Ten they were when first they left, Not one returned to tell the tale
Of how, over time, all were struck Low to die -
I myself, not one of them, A shepherd boy with whom they stayed,
Who, by virtue of their tale, Took to following their path and ways,
Survived only by frightened hiding Whilst they faced that which
Caused them grief and barred their Way without broken step or falt’ring hitch.
So ten they were when first they left, Servants of God and men of cloth,
Clothed in hessian robes of brown Those holy monks sent by God with wrath.
Firstly, Brother John -
With stouty staff and leather sling, Walked ahead, like fearless Hector.
At the other end, Brother Xavier, Who by virtue of cunning and craft -
No will to fight but more to parley, Argued with skill he should be last.
The others we shall meet as My story unfolds, but the first
Tale concerns those described above -
No sooner than their journey started They came across a knight in armour.
Black his colour with a mood to match, He blocked the path of a defenceless farmer.
'Move blackheart' cried Great John. The knight looked over and saw the monks
As John stept forward to task the master Of sword and lance, shield and armour.
With staff in hand and firm of foot He walked to the knight and bravely
Challenged the man to move aside, Or fight a man of God -
Thou art to halt a peasant But in me, with God's will
You'll see a side of God that When unleashed best fits the Devil!'
Xavier at this point interrupted, 'Brother John, this knight, a man of war,
Will surely slay thee and us -
The knight, unflinching, said -
He will save you from death, though You may fight well -
'Xavier, you know not of battle,' quoth John, 'For God's might shall guide
Mine arm -
The two they met and a cry went up; The monks watching saw John's staff
So wide and strong, break under the blows Rained by the knight yet they heard him laugh.
‘Pray, Sir Knight, hold your arm My weapon is gone, I am undefended
Wait but a while while I re-
And so they paused their matched melee And great John turned for another stave
But the knight attacked the holy monk For the knight, as told, was an errant knave.
For his shame the knight turned tail Leaving his vanquished foe ‘pon the ground
And as the knight turned and fled John’s holy brothers gathered round
His bleeding body, battered and torn With mortal wound and bloodied limb,
He begged his brothers to tarry not But to go on ahead and worry not for him.
But they waited a day and mourned his passing And buried his body with prayer and song
And asked for guidance and courage to continue Since nine they were, now their lion was gone.
Allowing no further delays to their actions They broke their camp and left, heading
Further southward to continue their journey To the land where Salome ordered the beheading
Of their Saviour’s cousin, John was his name Like the lion in my story
That baptized the Lord in the waters of Jordan And foretold of His ministry, the power and Glory.
The monks approached the end of land And took to ship to cross the breach,
And as the waters rose and swelled beneath them They called on God, in terror beseeched
Him to save them from the murky depths And deliver them safely to foreign shore
That they may serve Him in their holy duty This dangerous quest – a holy chore.
Yet still the wind raged and blew. The monks so holy kneeled and prayed
For some sign on high, but none did come. And questions rose in Michael’s mind and played
On his soul, for which he had no answer. So in his need he spoke with Ambrose,
That pious man. ‘O brother mine, I have prayed in heart, for certes, God knows
The answers I seek when I am alone But I hear no voice nor see no sign
That God, in His eternal presence, Has heard or knows these thoughts of mine.’
‘Michael, thou’rt a monk ‘tis true, But thou art yet a Man, with Mortal fears.
Those martyred Saints who knew His voice Had purpose true and conscience clear.
Put away these thoughts and read His word. Think on these – as a pilgrim true.’
Michael turned and faced the sea. ‘Ambrose Thou art wise. As thou hast said – I shalt do.’
Now the storm railed ‘gainst the boat And cast those low who had stomach not
For its violent action and unceasing gait Affected many and sent Dominic to cot.
There he stayed for five days and three Tended and cared for by gentle Frances.
But, perhaps, ‘twould be wise to break this Narrative, to save confusion, give you answers
To the questions that you may be asking. Namely, now we have met several more
Of these monks, what were their names? Their traits? And their reason to tour?
Firstly, In Memoriam, great Brother John That lion which the black knight slew.
We know his words, his measure and actions, The courage of that soul which Heavenward flew.
Ambrose, as already stated, a pious man. Slow to anger and quick of mind
A monk with many years of study A monk par excellence – a dying kind.
Next, in his footsteps, Brother Frances That shewed compassion as his highest virtue
Trusting and caring of all God’s creatures A good and kindly man ‘tis true.
After he, Benedict and Gabriel Two more monks of tender age
That journeyed with them at Ambrose’s bidding Which we have not yet met at this story’s stage.
Now, one we know, that serpent Xavier That cunning coward, of bookish learning
Who counseled John ‘gainst the melee -
Which leaves only four left to tell. Michael, Stephen, Damien and Dominic.
