Aelfden is subtly accused

There came a knock unlike the meek tapping of a monk. Aelfden was not sorry to be interrupted, for his morning had seemed strangely empty with only abbey business to fill it. He even smiled slightly in anticipatory indulgence: he supposed he knew who it was.

“Enter!” he called. He had guessed correctly. “Ah! Good morning, young man. I am sorry I was not able to meet you last night.”

Sebastien’s lukewarm smile vanished at once. “I hope I am not expected to stay in a place and let myself be insulted.”

“He means no harm,” Aelfden chuckled.

“I do not say he harmed me. I say he insulted me.”

“So much the better, if that is all he did.”

Sebastien’s jaw dropped.

“Did you sleep well?” Aelfden asked him.

“Very well, thank you,” he said stiffly. “Your guest house is warm and dry. It is better than many monasteries I have visited. But perhaps this is only because it is new.”

“We shall certainly endeavor to keep it warm and dry over the years.”

“Yes, perhaps,” the young man muttered. “Here.”

Sebastian slipped a hand into his robe and pulled out a small book. Aelfden reached up for it, but instead of handing it to him, Sebastien tossed it over his shoulder onto the chest behind him.

“What is it?” Aelfden asked.

“You don’t know it?” Sebastien smiled. “It is your own manuscript. I bring it back to you.”

“Did…” Aelfden turned his head to look at it, but modesty forbade him to pick it up. “It has been rebound,” he observed.

“Has it? Then perhaps someone bothered to copy it after all. My secretary was copying it for me, but I made him stop with the half when I had read it. I did not wish to waste the parchment or Malo’s time. But you may have that half if you like.”

“Oh?”

“As for me…” Sebastien turned to scrutinize the rows of books on the shelf beside him. “I prefer to read the original, if you have it here.”

“That is the original,” Aelfden said. “I kept a copy for myself.”

“No, no,” Sebastien chuckled. “I mean the original Origen. I do not often meet men who so boldly flaunt the banned books in their libraries.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The original Origen. You don’t expect me to believe you reinvented some parts of On First Principles all by yourself?”

“That was in no wise my intention.”

“Then you must have it here. I should like to read an unredacted copy…”

“We have no banned books in this library.”

“You must have read it somewhere.”

“I have only read the Anathemas pronounced against its author.”

“Ah! Then you are forewarned. Apocatastasis is anathema, Father.” He gave Aelfden a slight, mocking smile.

Aelfden rose, for if it came to defending himself he did not intend to be sitting down. “That word does not appear in this manuscript.”

“Will the Lord Cast Off Forever? is even the title!”

“That is taken from a Psalm.”

“I know that!” Sebastien cried, seemingly insulted by the mere suggestion that he had not recognized the line. “But what you write is sooo close to heresy.” He held up a finger and thumb so near together that Aelfden could not see light between them. “There are sins even God cannot forgive.”

“This book is nothing but a reflection on the mercy of God, my young friend. The Lord does not wish for any to perish, but for all to come to repentance. I do not say all will necessarily come. And,” Aelfden could not resist adding, “if you have such familiarity with Origen, you must have read his works yourself.”

Sebastien’s grin sparkled with wicked delight. “I have been into the catacombs in Rome where the forbidden books are stored. Have you?”

Aelfden blinked at him.

Sebastien seemed even more delighted to learn he knew something an Abbot did not. “You must realize that the Church does not actually burn these heretical books? Or else, she does, but makes a copy first? Ah! Perhaps that is why a copy was made of your book!” He laughed.

“In any event, the original has been returned to me,” Aelfden observed, “and not burned.”

“Perhaps someone wishes you to condemn yourself?” Sebastien mused. “You do not have only friends in Rome, Lord Father. Fortunately your first book bought you some indulgence, for it pleased the old Pope.”

“I shall take that into consideration,” Aelfden muttered.

“The second, too, was appreciated by some who have a philosophical interest,” Sebastien said thoughtfully. “We students even spent some agreeable evenings in the debate of it, though of course we refuted all of your arguments.”

“I look forward to hearing how.”

“But the old Pope is dead now,” Sebastien said darkly. “This last book is an echo of Origen. The second shocked many. And as for the first… let us say that there are some who wonder, a man who writes about the Unseen, what he has truly seen. Some even wonder, if his inspiration was divine or unholy.”

He stared at Aelfden as if waiting for a reply to this subtle accusation. Perhaps by “some” he meant “I”.

“Nevertheless,” Aelfden sighed, “my conclusion has always been the infinite wisdom and mercy of God. I seem an unlikely advocate for Satan’s cause. A house divided against itself cannot stand.”

“Unless Satan is seeking the mercy and wisdom of God.”

“There is your echo of apocatastasis, Sebastien. You said it, not I.”

“Unless you believe Satan is seeking the mercy and wisdom of God,” Sebastien corrected.

“I do not speak for Satan.”

“No?”

“No.”

Sebastien watched him for a moment, warily, as if he was considering taking this challenge further. For that moment, the young man appeared a formidable opponent. Perhaps, Aelfden realized, he was as clever as he believed himself. It was too soon to rule out the possibility.

But then his glare faltered and his voice sheered off into peevishness. He was still very young.

“In any case, we shall have many opportunities to debate it, Father! I never should have listened to Father Brude. Or, I never should have accompanied that fainting woman all this way and waste so much time. Look! Already it is Ides of September past. Now I must stay here for all the winter! Or go to some place even more uncivilized!” He pouted his lip quite as if he wished to cry.

“We shall do our best to amuse you, Sebastien, and perhaps even educate you, as Father Brude hoped in his letter.”

Sebastien cast a mournful look at the bookshelves and sniffed as if he did not believe it.

“If nothing else,” Aelfden said, “in our monastery you will be warm and dry.”