u2019s room.<\/span><\/p>\n

Abbot Gigas would normally have celebrated the evening Mass but he was late. Father Iodide went upstairs to check that nothing was the matter. The abbot was sitting by his desk, studying the sooty pile of manuscripts. All the would say is:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTake Mass in my place.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The Father Superior was left to himself by a surprised Father Iodide. Although he did put in an appearance at vespers the next day, he suddenly left in the middle whereas at supper he nodded off. It carried on like that for a good few weeks; he hardly ever attended Mass, he looked peaky, lacking in sleep, and taciturn. If he asked for anything, it was almost as if at random:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs Chrysostom all right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

On another occasion he quizzed the candidates for ordination over whether they had read Chrysostom\u2019s writings. A few weeks later he banned the noviciates and deacons from going out into the cloisters, and even the churchwarden was forbidden from calling down into the well. The monastics grew concerned and debated whether they should send word to His Excellency the archbishop that not all was well with the right Reverend Abbot Gigas.<\/span><\/p>\n

What had caused abbot\u2019s discomposure was the fact that the manuscripts retrieved from the smokehouse differed radically from Chrysostom\u2019s initial piety\u2014to the point that they were so diametrically opposed to it as seriously to raise the suspicion that it was no longer Chrysostom who was down below! Most of them were carefully composed memos, written in almost immaculate Latin in a refined, effortless style; they would have done credit to even the cleverest and most studious of theologians. Equally, every one of them was the epitome of an outrageous process of thought. Th abbot could not grasp how its was possible for a person to start from pietism and end up referring to occultism, spiritualism and telekinesis! How was it possible to come up with a title like Academe and Smackhead-eme? Pure heresy and blasphemy. Worse! The writings from the last two years did not even concern ecclesiastical affairs: they were about all sorts of persons and stories, but not about fellow-monks or events in the monastery\u2019s life, and anyway for a godly while Chrysostom had been in no position to know anything about that. If anything, they were more about life outside the monastery, but not even about that very much. Whatever life Chrysostom had lived before entering orders, it was hard to believe that his friends were able to fly. Yet there in his writings were flying men, big-breasted women, midgets, talking mummies, singing dogs, humans who coupled with swans, self-propelled carts, frogs swimming in the skies, argumentative leeches, rebellious earthworms, walking trees, and goodness knows what monstrosities! The abbot didn\u2019t know what to run for first: an exorcist or an inquisitor. In the end he sealed Chrysostom\u2019s fate by writing a brief letter and entrusting Brother Ficus to deliver it to the Jesuits.<\/span><\/p>\n

Meanwhile Chrysostom, at times when he was not writing, paid a great deal of attention to watching the brim of the well, keeping an eye on the sparrows. The sighing of trees, the patter of raindrops, and the dripping of eaves in early springtime were only present to him in the form of memories, but despite that he led a busy social life down there. He conversed, contended and caroused with many individuals who were not there in reality, but most certainly in Chrysostom\u2019s imagination. Something of a damper was thrown on the party mood, however, when Abbot Gigas banned him from being given any communion wine, which previously he had been consuming in conspicuously copious quantities. The abbot\u2019s fears came true: the sanction was noted by Chrysostom without a murmur, from which Abbot Gigas knew for sure that a long time had passed since the friar said Mass, and he was not consecrating the communion wine but drinking it for his own pleasure\u2014and in ever greater amounts at that. Three inquisitors were already on their way when a basket whicht was a good deal fuller than usual descended into the well. In it was as much food, hams, wine and fruit, shoes, clothes and lamp oil as could be crammed in, along with a letter:<\/span><\/p>\n

The news is that the Swedes are coming! Pillaging. We have no way of knowing what will happen. These are what you might call iron rations. Keep your wits about you tonight. I am going to send down a few more things. If there is any trouble pull them down yourself. If anything should happen to us, try and clamber out of the well with the ropes and crampons you have been sent.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Father Bungle<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

Laudetur!<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

That night, just as Father Bungle had promised, another five basketfuls arrived, including among other things Chrysostom\u2019s writings, the abbot by then being preoccupied with protecting the monastery. That night Chrysostom ate his fill and got drunk. He supposed that if anything was gong to happen it would not be that day. He was wrong. Hardly had day broken when he heard a good deal of skirmishing up above, with a smashing of panes of glass, a moaning of monks, a screeching of Swedes, a thundering of hoofs on the granite flagstones of the cloisters. It was not that they could see anything, but he thought it would be best if he were to stack all his paraphernalia in the niche in case a torch was dropped into the well and everything were to go up in flames. Chrysostom himself laid low in the recess with an occasional glance upwards in the hope of seeing something. He was already starting to plan how he would climb out, and while he was completely immersed in his musing about what he was going to set his hand to up above, on the outside, when he heard a dull thud next to him. He looked up to see if someone was standing by the well, then he lit the hurricane lantern to shine a light on the bottom of the well. Lying there was Father Iodide\u2019s corpse.<\/span><\/p>\n

