Outside of a low, inviting wall came the echoes of gentle hymns that seemed to stir the very landscape around it. They reverberated inside of the walls and throughout an open cloister, their melodies and harmonies mixing together and around each other like some sort of liturgical dance. The beauteous chants reached their golden fingers to the very clouds and into the ear of God.

"Confiteror Deo Omnipotenti
Beatae Mariae semper Virgini
Beato Michaeli archangelo
Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis
Et tibi Pater
Quia peccavi nimis
Cogitatione
Verbo et opere
Mea culpa
Mea culpa
Mea maxima culpa"*

The schoolboys sang as a chorus would the Confideor under the shade of a tree in a corner of the cloister. Supervising them in their lessons was a brother whose features labelled him as a Frank. He nodded as the boys rehearsed the prayer in almost perfect Greek, their Gaelic accents slipping into some of the words. Under the glaring sunlight an older boy on his knees taking a break from studying was ripping up the grass and moss that grew unceremoniously through the carefully placed stones halfway beneath a roofed walkway. Others his age or slightly older scythed the grass growing in the open areas around flora and bushes. The nurtured vegetation of the open cloister rustled tensely from the few ocean breezes that crept up and over the monastery wall. Shadows of praying monks fell over the finely tended grass, which was strictly kept from the stones that paved a walkway around and through the open cloister, crossing in the centre.

Bong! Bang! Bong! Bang! Bong!

The tower bell called both monks and students to their morning office. Each man and boy left their tasks and trailed to the chapel. Young boys still in their single digits to white haired, bent-backed men gathered together, lifting their voices in prayer.

Approaching the monastery, little more than a mile away, a dishevelled monk slowly pulled a rickety cart covered by a grey cloth. He followed a path that was so faint and new that it would hardly have been noticeable to an unwary eye. He arrived as the brothers and scholars were leaving the chapel to complete their duties. The monk banged loudly on the wooden doors with his tired fist. An older brother opened the wooden gate, allowing his fellow monk inside followed by the unsteady cart. The older nodded to the younger as he closed the heavy door. "Well, Brother Paul."

"Well, Brother Callum." Brother Paul, for that was his name, nodded in return, "Looks's though tha'st got a fortune fer us!" Callum exclaimed, his low Irish r's rumbling in his chest.

The younger monk smiled, yellowed teeth gleaming. "Aye, but I had to barter fer half of it," Brother Callum peered curiously at the cart and its wool covering, "What did tha' get so worth a quibble-but never ye' mind. I'll find out as soon as the lads have had their hands at them, eh?"

Grunting his agreement, Brother Paul tugged the cart and headed towards the centre of the monastery, trailed by Callum. A line of men began to follow in his wake, curious as to what lay under the mysterious cloth. When Brother Paul passed by the cloister the young men hurriedly finished their gardening and joined in the procession, leaving the sound of the boys' recitations behind. The line halted in the middle of the monastery grounds and spread out to form a disordered crowd around Paul. A flood of questions and shouts sounded from the impatient scholars.

"Did ya' trade fer any seeds?" "What's in there?" "Any news from the other monastery?" "Say, tha' didn't bring any books, did thee?" "Aye, I've been waitin' fer somethin' new to read...er, copy." "Got anything fer me?" "Hey, move outta me way!" "C'mon, take off the covering, Brother Paul!" "Aye, let's see what's under there."

Brother Paul looked around at the inquisitive group as though he would not satisfy their curiosity. But at the scholar's desolate faces he laughed and threw off the wool cloth. Everyone crowded around closer to the cart to see what Paul had brought home.

Inside the cart were many books stacked upon one another; some silver goblets and plates with which to celebrate the Eucharistic Sacrifice; tools such as those to plant, chisel, and build as well as other odds and ends.

The men began to reach for the assorted objects but Brother Paul called out, "All right now, let's form some kind of row an' I'll start handin' things out." Within ten minutes all but two men had been given something for themselves or to be put away. Brother Paul pulled out three books, holding out one to the young man in front of him. "There y'are, Raleigh. I thought ya might enjoy lookin' at this Book of the Psalms. The pictures are exquisite. Ya might learn somethin' from them."

He then held the other two books out to an older man from Munster. The aged one bobbed his head in thanks and shuffled away to the group of beehive-looking huts. Paul peered into the wagon and found some chiselling tools left over. Sighing, he took up the insecure pushcart's handles in his hands when young Raleigh approached him.

