The Stories of
Brother Paul
Part One
Father Anthony led the old man into the kitchen and closed the
door. The brothers were seated on the floor around the hearth and
bunched together along the benches around the serving table. The fire
was blazing, but the chill night air was still creeping into the kitchen
from cracks in the cold stone outer walls of the room.
"Take a seat Old Paul." Anthony gestured towards his own big
empty chair, and sat himself on the hearth between the firedogs to
warm his back. "We have done with my stories, brothers. I have no more to
tell."
Brother Anastasius looked at Anthony, "Are we going to have
to resort to a reading of Beowulf again, Father?"
"I wonder, Brother Anastasius, if we could prevail upon Old
Paul to break his long silence and tell us his secrets." Anthony looked
at the old man without anticipation, but with a bemused grin. The men
in the room grinned and looked at Paul as they always did when this
suggestion was made. Brother Paul had never told them a single story
in the twelve years he had been with them.
The fire crackled, and in the silent pause they relaxed and stared
at the flames, feeling the heat on their faces as their backs got colder,
except for Anthony, whose back was now beginning to scorch. He
moved away from the hearth and turned his face to the fire. "Our
stories are not as good as some." He tried to remember a really
ripping yarn someone once told well many years ago, but could not
recall even what it was about. Anthony was a quiet man by nature,
and many years in the monastery had so becalmed his mind and
guarded his memory, that any capacity for entertaining others had,
like the afternoon sun, long since disappeared over the horizon. Still,
he thought, it would be a fine thing to hear a new story this winter.
Most of the brothers were thinking along the same lines.
As they watched the long supporting log at the bottom of the
fire, it finally burned through and broke, sending the blazing woodpile
into a short freefall ending with a shower of sparks and flame roaring
up into the chimney. This was their quiet entertainment.
"Uh... Um... well... yeah, I suppose..." This quiet speech
from the old man turned every head in the room. They waited for
more. None came.
"You suppose what, brother?" Anthony prodded.
"Yes, Old Paul, go on. What were you saying?"
Nothing further was spoken by Old Paul, and this caused their general interest to
heighten into genuine anticipation.
"Spit it out, man."
Old Paul had decided he wanted
to obey his impulse to speak. He rolled his head to try and relieve the
constant ache in his neck and tried again. "I, Uh... suppose I might,
eh... have a wee story... or two. "
Nothing else.
The brothers looked about grinning and nodding at each other,
demonstrating silently a general agreement that this was indeed a
favorable turn of events for the evening. They were patient men, but
very bored with months of the same routine and no interesting visitors
from outside the monastery lands. In fact, they'd had no visitors from outside since King William had died. And now, here was Old brother
Paul about to tell them a new story.
They were not a demanding audience. A good story could simply be
about service in a manor kitchen years ago when an infamous visitor
came for dinner. A better story might involve having spoken once
with any King at all, in person. A brilliant story involved a personal
account of military action, but none of the brothers had such a story.
They were hoping to hear about Old Paul having met an infamous
visitor, but would settle for less.
Old Paul made a kind of grunt and, squirming himself over to
the left a bit so that he could lean comfortably on his right elbow, he
rubbed his forehead with his large left hand, and spoke.
"I, uh... am an old man... I, uh... am eighty nine years old.
When I came here I was seventy seven years old."
Nothing further. The brothers looked at him. They looked at
each other and chuckled.
"Oh really, brother, please do give us better than that."
Old Paul finished rubbing his forehead and started rubbing his
hands together. His attention wandered towards Father Anthony, who could have sworn
he saw a youthful twinkle in the crinkles around the old man’s missing eyes. "Yes... yes, I was
thirteen years old then... that was a long time ago, boys."
Again, nothing more from Paul. They waited.
"Yes it was a long time ago, brother Paul. But what was it?"
Old Paul looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. His
memory stirred and as he awoke the past, he sighed deeply. Bringing
his head back down to face his own hands, he made two fists and
closed his eyes.
"I was thirteen years old in the Wulfnoth mutiny. When we
wrecked the Sandwich fleet. Aye, that was a long time ago." He
rubbed his forehead again, and covered his eyes. The brothers looked at Father Anthony, and then at one another with astonishment, and then again at brother Paul. "King Aethelraed’s
fleet. The Sandwich fleet... we, uh... we completely destroyed it.
You know... on behalf of the Dane. It was all about money, you
know. Danegeld... the King’s ransom, we called it. Wulfnoth was
going to share it with us... his cut. At least that was the plan. I never
saw any of it. He was cut into pieces for his troubles, him and the others...
not all of them, though... I got away, too. But most of them got taken
away in irons." His gaze passed across the brothers. "That was a story."
He stopped talking and faced Anthony.
"Tell it, brother."
