The abbot's first reaction was timid. He lightly poked at Brother Michael's side with a short, stubby finger, as if coming upon a dull but curious object.
Bring me a candle, Brother.
Benedict retrieved one from before the stone-carved shrine of a great benefactor, Father Thomas Jerome, once Bishop of York. He had requested a humble slab for his memorial, nothing tall and mighty like heathen moorland shrines.
The tide of faith rises before such wisdom, as Jerome’s epitaph reads: Si deus pro nobis, quis contra nos?
The abbot glanced at the dead body with only a moment's hesitation. A priest wastes no time preoccupied with a fear of dying. The vocation calls for being capable of expressing joy at even the darkest of times, especially through that unimaginable passage into the unknown. Death’s door.
The abbot whispered, I have seen stranger things more sinister than this.
Benedict murmured, so afraid that his only distinguishable word was dead…
The abbot replied, and drew himself back confidently, Certainly, Brother Michael is dead, passed on from the living. Find me a shroud to wrap him.
A physician was sent for and arrived after Matins to drain the blood and inspect it for disease, whether a fever known or not known might spread like venom. The physician assured the community that Nature's most vile damnation - a deadly infection some called the ‘purple fever’ - had not occurred, and that the death was indeed a mystery. The heart had simply stopped beating, starving the brain of life.
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Benedict was so tired he fell asleep momentarily during compline, the last prayer of the day. He had promised not to tell the brethren, Father Paul wanted to keep the peace, a small lie would do no harm. Brother Michael went on a pilgrimage, he announced. In a sense it was true, though not of this earth and not with Durham as the destination.
Benedict crossed himself as he passed the darkness of the cloister, then collapsed into bed. It felt like a fisherman’s hook had been lodged inside his brain, and it was reeling him dormantly inwards to the land of dreams. And he longed to escape reality, for it now felt overtly haunted.
The abbot had told his dear flock a lie. The monks’ notes of sung prayer fell flat, as if the monastic spirit had departed them. They weakly observed the trinity, as if knotted in strings. And they went to bed with their heads bowed to the stone floor, shuffling from their misericords like nervous birds.
Benedict woke after a frightening vision of doomsday. An army of cavalry in red charged down the hills and into the abbey grounds, slaughtering pilgrims at the gates and ransacking the house of God. The soldiers were black phantoms. Their leader was the size of an ogre with multiple, bejewelled arms and green skin. And the monster had been about to club Benedict when at last his anxious mind mercifully startled him awake and into fervent prayer.
Jesus Christ have mercy on us. Free the world from its fear. Don’t let terror reign. Don’t ever give up on us, for so long as we have hope, there is faith. Who can be against faith, it is for thee?
A night candle continued to glow in Benedict’s cell. He leaned on his bedside and opened a Psalter in his palms randomly, as any hymn to God would do. He hummed the righteous words of David and read of the ancient Hebrew God promising salvation to His Chosen People. For it was the Hebrews who foretold and gave witness to Christ the Saviour.
Benedict cupped his fingers together and shrank under the covers, pleading with God.
Spare Brother Michael. Spare the brethren. Spare our burdens, dreaded wickedness of our frailty and sin. Spare us to become Holy.
May I wake up tomorrow and think only of good works and the bright future of our Godly house. Bathe it in righteousness, O Lord.
And save us from whatever evil encircles us. Let us be innocent as children. Innocent as the virgin’s breast. Forever and ever.
Amen.