The first we know as that doubting man The last we left lying sick.
Stephen and Damien, like John and Xavier, Dissimilar, yet the same, in service.
‘Tis true that opposites are attracted, By God, as one, in their worship.
Yet Stephen, a man humble and accepting Of God’s will and plan for the lowly meek,
Like those martyred Saints of long ago Who stood ‘gainst the mob to turn the cheek,
Balanced in heart by his brother Damien Who, no less devout, but full of fire,
A zealot preacher of strong conviction, Would, in different times, have lit the pyre.
To all these men, Ambrose was Master, He felt this charge and their questing as just,
To walk though Christendom to the Holy lands To praise their Lord, as His servants must.
And so he gathered up this cast of men, Each with their strengths to help the task
Yet each with their sins or follies about them, To visit the East, His forgiveness to ask.
But I think I should return to their ship Cast about ‘pon the stormy brine
Where the sickly Dominic lies abed, For there is still much to tell in this tale of mine.
But you may notice, to interrupt again, That the style of my telling and the form of the letters,
‘Cause this epic was penned over years, Changes as my skill with pen and writing gets better.
Dominic died at peace in his sleep -
His body was buried in to the sea And the Lord showed His sorrow by halting the rains
And winds. The seas became calmer, The clouds departed and the Sun’s rays
Shone through and melted the fog that so Blinded the sailors and barred the ship’s way.
So in short time, yet still heavy hearted, They arrived at harbour, their passage now over
And left their ship, moored and anchored For pastures now carpeted in flower and clover.
Through many days of ceaseless travel They arrived and stayed at a local inn
Where, ever the teachers, those holy men Spoke at length of the dangers of sin.
Those simple folk with whom they stayed, Workers of the soil and land,
Took Ambrose to heart, and followed his teaching But Xavier and Damien, on the other hand
Somehow offended these simple people so kind With their strict holy ways
That, no longer welcome nor wanted, They took their leave and left the next day.
Ambrose and his five pious brothers Left the town after a few days of talking
With the people, giving them guidance And traveled hard to catch up with those walking
Ahead, Damien and Xavier, Their outspoken brothers, yet only found
Those two monks waylaid On the road by robbers, gagged and bound,
Their throats had been cut Wounds to their hands, feet and side.
They buried the bodies of yet more of their brethren But they could not pray, for the tears they cried.
Intercanto I
Now rhyme and meter must retire and take second place to my story’s acts
For through lands strange and unknown must my actors pass, observing all.
Some might say that convention thus broke is an idle trick – yea, some may surmise true, but only partly so, for ‘tis only when unshackled and free that narrative prose can ascend and grow.
Thus, imagine – and in that thought’s breath, time doth pass permitting swift change of scene and, with it, the travel of many miles.
In few, the band is yet further broken – arguments, doubts and distrust arise, questioning the loss of their brothers fallen and Ambrose’s authority o’er them all.
Great God, why is’t so, that Men, howe’er so humble or noble, must challenge Your order?
Place the cart ‘fore the horse, ‘twould be wiser!
Does the lowly Brother now question his Master? The Prince or King succumb to his subject?
I say thee, No – else furious dissention wrought more furious destruction!
Entered they then the black German land –
Wherein, castle and keep and dungeon deep
Ring all the world and house powerful kings.
Into this realm entered our Holy band –
Where, ‘hind closéd door-
Sing praises to God ‘till morn-
[more to go here]
Jerusalem, city of David, that housed
The tabernacle of the Lord’s Covenant,
That withstood weather and war, the Roman Invasion
To stand forever in the Valley of Hebron,
The same old city that condemned Man’s Saviour,
And crucified the King on the first Easter -
To be reborn again after three days in darkness
And raised on high, Ad Dei Gloriam!
This self-
And through tears of joy they wept for their brethren
Who fell on the road, and they mourned their passing,
But prayed for their souls now dwelling in Heaven.
They approached the Temple named for Solomon
Yet builded by Hiram, the builder, of Tyre
Where nine Holy knights took up their Order
And searched for lost secrets, searched in the year
Anno Domini one thousand, ninety and nine.
Left ‘neath the alter of God, scrolls and treasure,
By men who followed a star that rose with the Sun
Foretelling Messiahs and Kings, their deeds and their measure.
[more to go here]
Final Verses:
Ten they were when first they left.
Not one returned, not one was missed, so
I offer this song in bitter prayer, in
Sotto voce, ‘Gloria In Excelsis Dio’
Now my story is over, their tale is told.
I am left with nothing, just years without hope
Of seeing their faces or laughing again,
So I lay down my quill and reach for this rope…
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?