"It is not by the worshipping of God that man attains perfection. Nor is it through some obscure function of serendipity. I will tell you the way, and the only way, that a man may achieve perfection: Through the perdition of the soul, by way of the perfect fire that is Our Fire, just as the metals are made perfect and become gold. The fire that burns in the soul and cleanses it to its purest form is called pain. Therefore breathe pain, eat and drink pain, live in the exquisite small death that is each and every moment of pain, and be forged perpetually into a divine state of perfection."
--from the journals of Lucien de Angers

s we wound down the narrow mountain road, I could hardly have known what lunacy lay ahead, what vagaries of the soul would descend upon everyone and everything about me. I was preoccupied with my own sort of madness, and my head was about to split open into two grisly hemispheres. The jouncing of the cart only threatened to speed this process.

Behind us, around several bends and many hundreds of feet in elevation, we had left our little snow-shrouded monastery at Ecrin. Some small part of me rejoiced at having escaped my prison -- although I was not entirely certain that another did not lie before me. I certainly still wore the uniform of an inmate, in the form of a rough woolen robe and hood of brown.

I gave Brother Nicolas, my friend and teacher, an ugly look, in hopes that it would make him cease his incessant muttering. He did not seem to notice, but continued to wring the reins between his gnarled hands and intone vague messages under his breath. His occasional "Hum!"s and "Aha..."s told me that he was deep in thought. I might as well have been glaring at a boulder.

Therefore, I was surprised when he turned to me abruptly and said, "You are unusually quiet today" I grunted unintelligibly, hoping that Nicolas would take the hint and leave me to my suffering. No such luck.

"You must try to cheer up, my boy. We are embarked upon a great adventure! Toulouse is an amazing city, and the university there is one of the very best in all of France. You are very lucky, hum, yes... aha..."

"I do not feel lucky. I feel accursed."

I could feel Nicolas' intense gaze upon me, but I could not raise my eyes to meet his. Brother Nicolas seemed an insignificant man, tall, thin and stooped, until one looked into his eyes. There, one who knew what to look for would find a rare intelligence and compassion.

"The accursed don't dream of God. They dream of money and power, of killing and hatred."

I shrugged. I should have known he would guess the cause for my morose behavior. I had been having the Dreams for months, and had related each of them to Nicolas. He had taken an intense interest in the Dreams, and had managed to finagle extra wine from the kitchen to dispel the pain in my head that invariably followed each of them. It was always he who found me and guided me gently back to our cell when I wandered in my sleep, though this was blessedly rare.

But lately, I had begun to keep the Dreams to myself, for they had become more vivid, more disturbing, and more frequent. Rarely did a night pass that I didn't slip into a world that seemed more real and more terrifying than the one which I inhabited now. I was afraid.

"Hum! Come now, Alix. Dreams are naught but dreams, things of web and moonlight, burned away by the sun each morning."

I heaved a sigh of frustration. "Nicolas, you don't know... you cannot possibly... they were fighting over my soul. I ended up in Hell."

"Hum! I would like to know if it was as Dante described it... It's true that there is a struggle for each man's soul, but most of us are spared the actual experience of it. Indeed, it's terrible enough to know that we are little more than a battlefield for our passions and our morals to contend upon. Here, drink some of this. I brought it for you." I took the proffered skin of wine and squeezed some into my mouth. It was the thin, bitter wine I had grown used to, but I still made a face.

"So then you knew that I was still having the Dreams?"

"Do we not share a cell? There is a certain way you breathe... or don't, I should say, when you are in that state. It is disturbing... aha, oh yes, most disturbing."

He looked off across the hills. We had just crested a slightly higher rise than the surrounding country, and it afforded a view of five miles or so over the treetops. A solitary hawk circled just below our hilltop, searching for prey in the sparse forest below. A thin shroud of snow whitened the landscape all around. I was thankful for this and for the grayish sky overhead, for it matched my mood very well.

The road was little more than a narrow track between jutting boulders and underbrush, and it absorbed Nicolas' attention, just keeping the ancient mule from straying from the path. By the time we had picked our way down the far side of the hill, the wine had cleared some of the pain from my skull. As much as I desired to be left alone, to recede into self-pity, my need for an anchor to this world won out, and I carried the conversation onward.

