The Third Alternative

part two.

Our house is situated on the side of a hill, almost at the summit. Behind us, pine dark peaks, with their springs and cold, narrow streams, march heavenwards. Below are enclosed fields, and the tarn which supports water fowl and flocks of ducks; beyond, the bare slope with its solitary almond tree where we bury the dead from Clach Thoul. 

More dead than living come to us, and Hagraade, the sewer, dilingently stitches shrouds for them, and when they have been lain in their rough earthen holes, Dubricius sprinkles a little holy water on the turned up soil, so that those beneath do not lie on unsanctified ground. 

And though no stone marks the place where each soul sleeps, I like to think they are peacefully there, on that quiet hillside, with the grass growing green in the winter, and the gentle wind blowing through the almond’s branches when the summer comes around again. 

Aviv drove the wagon to the grey roofed building where one of our house, Tenes, receives the dead of Clach Thoul. A pious and often silent man, he washes each body and places it in a simple linen gown – ‘ clean and decent for its burying,’ as he says. 

I watch him at his work, and wonder much at the care that he shows to such poor heaps of flesh and bone. But looking, I see the pity in his eyes, and am humbled, and know that I have much to learn before I reach the stature of such men as Tenes and Aviv. 

When we reach the inner court, Aviv carried the one living man to the hospice, then went out, in the evening light, to unharness the horse, to dig the graves and help bury the dead. He prefers to work outside, in the fields, where his strength and endurance are most needed, and in the orchards and vegetable gardens with which we have surrounded the workshops and barns, for it is essential we be as self sufficient as possible in most of our daily needs. 

In the hospice, I helped Pileb, who is a little older than I – he and I are the youngest of our community –  to wash and clean the man brought from the wagon, ready for Waltheof, the healer, to attend to him. 

The man lay, silent and exhausted, on the hard wooden bench where Aviv had put him, one arm hanging awkwardly over its edge. I placed the arm on his chest, that he might be more comfortable, and, while Pileb began to remove the remnants of the cothing that he wore, and the remains of his boots, fetched hot water and towels.  

The sick man was conscious, as much as his were not closed. But to every word that Pileb addressed to him, he made no answer, or even sign that he had heard, and I began to wonder if he was insensible, and his open eyes just a natural reflex.  

But when Pileb picked up a knife to cut away the cracked and worn leather of his boots, his eyes flicked at once to the knife, and I knew then that he was conscious and aware, but was, for a reason of his own, ignoring us. And while we worked to cleanse him of the grime which clings to the unwanted, he stared, with fixed gaze at the further wall, neither hindering, nor helping us in our labours. 

At first we talked to him, Pileb and I. We asked him a few simple questions, spoke to him reassuringly, for often the people of Clach Thoul are disoriented upon coming to themselves in strange and unfamiliar surroundings. But as there was no response, our words began to sound too loud in the quiet room, and we too fell silent and worked without speaking. 

He was very thin, the man we had rescued. But it was a leanness caused by poor and scant food, rather than that of long illness. He was not as wasted as many who had suffered the privations of Clach Thoul –  he still retained some muscular strength. And I was surprised to see that he was not an old man – there was colour in the hair upon his body, and that which grew on his head, once freed of the dust which coated it, it was only lightly touched with grey. 

Presently, by which time he had been sponged with the tincture which we use to fend off disease, garbed in the simple gown that is provided for the hospice, and moved to one of the beds, Waltheof arrived, and we stood aside respectfully while he made his examination of the new arrival. 

Waltheof is a gentle and very devout man –  Dubricius says he is touched with the spirit; but even Waltheof’s reassuring presence elicited no response from the man in the bed. 

‘He might be deaf,’ Pileb suggested, speaking quietly, but Waltheof, his eyes watchful, slowly shook his head. 

‘No, this one is not deaf.’ 

‘Could he have lost the capacity for speach?’ I asked, puzzled by the man’s continued and determined silence. ‘ Is it that which ails him?’ 

Waltheof was still looking thoughtfully at the worn face against the pillow. 

‘ It may be, child, that he has no inclination to speak.’ 

‘Does he fear us?’ I said doubtfully. ‘We intend only to offer him such care as is within our means.’ 

In the bed, the man lay wuietly, his eyes closed; hands limp by his side; he had on him the air of one who had survived an ordeal and only wished to rest. 

Waltheof covered him with the sheet, and beckoned us from the room. In the corridor, he said quietly, ‘He is dylin, my son.’ 

“But of what?’ I have seen death, many times, in the hospice. But never of a man who had retained some strength and who would, given care and nourishment, recover; in my ignorance, so I thought. ‘He has no sores, or fever; no signs of disease; how then, can he be dying?’ 

Waltheof smiled, gravely and a little sadly. ‘What can we see of a man by looking at the outer husk? We know nothing of the true and inner self; whether that self be honest, or lonely or cruel. I do not know why this man is dying, or why he has no words for us. But the soul can sicken, even as the body will. Perhaps he has no notion as to what is to become of him here, and is afraid – perhaps his silence is his only defence.’ 

‘If that be so, we can help him,’ Pileb suggested eagerly. The fevour to men, to heal – these burn brightly in Pileb. He said, ‘We can sit by him, so that he is not alone with his fear. Pray – offer him words of faith and hope to allay his suffering.’ 

But Waltheof looked at him with a frown. He said reprovingly, ‘No, Pileb. It is not our place to intrude upon a man at such a time.’ 

‘But surely it is not an intrusion to ease the burden of the ill-fated,’ Pileb protested. ‘Or to try to save one who may know little of mercy or grace.’ 

Waltheof took an arm of us each, and led us further down the corridor, so that we were well out of hearing of the hospice. 

He said sternly; speaking more to Pileb than to me, ‘This is a man’s last and most desperate struggle – the time of his dying. All other battles that he has faced are as naught when he is confronted with his own mortality. But each soul must choose its own destiny, just as we choose our own path through life. Do not trouble thereof, one who is suffering, with clumsy offerings of teachings which may have no meaning to him. Do the little that you can for his ease and comfort, and leave him to find his own measure of peace.’ 

But Pileb, I could se, was not wholey convinced by these words, and Waltheof was, without doubt, aware of this also. He put his hands gently on Pileb’s shoulders. ‘Pileb, my son, to be a healer ios to aquire wisdom and humility as well as the art of healing. There comes an hour when the best one can do is nothing at all. Lear to recognise when the spirit has run its race, and has no further need for the shell that harbours it; when death is the only way forward. 

He dropped his hands, and said, addressing us both, ‘Go now and attend to the one who needs our care, for he is exhausted from the heat and from lack of food.’ 

“As much of the healing draught as hes can take, and some light food – broth, and a little bread and fruit. Be sure that he drinks plenty of water, and add a little honey to the lime and the balm to soothe and strengthen him.’ 

Pileb, I think, was half tempted to protest again, but he has too much respect for Waltheof to question his instructions. He inclined his head, instead, in acknowledgment, the nudged me sharply, for, lost in my own reflections, I had forgotten the customary courteous salute. 

Waltheof nodded kindly – he is always kind – and went on his way, and Pileb and I, both silent, turned back to the main chamber of the hospice. 

Helen Tuxford.                                                                    (To be continued)

(N.B. This post is NOT mine, but rather by Helen Tuxford, with whom I share a writing interest in “The Scriveners Review”…I posted it here so as to get it down so to copy it onto the next issue of the magazine….: Joe Carli.)