Temple of The Grail (15 page)

‘What must we look for, master?’ I
shivered.

‘Everything and nothing at
all!’

‘But how does one go about looking
for nothing?’

‘Christian, must I explain what
should be as apparent as the colour of my skin? Nothing is only anything devoid
of everything, or rather, a something lacking, which can be just as significant
as its opposite.’

‘Oh,’ I said, absolutely perplexed.

‘Sometimes we must look, as I have
told you, not only for things of substance that add weight to our hypothesis,
but also for things that, on the surface at least, may seem unimportant, so
prosaic that they incite suspicion. Only a good physician hunts down the less
evident symptom . . . that peculiar movement of the hand, that little tremble
of the lip. All such things also apply to our investigations, because it is
often the small, undetectable things, that point to deeper truths.

The sun seemed higher now, but one
could neither see it, nor feel it. We walked past the church, and in the
daylight I realised that it rose far higher than I had previously thought,
reaching dizzying heights, as though its architect had in his design attempted
to echo the awesome elevations that surrounded it.

All around us work carried on as
usual, for even on Sundays a monk’s duty had to be performed. The animals had
to be fed, there was bread to be cooked and ale to be brewed. Those whose tasks
lay in less manual work engaged in fruitful intercourse. Some read the
scriptures, while others prepared for mass. Still others sat in contemplation,
meditating on the lives of the saints.

We headed in the direction of the
stables where our animals resided. Here, where the garden separated it from the
kitchen, life was manifest in all its peculiar forms, in all its diverse
movements, sounds, and smells: A young monk brought sour-smelling scraps from
the cookhouse and threw them out to waiting chickens. Another set out from the
great gates to collect kindling. We could hear the brother blacksmith
straightening a horseshoe on the anvil. I rejoiced. There is nothing more
wonderful! Nothing holier than devotion to work that sustains a community.
Nothing more blessed than the study of the divine word through the daily ritual
of life. Even under such difficult circumstances men went about their business
as if it were any other day, and not the day in which the inquisitor had made
his intentions clear. As we reached the garden, I reflected on the idea of the
paradox, on inconsistencies and disparities, infinite universes of differences
and similarities, that were at once distinct and yet the same, and in a state
of confusion, I could not refrain from questioning my master further on the
subject of heresy.

‘Master, I am confounded.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ he said,
pausing to observe the sky above us. ‘Life is complex and confusing and yet if
it were a simple matter, we would all be gods, for our life must be a simple
matter to Him. What confuses you?’

‘Our enemies confuse me, master.’

‘Ah, I see. So, you are confused
because here in France our foe is not who he seems to be,’ he said winking. ‘But
our foe is seldom who we think he is.’

‘But an inquisitor, once a heretic,
now burns those who follow the doctrines that he himself once believed? It
sounds . . .’

‘Contradictory?’

‘Yes. Contradictory.’

‘And that is where one relies on
one’s powers of good judgement.’

‘If that is the case, then I must
surely have none,’ I said, ‘for I do not know whom I should fear!’

‘My good Christian,’ he said
patiently, ‘you should fear all those whom you cannot like. This is always a
good rule. Because it is likely that they do not like you.’

‘But what if you are faced with
having to fear even those whom you
should
like . . . Why must there be
so many contradictions?’

‘Contradictions are the way of the
world! Listen to me. In the course of your life you will hear many things and
occasions may arise when you will be tempted to allow your foolish heart to
hold sway over your head, as you are now doing, and I tell you that you must
never do it. Never decide even the most insignificant of things without first
undertaking a fully reasoned deliberation.’

‘Is that what you do, master? Do you never
feel a thing passionately?’ I asked.

‘It is better to say that I choose to
be dispassionate. Because a man who wants to live to a full age, to gain the
respect of his equals, and the envy of his enemies, must never allow sympathy
and antipathy to rule his reasoning. My advice to you is to remain unhampered
by the trifles and trivialities of an emotional disposition and you will be a
happy man. Rational thinking is the key.’

So says a man, I thought, whose
temper is often foul. ‘I’m sorry, master,’ I said aloud, ‘but heresy does not
afford occasion for rational thinking.’

‘Everything in life, my impertinent
young rogue, affords one with occasion for rational thinking. Life is not
simple, life is perplexing and convoluted, as is the question of heresy.’ He
paused in deep reflection and I knew he was thinking a great many things. ‘In
the East, you knew the enemy because the differences between you were more
obvious, am I right?’

‘Of course. That is it, exactly.’

‘The infidel denies Christ, he
believes in Mahomet. His skin is a different colour and his customs are
infinitely at variance from yours, and though as human beings you share a
common physical law – as do all living creatures – that is
all
you
share. Here in France, however, the enemy is far more deceitful, far more
cunning.’