"Nicolas, do I appear to be one of those wild-eyed men, like those penitents we harbored last year? The ones who beat themselves with whips and wander naked in the snow, shouting about repentance and mortification of the flesh... or like Brother Pierre-Montsalbe, who prostrates himself with his nose to the floor in front of the altar?"

Nicolas seemed to smirk just a little, then wrestled his face into a more somber mode. "Brother Pierre has much to repent, and feels that quantity is more important than quality in repentance. No, Alix, there is a very big difference between a man who is frantically searching for God and a man who has had a god thrust upon him."

"A god..." the phrasing did not escape me and I told him so. "Yes... well... hum! perhaps I am simply unwilling to face the God you seem to be so intimate with. Yours does not fit my concept of what God should be. I must admit, it frightens me. Men are not often willing to face a god of wrath. Alix, I think you should keep in mind that this is a very large world, with an even larger universe surrounding it. There are many things that we cannot explain, many creatures whose existence is not evident to our eyes, yet exist as naturally in the order of things as do the mundane beasts of our everyday perceptions.

"Whatever has come to perch upon your shoulder, it will be better dealt with in the light of reason. I believe this firmly, as does the abbot. That is why we are going to Toulouse."

"The abbot! What does the abbot know of this? I thought we were going to Toulouse so that you could teach languages."

"We are. They have been offering me such positions for years. Now I have accepted." His voice grew gentler. "The abbot had to be told, Alix, and I had to be the one to tell him. He is a reasonable man, God be praised, but there are those among the brethren who would have whispered of witchcraft and deviltry to him before long. I interceded and gained his approval of our trip to Toulouse before such rumors reached him. For a scholarly institution, our little home has its share of cretins." This last was said with a degree of vehemence Nicolas always saved for prejudice and stupidity. I knew he was referring to the many brothers who regarded education not as an adventure, but as an ordeal to be endured for the sake of a hot meal a day and a dry place to sleep. To Nicolas, who had traveled far and spoke more than a handful of languages, men of this sort were a plague; in fact, when others were decrying the "free companies," bands of brigands that roamed the countryside, burning towns and pillaging between wars, Nicolas could more often than not be found berating some doltish brother for neglecting his studies. It was an easy guess that the sin he found himself confessing most often was pride.

"Alix, you are part of something too big for our little abbey. Those who live there haven't the means to make you well." I shuddered. Though I had long feared that I had a sickness of the mind, Nicolas had always been conspicuously careful to avoid phrases that alluded to "illness" or "being cured." That he said such things now indicated how far gone I had become. I was suddenly aware of how alone I was, and how helpless. All of the money my father had paid to the Church for my education, all of the power that the Church could wield upon my behalf, was useless in the face of the unknown. The way of my brethren in the abbey had always been to pray, to sing, and to timidly confess their sins before God. While I had been willing enough to have faith in God to soothe my soul, Nicolas did not seem as trusting. There was much of the secular in him, perhaps too much to be a brother of the faith, but he exuded a straightforward confidence that made men trust him, and he had won my heart long ago.

"We shall find much to aid us in Toulouse," continued Nicolas. "The university has a fine library, and many learned men." My head snapped around to glare at Nicolas. He looked sidelong at me and said softly, "I know how you feel about this, Alix, but you cannot keep it a secret from those who might help you. Besides, we are not just going to Toulouse so that you may provide an interesting problem for a few bearded old men. I would have no other for my assistant. You are the most promising lad I have ever met, dreams or no."

I sighed and let some of the tension in my body go. It was true that Nicolas and I were good for each other. In the year and a half since I had come to this place, we had become inseparable. Nicolas was an excellent teacher, and I a good pupil. At fourteen years, I was well advanced in my studies and already spoke English and Breton nearly as well as my own native French. "My father knows that I am going?" I asked. I had asked Nicolas this question when he had first told me of our journey, but he had changed the subject. Now, he stared off into the distance absently, giving the mule a little prod once in a while. I was about to repeat the question, certain that he had not heard, when he replied, "The abbot wrote to him months ago. There was no reply. He wrote again, and still no answer came."

I searched my feelings over these words for quite some time. I found nothing.