That was an unexpected twist in Chrysostom\u2019s life. During the years that he had spent in the well, he had grown accustomed to the idea that he was not going to heal; that his condition was deteriorating, bit by bit; and the disgust with himself that he had felt initially also faded. It seemed perfectly natural to him that he had lost the toes on his left foot, and he did not end these up but kept them\u2014or, to be more precise, the bones\u2014in the side recess. He had grown accustomed to the fact that he was now writing with his left hand because the carpal of his right wrist were poking out of his skin. He no longer smelled his own stench and was no longer bothered even by the pus that ceaselessly seeped from his body. After a certain time had gone by he no longer felt that there was such a major difference between himself and the others as had had first seemed. But when Father Iodide dropped with a thud beside him and he saw him by the flickering light of the hurricane lantern he was taken aback. Even like that, his body shattered, his throat slit\u2014even so he was marvellous! His skin was pale white, his hand was intact, his hair cropped shot and silky,, his brow radiant, his thighs strong, his chest ample\u2014even with a snapped-off spear sticking out of it. Chrysostom was transfixed to the spot by the sight. He could see Father Iodide\u2019s graceful, long fingers wrapped round a dimly gleaming rosary, and at the same he could see his own hand holding the lantern. Hand? Half of it had withered away, the other half was a putrid ugly lump that was running with pus! Chrysostom did not even grasp that he was himself little more than a half-dead corpse that was part-way to decomposing when, following Father Iodide, Father Cholesterin and Abbot Gigas also plopped down in quick succession. He no longer had any recollection of the abbot\u2019s features, which were still completely intact as the abbot had dropped onto Father Cholesterin\u2019s plump, soft body, which had hit the ground first, and the face had fortunately managed to avoid the walls of the well during its cart-wheeling fall. The abbot\u2019s face had retained the same dignified, forgiving, surprised and curious expression as it had shown when Chrysostom had confessed to him that he had stolen from the herb garden. He saw again the classical profile of that handsome and magnificent, clever and diplomatic man.<\/span><\/p>\n

With his body going that way, Chrysostom laboriously constructed identity also began to break down. Almost like being pushed and shoved downwards. Next it was the body of Father Bungle, plunged before his eyes, then, after some shouting, an young noviciate who was unknown to him thudded onto Abbot Gigas\u2019s chest rather as if he were placing his blond head there in search of refuge. By the time the carnage was over, and the bodies of monks were almost completely blocking Brother Chrysostom in the recess that where he had resided for sixteen years, he had truly seen the light: it made no sense for him to climb up from there. There was no pardon for his loathesomeness, his apostasy, his very existence, no lacquer, balm, liniment or salve. He therefore, having had a long pull on the communion wine, climbed onto the cadavers of his brother friars and stretched out flat on his back He did not move from daybreak to noon; he barely so much as blinked. He watched the round, ever brighter patch that for him was the sky. The world, God.<\/span><\/p>\n

Around noon the Sun appeared over the well. For the first time it shone vertically down into the well; Chrysostom fancied that he could see the rim was covered in blood, and angling from it were rags\u2014perhaps cowls that had been hacked to bits. He could see the underside of the lip, the distant fans of ferns growing on the inner walls of the well. By then the Sun seemed to be leaning even more over the well until in the end it was precisely at its middle and it lit right down to the very bottom of the well. For sixteen years the Sun had never once reached Chrysostom. Now the well\u2019s wall was incandescent, orange along its entire length as if alive and nothing else but a gigantic gullet. Chrysostom could see the water trickling down its side; he could see that a nacreous haze was hovering at the last cylinder of the well, and he could not get over it that the Sun was stationary. The well warmed up and later the Sun started to fall; it could readily be seen leaving the lip of the well, cautiously, quietly, with a barely audible whisking, it sank with a murmur into the well as if a guardian hand were allowing an enormous wafer to be passed down to him right up to the moment that Chrysostom saw he was no longer in the well, though where he had got to out of there, by a near-miracle, with the help of the descending Sun, there was no way of telling.<\/span><\/p>\n

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