Old Paul nodded, and facing the crackle of the flames before them, he started speaking at the firelight, "It was a long time ago..."
Part One
Father Anthony led the old man into the kitchen and closed the
door. The brothers were seated on the floor around the hearth and
bunched together along the benches around the serving table. The fire
was blazing, but the chill night air was still creeping into the kitchen
from cracks in the cold stone outer walls of the room.
"Take a seat Old Paul." Anthony gestured towards his own big
empty chair, and sat himself on the hearth between the firedogs to
warm his back. "We have done with my stories, brothers. I have no more to
tell."
Brother Anastasius looked at Anthony, "Are we going to have
to resort to a reading of Beowulf again, Father?"
"I wonder, Brother Anastasius, if we could prevail upon Old
Paul to break his long silence and tell us his secrets." Anthony looked
at the old man without anticipation, but with a bemused grin. The men
in the room grinned and looked at Paul as they always did when this
suggestion was made. Brother Paul had never told them a single story
in the twelve years he had been with them.
The fire crackled, and in the silent pause they relaxed and stared
at the flames, feeling the heat on their faces as their backs got colder,
except for Anthony, whose back was now beginning to scorch. He
moved away from the hearth and turned his face to the fire. "Our
stories are not as good as some." He tried to remember a really
ripping yarn someone once told well many years ago, but could not
recall even what it was about. Anthony was a quiet man by nature,
and many years in the monastery had so becalmed his mind and
guarded his memory, that any capacity for entertaining others had,
like the afternoon sun, long since disappeared over the horizon. Still,
he thought, it would be a fine thing to hear a new story this winter.
Most of the brothers were thinking along the same lines.
As they watched the long supporting log at the bottom of the
fire, it finally burned through and broke, sending the blazing woodpile
into a short freefall ending with a shower of sparks and flame roaring
up into the chimney. This was their quiet entertainment.
"Uh... Um... well... yeah, I suppose..." This quiet speech
from the old man turned every head in the room. They waited for
more. None came.
"You suppose what, brother?" Anthony prodded.
"Yes, Old Paul, go on. What were you saying?"
Nothing further was spoken by Old Paul, and this caused their general interest to
heighten into genuine anticipation.
"Spit it out, man."
Old Paul had decided he wanted
to obey his impulse to speak. He rolled his head to try and relieve the
constant ache in his neck and tried again. "I, Uh... suppose I might,
eh... have a wee story... or two. "
Nothing else.
The brothers looked about grinning and nodding at each other,
demonstrating silently a general agreement that this was indeed a
favorable turn of events for the evening. They were patient men, but
very bored with months of the same routine and no interesting visitors
from outside the monastery lands. In fact, they'd had no visitors from outside since King William had died. And now, here was Old brother
Paul about to tell them a new story.
They were not a demanding audience. A good story could simply be
about service in a manor kitchen years ago when an infamous visitor
came for dinner. A better story might involve having spoken once
with any King at all, in person. A brilliant story involved a personal
account of military action, but none of the brothers had such a story.
They were hoping to hear about Old Paul having met an infamous
visitor, but would settle for less.
Old Paul made a kind of grunt and, squirming himself over to
the left a bit so that he could lean comfortably on his right elbow, he
rubbed his forehead with his large left hand, and spoke.
"I, uh... am an old man... I, uh... am eighty nine years old.
When I came here I was seventy seven years old."
Nothing further. The brothers looked at him. They looked at
each other and chuckled.
"Oh really, brother, please do give us better than that."
Old Paul finished rubbing his forehead and started rubbing his
hands together. His attention wandered towards Father Anthony, who could have sworn
he saw a youthful twinkle in the crinkles around the old man’s missing eyes. "Yes... yes, I was
thirteen years old then... that was a long time ago, boys."
Again, nothing more from Paul. They waited.
"Yes it was a long time ago, brother Paul. But what was it?"
Old Paul looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. His
memory stirred and as he awoke the past, he sighed deeply. Bringing
his head back down to face his own hands, he made two fists and
closed his eyes.
"I was thirteen years old in the Wulfnoth mutiny. When we
wrecked the Sandwich fleet. Aye, that was a long time ago." He
rubbed his forehead again, and covered his eyes. The brothers looked at Father Anthony, and then at one another with astonishment, and then again at brother Paul. "King Aethelraed’s
fleet. The Sandwich fleet... we, uh... we completely destroyed it.
You know... on behalf of the Dane. It was all about money, you
know. Danegeld... the King’s ransom, we called it. Wulfnoth was
going to share it with us... his cut. At least that was the plan. I never
saw any of it. He was cut into pieces for his troubles, him and the others...
not all of them, though... I got away, too. But most of them got taken
away in irons." His gaze passed across the brothers. "That was a story."
He stopped talking and faced Anthony.
