For several days I pruned, dug, and weeded, and delineated the beds by marking clear paths between them. Little by little, I located the fennel bulbs, rosemary and lavender shrubs, valerian stems, and the tangled horizontal branches of mint. At the far end of the garden in the shade of the fruit trees, I found marjoram and basil. Before long, an outline began to emerge. I felt great satisfaction when I surveyed the final results even though important healing plants, like sage or oregano, were missing. But those could be planted over time. Wild herbs, on the other hand—those that grew by the roadside or in the forest—would not be available unless I found someone to procure them for me.
Gardens bloom quickly under the sun and showers of a Rhenish spring, and the first yield comes in May. I was putting fresh blankets on the cots in the infirmary one morning, when, looking through the window, I saw a boy walking from the direction of the workshop with a basket full of fresh leaves. It was the same boy I had seen arrive at the abbey the previous autumn. I gazed after him until he vanished around the church on his way to the kitchens. He was not an oblate or a novice—he wore lay clothes—and once again I had that vague feeling of familiarity.
When I had finished my work, I went to the workshop. I found Brother Wigbert standing on the threshold admiring the herbs. They were growing profusely in neat clusters without so much as one shoot of a weed anywhere. The buzzing bees and the bright butterflies that alighted on the blossoms only enhanced the garden’s wholesome, cheerful aspect.
“You have a green thumb and you are diligent.” He looked genuinely pleased. “Unlike most of the novices who have had a go at this before,” he added sardonically.
“Thank you, Brother.” I felt myself flushing with pleasure as I followed him inside. “Who was that boy I saw coming out of here not long ago?”
“A kitchen help came for some cooking herbs. Abbot Kuno likes his fish seasoned with marjoram and rosemary.”
We were going to prepare the season’s first batch of herbs for storage. I started cleaning the wood boxes while he cut the dried bunches down from the beams. As he did so, he asked me how the sisters were dealing with my new employment.
“They are used to it now.” Upon my return to the convent, I had sensed a certain resentment, mainly on the part of Jutta. The magistra said that she would pray for me, then spoke not a word to me for days. But I tried to please her with my diligence, and I always stayed in the convent for the study hour.
Eventually I regained her favor, albeit by accident. After my months-long absence, I had found myself out of practice kneeling on the floor of the chapel and took to alternating between kneeling and lying on my stomach, imitating the anchoresses. The face-down position was hardly more comfortable, but at least it prevented my limbs from going numb. So I was surprised when Jutta broke her silence one evening and whispered to me as we were leaving the chapel, “I am glad that you are humbling yourself before God by flattening your body during prayer. None of us deserve to look at our Savior’s face.”
The next day, she selected a passage from The Book of Job in which Bildad gave this reply to Job: “How can man be righteous before God? How can he be pure who is born of a woman? If even the moon is not bright, and the stars are not pure in His sight, how much less man, who is a maggot, and a son of man, who is a worm!” I quickly understood that this was intended to reinforce her earlier admonition.
Still, there was one thing that bothered me. “I am so much more content now,” I said to Brother Wigbert as I lined the boxes up on the counter, “but I fear it may be against The Rule.”
“What may be against The Rule?” Brother Wigbert was puzzled.
“Being happy.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Sister Jutta told me about all the things we must refrain from.” I proceeded to enumerate on my fingers. “We must not provoke laughter, we must reject pride, practice fasting, love chastity . . . What’s chastity, Brother?”
“Uh . . . hmm.” The monk was suddenly very busy with the herbs strewn on the table. “It is when a man and his wife are . . . uh . . . faithful to each other.” He bent over a stem, closely examining its flowers, though they looked fine to me.
“Like my father and my mother?”
“Yes.” The bald tonsure nodded without looking up.
“But married people don’t live in monasteries.”
Brother Wigbert straightened up, sighing. “What you need to know”—he was choosing his words carefully—“is that The Rule is above all about prayer and labor, each in sufficient measure to elevate the spirit and subdue the body. It is there to guide us and keep us on our path, but it also aims to make the monastic life a fulfilling one despite the sacrifices we must make.”
“But Sister Jutta—”
“She is a holy woman and an example to all of us in her capacity for spiritual elevation and self-denial.” Despite the lofty words, Wigbert’s tone was rather perfunctory. “But she lives by her own strict codex that you are not expected to follow unless you make a formal commitment in the future. Do you understand?”
Relief washed over me. “Does that mean I don’t have to fast every day?”
“The Rule prescribes extreme fasting only as punishment, not as daily routine.”
That was good news, but the worried look must have lingered on my face.
“What now?”
“There is one other thing.” I hesitated. “Sister Jutta seems somehow . . . sadder than before I took ill.”
“As I said, she is devoted to the ascetic life.”
“And yet she allows herself things she did not use to.” I frowned.
“Like what?”
“She asks for extra salt from the
