“Anselm? Anselm! Anselm! You have come back to us! Oh, thank God, praise the name of Jesus, I thought we’d lost you!” He turned to the door of the small, whitewashed room, threw it open and shouted out “God be praised! Anselm has come back to us! He lives and he has spoken to me!” He closed the door again and returned to his chair by the bed. There were tears in his eyes but he was smiling. I was pleased to see him. He fussed about me like a broody hen.
“I’m so pleased, God be praised, praise Jesus’ name for he has brought you back to us! We thought you’d died in the Strand and were ready to hold your funeral service but Cuthbert shouted and cursed us all and made us bring you to the infirmary here. He, only he, believed you were still alive. The fishermen are talking now of a miracle, that Cuthbert dragged you back from Death’s grasp but he won’t have any of it, he said you were alive all along, but barely, and we had to bring you round. He and I shared the vigil over you but he would take the greater part. Then he said you were walking in deep temptation and we had to pray for you. We prayed and sang for you, from dawn to dusk and to dawn again and kept on even though Cuthbert said you had won with God’s help and come back to us. Tell me, how are you feeling?”
Colman had talked without stopping or even pausing to draw breath and I loved him for it. I smiled and then the smile was shattered by the searing pain of the headache. I gripped my head and curled up as I fell onto my side.
“Oh my God he’s going again.” Colman rushed to the door again, threw it open and shouted “Pray harder brothers! Pray and sing the name of the Lord! Anselm is slipping away again!” He threw the door shut, hurled himself back to my bedside, grabbed my hand and started to pray fervently to God for delivery of his brother’s life from the clutches of death and darkness.
“Medicine. Headache.” I managed to croak.
“What? What did you say?”
“Medicine. My headache. Get my medicine. In my bag. Brown bottle.” Colman stopped his prayers and looked around the small room, bewildered. “My bag. Brown bottle. Bring it to me.” Colman was still confused and was not helped by a commotion outside and the door bursting open. A dishevelled and ragged figure exploded into the room, filling it with energy if not his dirty and skinny person.
“What’s going on? Has he relapsed?” the newcomer demanded.
“He keeps asking for his bag and a bottle. I don’t know what he’s talking about.” The ragged head darted first one way, then the other, then dived under the bed and reappeared with my shabby pack.
“The Sight?” he demanded.
“Yes. Bad. Headache. Medicine. Bag.” I whispered. A dirty hand shot into the bag and was almost followed by a filthy head as he rummaged through it. In a moment the hand emerged clutching the brown bottle that held relief.
“This?”
“Yes.” The ragamuffin brought it over and helped me to three drafts. Then he let me gently back onto the bed. “Thank you,” I breathed as the liquid began to work its little miracle.
“God be praised! He has come back to us again. I will go and tell the brothers to raise their voices in thanksgiving!”
“Colman, you are a holy man and an example to us all. Your spirituality is second to none but sometimes you are an empty-headed buffoon,” the ragamuffin said. “This man asks for medicine and you leave him to suffer while you run around in panic like a boneheaded fishwife. And he is still not recovered so go and tell the brothers to offer thanks indeed, with all their hearts, but tell them to do it quietly!” Colman looked hurt and astonished but went off to do as he was told, promising that he would be back directly. The singing outside rose strongly and then tailed off uncertainly. The message had been delivered.
“You’re hard on him, Cuthbert. He’s a good man and an excellent Abbott. You should be more respectful.” Cuthbert, Prior of Lindisfarne, snorted and sat down on the vacated chair, leaning on his bony knees as he bent towards me. His habit was little more than a sack with holes cut in for head and arms and his skinny limbs hung out of it like anaemic straw. He looked like a scarecrow. My nose caught a mixture of body odour, dirt and another, a familiar sweet smell. I saw that Cuthbert was being eaten away from the inside out. “You’ve been fasting again,” I said, “and too soon after the last. And you can’t have bathed in over a week.”
“I will be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb,” he responded, “and I’m fasting for you. You were in danger of losing your soul, Anselm.”
“I know, I know,” I replied slowly. My head still hurt but it was improving. “I was in the darkest place I have been for a very long time. I was sorely tempted and would’ve failed the test. I know my soul would have been lost without the support of you and the brothers here. Thank you. I’ve not emerged without taint but I’m restored to you now. So you can have a bath and take some food.” Cuthbert looked away. I sat up, intending to take his hand to persuade him but instead I grabbed his arm for support as a wave of dizziness threatened to leave me sprawled over on the floor. He grabbed my other arm to steady me and regarded me with concern.
“Are you all right? You haven’t eaten and you’re weak. You must not make sudden movements or try to get out of bed. Wait until you’re stronger.” My head was clearing but I felt very weak. His grip was lighter than a child’s.
“You’re a fine one to talk: you couldn’t carry yourself to the mainland, never mind Whitby.” Cuthbert drew back away. “Cuthbert, we need you. We all need you, fit and well. are difficult and dangerous times and we need your intelligence rather than your self-indulgence. I will eat when you do and I won’t eat before you.” Cuthbert leaped back, his eyes blazing with righteous, zealous fury.
“How dare you! How dare you speak to me in such terms! I fasted to save you! You should be grateful to me that I did. How dare you talk to me...to me...of self-indulgence...!” His hand hammered into his sparrow’s chest as he spat with rage and declined into wordlessness. I watched. He was my friend and I admired his devotion. I was happy to concede his superiority in matters of faith but I wasn’t blind to his faults.
“I have said I’m grateful to you: I am. More than I can say. You may have been aware that I was in danger but you do not have the Sight and could not know what I faced, what I truly faced. But I’m back with you now and there is no need to continue your fast.”