"Tell it, brother."
Old Paul nodded, and facing the crackle of the flames before them, he started speaking at the firelight, "It was a long time ago..."
Father Anthony led the old man into the kitchen and closed the door. The brothers were seated on the floor around the hearth and bunched together along the benches around the serving table. The fire was blazing, but the chill night air was still creeping into the kitchen from cracks in the cold stone outer walls of the room. "Take a seat Old Paul." Anthony gestured towards his own big empty chair, and sat himself on the hearth between the firedogs to warm his back. "We have done with my stories, brothers. I have no more to tell."
Brother Anastasius looked at Anthony, "Are we going to have to resort to a reading of Beowulf again, Father?"
"I wonder, Brother Anastasius, if we could prevail upon Old Paul to break his long silence and tell us his secrets." Anthony looked at the old man without anticipation, but with a bemused grin. The men in the room grinned and looked at Paul as they always did when this suggestion was made. Brother Paul had never told them a single story in the twelve years he had been with them.
The fire crackled, and in the silent pause they relaxed and stared at the flames, feeling the heat on their faces as their backs got colder, except for Anthony, whose back was now beginning to scorch. He moved away from the hearth and turned his face to the fire. "Our stories are not as good as some." He tried to remember a really ripping yarn someone once told well many years ago, but could not recall even what it was about. Anthony was a quiet man by nature, and many years in the monastery had so becalmed his mind and guarded his memory, that any capacity for entertaining others had, like the afternoon sun, long since disappeared over the horizon. Still, he thought, it would be a fine thing to hear a new story this winter. Most of the brothers were thinking along the same lines.
As they watched the long supporting log at the bottom of the fire, it finally burned through and broke, sending the blazing woodpile into a short freefall ending with a shower of sparks and flame roaring up into the chimney. This was their quiet entertainment.
"Uh... Um... well... yeah, I suppose..." This quiet speech from the old man turned every head in the room. They waited for more. None came.
"You suppose what, brother?" Anthony prodded.
"Yes, Old Paul, go on. What were you saying?"
Nothing further was spoken by Old Paul, and this caused their general interest to heighten into genuine anticipation.
"Spit it out, man."
Old Paul had decided he wanted to obey his impulse to speak. He rolled his head to try and relieve the constant ache in his neck and tried again. "I, Uh... suppose I might, eh... have a wee story... or two. "
Nothing else.
The brothers looked about grinning and nodding at each other, demonstrating silently a general agreement that this was indeed a favorable turn of events for the evening. They were patient men, but very bored with months of the same routine and no interesting visitors from outside the monastery lands. In fact, they'd had no visitors from outside since King William had died. And now, here was Old brother Paul about to tell them a new story.
They were not a demanding audience. A good story could simply be about service in a manor kitchen years ago when an infamous visitor came for dinner. A better story might involve having spoken once with any King at all, in person. A brilliant story involved a personal account of military action, but none of the brothers had such a story. They were hoping to hear about Old Paul having met an infamous visitor, but would settle for less.
Old Paul made a kind of grunt and, squirming himself over to the left a bit so that he could lean comfortably on his right elbow, he rubbed his forehead with his large left hand, and spoke.
"I, uh... am an old man... I, uh... am eighty nine years old. When I came here I was seventy seven years old."
Nothing further. The brothers looked at him. They looked at each other and chuckled.
"Oh really, brother, please do give us better than that."
Old Paul finished rubbing his forehead and started rubbing his hands together. His attention wandered towards Father Anthony, who could have sworn he saw a youthful twinkle in the crinkles around the old man’s missing eyes. "Yes... yes, I was thirteen years old then... that was a long time ago, boys."
Again, nothing more from Paul. They waited.
"Yes it was a long time ago, brother Paul. But what was it?"
Old Paul looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. His memory stirred and as he awoke the past, he sighed deeply. Bringing his head back down to face his own hands, he made two fists and closed his eyes.
"I was thirteen years old in the Wulfnoth mutiny. When we wrecked the Sandwich fleet. Aye, that was a long time ago." He rubbed his forehead again, and covered his eyes. The brothers looked at Father Anthony, and then at one another with astonishment, and then again at brother Paul. "King Aethelraed’s fleet. The Sandwich fleet... we, uh... we completely destroyed it. You know... on behalf of the Dane. It was all about money, you know. Danegeld... the King’s ransom, we called it. Wulfnoth was going to share it with us... his cut. At least that was the plan. I never saw any of it. He was cut into pieces for his troubles, him and the others... not all of them, though... I got away, too. But most of them got taken away in irons." His gaze passed across the brothers. "That was a story."
He stopped talking and faced Anthony.
"Tell it, brother."
Old Paul nodded, and facing the crackle of the flames before them, he started speaking at the firelight, "It was a long time ago..."