I was on one of my father's boats. My brother stood next to me, both of us in the prow, grinning into the wind. Behind us, the voice of the captain floated on that wind, calling orders to his first officer, who bellowed them at the men scurrying busily over the decks. His booming voice echoed the crashing of the waves against the hull as we set sail from the small harbor that I knew so well. The sky was grey as the sea that stretched before us. As we progressed, the sail stretched taut before the powerful wind. We moved quickly out into the open water, making good time. The swells grew ever larger, the sky ever darker. Soon, massive waves were rocking the ship violently from side to side and crashing heavily over the decks. I began to grow afraid, and I turned to speak to my brother. In his place stood my father, his ever-present scowl directed toward the horizon. I tried to speak to him, but the wind tore the words from my lips and he did not hear me. A biting rain flew into our faces, but still my father did not turn his gaze.

I spun around at a vaguely heard scream in time to see a man washed overboard. He disappeared into the black water and I did not see him again. At another cry I looked to the port side of the ship. All of the deckhands were gathered at the railing, pointing and shouting to one another. I staggered to their sides and looked.

At first I thought it was the hand I had seen go overboard, but then it struck me that the figure was making walking motions. In fact, he was walking upon the water.

I turned to look at my shipmates, to ask if they saw the same impossible thing I saw, but I was alone. I looked to the bow of the ship, but my father was gone too. I cried out, and a voice answered -- a voice from the sea.

The man on the water was dressed in a red, flowing robe which reached to his ankles. His garments and long, thick hair did not blow in the wind, but hung limp as on a warm day ashore. He called out to me a second time, smiling reassuringly from within his golden beard, and stretched out his hand. His head was wreathed in a golden light that burned my eyes, yet I could not look aside. He spoke again, and though he was more than fifty yards away, his voice floated to me softly. "You have no need for the vessel. Come to me, my son."

I told myself that I should not be afraid, for surely this was my Lord and Savior. But the voice seemed to vibrate to the very core of my soul; it felt like some cold worm burrowing into my intestines. I shuddered and staggered backwards. The mast stopped me just as the ship lurched and dipped and threatened to capsize. I grabbed for a rope tied to the mast and fumbled desperately to lash myself to it. As I did so, a sudden thought came from nowhere and completed my panic. Who was I?

He stood on the deck before me, staring in a vaguely puzzled way at the ropes I had tied around me. Despite the pitching of the deck, he remained erect, unaffected. When next he spoke, his tone had become peremptory. "Why do you hesitate? There is no need for fear. I have called you, and you must come." The worm was chewing its way upward toward my mind. I felt my body go slack, looked down and saw my hands fumbling with the single knot that held me to the mast. It seemed that the ship was pitching even more violently than before, if that were possible without the whole thing capsizing. My ears were deafened by the massive pounding of the waves. I strained to control my traitorous hands, but they continued their mechanical unraveling. I looked imploringly at the robed figure before me. He smiled expectantly at me, but I saw something there behind that smile, something too rapacious, too desperate. Then the ropes came free with a snap, and I was gulping deep lungfulls of the sea.

I was suffocating under leagues of ocean. My limbs were numb with cold. Something slammed into my head, hard. I was picked up by the shoulders and thrust back down again, once, twice, a third time. A voice called from far away. No, not again. I struggled to move, but someone was gripping my arms painfully. The voice grew nearer. "Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!" I was slapped across the face, lightly it seemed. "Alix! Breathe, boy, as God is my savior, you must!" The hands dug painfully into my shoulders as they slammed me down again.

With the impact something let go inside of me and air rushed into my lungs. I choked on it, sputtering and coughing. A taste of brine and bile filled my mouth. I hesitated involuntarily, then tried it again, wheezing raggedly. Yes, breathing was a good thing. Now if I could just see...

I opened my eyes.

I lay on my wooden cot under the open window. An icy breeze and wan moonlight spilled into the tiny chamber. I could just make out the face of Nicolas standing over me, not moving.

"Alix...?" His voice was pained, uncertain. I opened my mouth to speak, but no voice would come. Nicolas disappeared from my bedside for a while, and I began to feel an unreasoning fear that he had left me alone in this strange place. But then he returned, his old wooden mug held in his hand, brimming with wine. He lifted my head for me and I sipped a little. It tasted like vinegar to me, but I drank anyway, knowing that it would heal me.

The wine rushed into my stomach and began to untie the enormous cold knot that had formed there. Outside the window I watched the stars watching me. The Eyes of God, my mother would have told me. I shuddered.

