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96 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2014
She says, “I want to see your God face to face…”
“Swear to me,” says Brigid, “that I shall see Him tomorrow.” He looks at her with staring eyes, a large, irascible old man ejected from his dream back onto earth. He says, “You will see Him when you die, as will all of us in this world.”
He is looking for dead men. This is his passion. The fact that he is a doctor in Marjevols is of little importance: he prefers bodies that have ceased to suffer to the suffering bodies of his daily round.
The monastery is devoid of charm, thrown together with planks of wood and peat, for the whole thing, which was founded and consecrated by Philibert the Ancient, has been trampled a hundred times over by the Normans—burned down, bailed out, rebuilt, taken apart. The walls of the chapter house are cob, the cloister is raw brick. The choir is older, built of the local white stone, but the fires have turned it black. It is fire too which melted the great bells, and the ones hammered by the blacksmith brother are small and shrill. A ring of logs forms the library – which, besides some canonical odds and ends, contains the Life of Saint Martin, the Life of Saint Jerome, and much learned bullshit from before the Revelation.
He makes his way down as night falls. He can hear his miserly old man’s breath in the night. Bats fly past; it’s our own tiny heart beating up there. It’s the tiny black heart of the pope, of Hilère, or of the lowliest cowherd. No one knows. One man is all men, one place all places, thinks Hilère. He wonders whether this thought comes from God or the devil.