Seeing Raleigh Paul said, "Here, boy take those tools out o' there and go put them away fer me." Raleigh took them out of the cart, but did not leave. "Brother Paul-" Raleigh began awkwardly.

Paul moved forward with the cart. "Aye, what is it lad?"

"Um, well, I've been thinking...er-"

Paul glanced at the boy who was falling in and out of step with his superior. "What's the trouble, youngster? You're all red an' flustered."

Raleigh grasped his book of Psalms worriedly, "That's cause I've been wonderin' if the prayers and teachings of yester-year will be forgotten. That is, I mean, what if we all died t'day an' none o' these books got copied or what if a war happens and-" he paused uncomfortably.

"Lackaday! Y' worried about the Great Apocalypse so soon."

"No, not the Apocalypse. It's just that sheepskin doesn't last forever, sir."

"Aye, I know that."

"I just-I hope, that is I pray that God won't let any wars or battles or clans destroy His Church. I just want things t' stay like this. I don't want to go back home and find everything gone, the peaceful greens o'er swept by blood and barbarians."

Brother Paul chuckled, "War will never harm our Lord's people an' His Word won't get lost. Tis only man-made things that will. Ne'er you fret, Raleigh, the Word of God and the prayers of men are solidly written in stone." He paused for a minute, as the ground became rough under his feet. Suddenly the cart got caught in a hole along the path. "Raleigh, would you give this piece o' junk a push from back there."

Hearing no answer, Brother Paul turned around to find Raleigh gone. After trying to push the cart out himself, Paul gave the wagon a kick. It immediately crumbled into a heap.

On the other side of the path Raleigh dashed to his own "beehive", the Book of Psalms clutched in his hands. He ducked slightly and entered into his own drystone shelter with a makeshift table in back. The desk was made of an ill-sanded slab of wood resting on two unused stones the gardeners had picked out when planting. It was covered with bottles of ink, a quill and a sharpening tool as well as the dappled parchment, proclaiming it as dried sheepskin. Sitting down cross-legged in front of his desk, Raleigh opened the Book of Psalms. He read the first Psalm carefully. Then taking out a red bottle of ink and the sharpened quill, he began to copy the exquisite letter of the first Psalm. He worked well into the night, only stopping for midday meal, afternoon prayers, and, of course, for the ink to dry.

As the eighth bell tolled out and his candle started to burn low, Raleigh finished the beginning letter. He cleaned the quill carefully with a rag and put the Book of Psalms to the side. Having done this Raleigh took out the chiselling tools that Brother Paul had told him to put away. Bringing out an extra candle, the boy knelt down before the wall of his hut and prayed.

"Oh Lord, please hear my prayer after I die. Or at least read it. An' let it be a prayer for coming generations."

A light rain began to fall, pattering gently upon the monastery stones. The sound of steel against rock sounded lightly through the night, only stopping twice for each office to be sung.

A cool, damp wind breathed over rough stones, blowing away fragments of the stone that had once been chiselled to perfection thirteen centuries before. The remains of thin tree stumps lay splintered and moist on the ground, like a broken cart that once was rained on. Long grass, which had grown carelessly through cracks of rock, shifted and moved in a wrath-like manner, as though echoing ancient hymns. Hymns that had once reverberated throughout an open cloister by voices young and old. Beauteous chants that reached their golden fingers to the very clouds and into the ear of God. And on the bottom of an overturned stone is written words remembered by their author and the Maker, and prayed every minute in churches around the world.

"Agnus Dei
Qui tollis peccata mundi
Dona nobis pacem"**

* "I confess to God Almighty
To blessed Mary ever Virgin
To the blessed archangel Michael
To the holy apostles, to all the saints
And to you, Father
That I have sinned
In thought
In word and deed
Through my fault
Through my fault
Through my most grievous fault."

** "Lamb of God
Who takes away the sins of the world
Grant us peace"

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Bibliography

Cahill, Thomas. "How the Irish Saved Civilization: The Untold Story of Ireland's Heroic Role from the Fall of Rome to the Rise of Medieval Europe". New York: Doubleday, 1995.

Schwartz, Stephen. "Heaven's Light/Hellfire." The Hunchback of Notre Dame Soundtrack. California: Walt Disney Records, 1996.

Schwartz, Stephen. "Humiliation." The Hunchback of Notre Dame Soundtrack. California: Walt Disney Records, 1996.

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(c) 1 February, 2000
Last updated 3 May, 2000
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