Nicolas must have seen my reaction, for he reached over and pulled the shutters closed. I tried to speak a little, but found that my mouth was dry and befouled with the taste of the bile and... yes, the brine. I took another sip of the wine he offered as Nicolas said, "Shhh... all is well, I am here. Rest, young one."

But I resisted his soothing, fearing to rest, for I did not want to Dream again. "The worst thing..." I croaked, "the very worst thing is that I can never remember who I am."

"What? Is the boy alright? What was all of this about?" The voice was that of the shepherd upon whose hospitality we were spending the night out of the cold. He stood in the doorway of the tiny room he had lent us, staring myopically back and forth between the two of us.

"Yes," said Brother Nicolas, "He is alright. He has just had a bad dream. Perhaps some more wine would help him sleep."

The old man muttered "Aye" and shuffled into the outer room. I could hear his fat and sharp-tongued wife questioning him rudely, but his muttered replies were unintelligible.

"Nicolas, what is my sin? What have I done? Am I any worse than others like me? He torments me so. What does He want from me?" Even as I spoke I could hear my voice rising hysterically. I fought to steady myself. The last thing I wanted to do was lose control.

"Alix, look at me." When I rolled my head toward him, Nicolas glanced quickly at the door and then leaned slightly toward me. His voice became hushed, reminding me of the way we spoke at mass, and a little sliver of a chant we sang every Sunday began to float through my mind. "I am sure there are very few who would dare agree with what I am about to say, at least not publicly." He paused and gave me a long look. "It would be wise for you to follow their example.

"It has been postulated, in certain parts of the world, that each man carries within his heart a complete hell, made like a suit of fine clothing, perfectly stitched and tailored to fit him. This hell is so perfect because we create it ourselves, of our own flesh, our own desires, our own willful needs. But this is not hell reserved for after our deaths. This is a hell we live in for much of our lives. Some would even say that this life is hell, and what comes after, heaven.

"Whatever truth there is in this, I know one thing. We are each responsible for our own suffering."

I recoiled from the thought as from a venomous snake. Not because I did not believe it; if one did not accept responsibility for one's transgressions, one could not be shriven of sin. "But Nicolas," I pleaded, "I am not to blame for my Dreams. I have done nothing. Nothing..." This last word came in a whisper as a lump formed in my throat. I fought back the tears and cursed roughly.

Nicolas' hand came to rest gently on my shoulder. "Blame has nothing to do with it. But this thing, this burden, it is yours to carry. You must face it, not fear it. He takes your weaknesses and uses them against you. What purpose there can be in this, I don't know, save to forge upon his block a new and stronger tool. Whatever His reasons, boy, your salvation is to be pure of heart."

I sputtered out something between a laugh and a sob. "Just as I am no devil, Nicolas, I am no saint."

For a long time we were silent, each of us lost in his own thoughts. I stared into the candle, until it began to hurt my eyes like the golden halo He had borne upon his head. I let my eyelids drop to hide it, but a grotesque green afterimage floated there, the white silhouette of a head against it. I reached out and took Nicolas' hand, and he gripped mine reassuringly.

The old shepherd shuffled into the room and set the cup of wine near me and, sensing the depth of our communion, quietly left again. I thanked him silently. When I could stand it no more, I lifted my eyes to meet those of Nicolas. He sat there at the edge of the cot, looking like he had so many times before; patient, waiting for me to resolve my jumbled feelings. Looking into his eyes, knowing that he expected from me only what he knew I could achieve, I found some measure of peace within myself at last. I smiled despite myself.

Nicolas gave me a small nod and said, "Perhaps this is not the time for lectures. You are a passionate young man, Alix, as once was I. Do not let this thing dilute that passion. It is where your strength comes from."

He rose and gave me a dry, feathery kiss on the cheek. I breathed the familiar scent of him, of herbs and wool and age. He crossed to his cot and stretched out, while I lay in the dim light and tried to make sense of all that had happened. In the end, I came to no conclusion, and although the last thing I can remember thinking about as I drifted off to sleep was the wild, storm-pitched sea, I did not dream again.

Contents of this Web page © Robert Johnson,1989, 1995, All Rights Reserved.

Return to Table of Contents | Go forward to Chapter Two