“Wilfrid,” I greeted him. “What a surprise. I didn’t think you walked out so much these days.”
“Let’s not be enemies today, Anselm. It is Anselm, yes? I remember you from my time as a novice. You were kind to me in my doubts and insecurity. I don’t forget,” he smiled disarmingly and offered his hand. “It really is a pleasure to see you again. May we renew our acquaintance in friendship, today at any rate. Confrontation can wait until Monday.” I took his hand and shook it briefly. I remembered - even if Wilfrid did not - how upset Colman and his predecessor Finan had been when this, their brightest star, had attacked their Rule and derided them as isolated, bumbling oafs. In his late teens he had claimed greater knowledge than men twice and even three times his age, gentle and holy men who had shown him nothing but kindness, who had answered his questions patiently for over ten years and had gone out of their way to encourage his vocation. They had even scraped together a little money to supplement that given to him by Eanfleda when it turned out to be insufficient to get him to Rome, and how had he repaid their sacrifice!
He never came back to Lindisfarne. He took the Roman tonsure in the land of the Franks and turned his back on the brethren who had nurtured him – me included. I had used my Gift to help him learn faster than would have been normally possible; something that I had come to regret. Now we met again, the one young, tall, of splendid appearance with haughty and confident bearing, the other older, shorter, wearing a patched and threadbare habit that had clearly seen better days and, probably, better wearers. My dark and greying hair fell untidily back from my shaved tonsure. An outsider would probably have assumed a master cleric and ageing, and possibly rather slow, retainer. Bright new gold to dull old brass. But I was in no way intimidated by him or deferential. I’d known Wilfrid when he had cried after being beaten, and I’d been to most of the places he’d visited on his pilgrimage before he had even seen a monastery.
“Monday?” I enquired with mock puzzlement.
“Monday,” Wilfrid replied. “You wouldn’t have us working on the Sabbath, would you?”
“Of course,” I replied, “you now keep the new Sabbath while we conform to the tradition handed down by our ancient fathers in Faith.”
We engaged then in a barbed exchange that got close to insult but never quite crossed the line.
“You’re as sharp as ever, Anselm,” he smiled, coldly, after an inconclusive discussion on predestination. “But don’t give away too much of your arguments or we shall best you in less than a day.”
“Our case is our case. What you know of us - and you know a great deal - you don’t believe.” The humming of the bees intruded into the conversation again. “Have you gained any insights as you walked the hills to this spot?” Wilfrid looked around and took a deep breath through flared nostrils.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it? Not a trace of the farmyard smells of the monastery! You may say that it is especially in the untended country that we’re aware of the Lord’s work but,” he turned his attention back to our immediate vicinity, “consider those bees - and their rustic cousin over there” - he indicated the bumble bee, still scouring the bushes for the tiny drops of nectar which it would take back to its underground hive.
“Look at the honeybee: see how efficient it is, how organised. They fly from the hive in groups, find blossom and quickly take the nectar back. Then they go out again, and again, and again, to different areas: they are so well marshalled and businesslike. Each creature has a task, knows it well and performs it perfectly, from the queen discharging her duty to be fruitful and multiply to the lowly door wardens who flap their wings all day to keep the hive cool. Once the gatherers have visited a bush or a patch of flowers they won’t come back for a couple of days at least, not until there’s new growth. They produce honey by the pound for us and we, in our turn, care for them. What an example to us all of energy, organisation, co-operation and success!
“In contrast, regard the solitary bumblebee. It hops from blossom to blossom with no plan - look at it - and revisits blooms that it has already explored for nectar. It doesn’t learn that if it isn’t there now, it still won’t be in five minutes. What it gets, it takes away and hides underground: we get nothing from it. It is a waste. Which do you think is better at reaping the harvest?” Wilfrid smiled confidently, supercilious and patronising in his cloister and city-bred superiority.
“They both have their part. Look -” but he cut across me.
“Don’t prevaricate, Anselm,” he said impatiently but still with that infuriating smile on his face. “Which is better? Which fulfils His Plan more efficiently? Surely it’s a simple enough question?”
“Things are rarely that simple. You don’t look far enough, Wilfrid. Come with me over the crest of this hill. Come on, it’s not very far.” Wilfrid sighed, but followed. The further side of the hill faced south-east and presented a different landscape, without the monastery, its farms and their neatly-tended fields. The hill was a riot of gorse, heather and wild flowers, all in bloom - more so than the nearer side had been. There was an insistent buzzing in the air, which came from a group of bumblebees investigating the wild choice of yellow, purple, blue and red blossom. There was no sign of any honeybees, despite the rich harvest the slope offered.
“What?” demanded Wilfrid.
“Look. Just a few short steps, and your picture has changed completely. Look at that bush, and that one, and that one. See. There are plenty of bumblebees here, but none of your efficient and organised honeybees. They can’t see over the top of the hill and they don’t investigate it. See what they’re missing.”
“They take the nectar and hide it underground. It’s useless.”
“No it isn’t. They help these flowers and plants to grow and flourish, even here, away from man. They help to nurture the land. It’s too far for your honeybees. And,” I continued, “they’re too delicate. The wind would blow them away - it probably has already taken off some more adventurous ones. They need keepers to survive. Turn them loose in this wilderness and they would soon perish. The bumblebee, though; it gets on and multiplies.” I stopped and turned to retrace our steps. “There are many areas that you and your people steer clear of, Wilfrid, we both know it. We go anywhere, even into the heart of darkness. Look and see for yourself, and remember Augustine of Canterbury. He came to these islands expecting to find a land without the word of God, and found instead a vibrant and lively Church that had been flourishing for centuries. We keep turning up in the most unexpected places.”