‘Because the enemy here professes to
believe what I believe?’

‘Yes, his customs, too, are your own,
and he has your complexion, your colouring. He may be your neighbour your
friend, even . . . your priest. He is not who he pretends to be.’

‘Who are you speaking of, master? The
inquisitor or the church or the heretics?’ I asked.

‘All of them! Because even the
faithful shepherd, whose task it is to guard the sheep from the hungry wolves,
may be anticipating a good lamb stew! But we must begin at the beginning, if
there is such a thing, for God had six days in which to create the world and
how are we poor sinners to elucidate it in a few moments before mass?’

We entered the stables into the
wonderful world of smells that are earthy and good, but murderous on my nasal
passages. I sneezed twice in succession.

‘Now then, heresy,’ He sought
Gilgamesh and found him in the stall next to Brutus. From a little repository
in his habit he produced, as always, a morsel and fed it to him, patting the
animal affectionately. ‘You have heard no doubt of the dualists?’ he continued,
as though I should know what he was saying, ‘such as the Cathars, for they were
renowned in these parts (as you have found out of late) and are the very form
of heresy that we suspect here at this abbey in one form or another, but there
are many more . . . and we do not want to be here all day! You see, one must
also consider those who have diverged, even from the essence of heretical
doctrine, and call themselves by other names, or no names at all!’

‘But that would mean that there are
heretical heretics?’

‘Something like that.’

‘But how is one to tell one heretic
from another when they are so similar that even the heretics become confused?’

‘It is only from a distance that they
may seem that way because human nature is both complex in its distinctions and
similar in its simplicity. From a distance one plant looks very much like
another, and yet one may be poisonous, while another may be harmless. You see
Gilgamesh? Is he not in substance a similar creature to Brutus?’

‘No, master, Gilgamesh is fiery of
spirit, gallant, and speedy, while Brutus is slow, obstinate and exceedingly
loud,’ I answered.

‘Yes, but you are only describing
particulars, and not universals. If you were to see them from a great distance
you would be hard-pressed to say that they were different.’

‘It would have to be a great
distance,’ I retorted.

‘Let us look at it another way. They
each have four legs, a neck, a tail. They both eat oats and grass, they breathe
air and drink water?’

‘Yes, master, but Gilgamesh is a
beautiful beast, high and slender. Your sight must not be as good these days if
you can compare the two creatures.’

‘But, my boy!’ he cried, I believe
exasperated. ‘That is not the point! Both creatures are in substance similar
and yet different in temperament, and in particular qualities that distinguish
them even from other animals in their own breed.’

‘And so you say that some heresies
like Gilgamesh are better than others like Brutus?’

‘No, that is not what I meant!’ He
sighed deeply. ‘I mean that one heresy, from a distance, may be similar to
another by virtue of its body of dissent, but not, in proximity, by virtue of
its accident.’

‘But they are both heresies. They
are, like Gilgamesh and Brutus, of the same substance.’

‘Yes. All heretics have fallen from
the one true way, but some have fallen further than others. Finally you
understand!’

‘I think so, I see now that all
heresies are evil and detestable.’

‘Ahh, but if we believe Aristotle
when he says that the endeavour of a human being always aims at some good, then
we must surmise that there is an element of virtue in all human thought.’

‘But if there were any measure of
virtue in their heretical ideas, surely the church would not persecute them?’

He brought out one more morsel,
popping it into the horse’s mouth, and proceeded to a thoughtful pause. ‘What
is good and what is evil? Therein lies the key,’ he answered finally.

‘But that is plain and
unquestionable.’

‘Is that so?’ my master asked,
raising one eyebrow very high, and I knew that I had made a mistake. ‘Then perhaps
you would like to elucidate this age-old problem for me and all the great
philosophers who are now basking in heavenly glory and for whom this very
question was never answered? No, I think not! You have far too much confidence
in your own perspicacity, and this will, one day, lead to your undoing!’

I nodded my head demurely.

‘Now, if I may continue,’ he cleared
his throat. ‘Plato tells us that a man cannot
be
good, for that is a
privilege of the gods, and that he cannot
be
evil for those same reasons.
He can
become
evil or good, but he therefore cannot
be
evil or
good.’

‘Well, if man can be neither good nor
evil, what is left to him?’

‘The middle state which, Plato says,
is preferable to either. Perhaps it is the natural function of man to seek the
middle way and this is the cause of heresy.’

‘But tell me, master, for I become
more and more confused, what makes the Cathars different from the Waldensians,
and the Waldensians from the Spiritualists who seem to be so similar to the
Franciscans?’

‘It is all a matter of how far they
have wandered from the middle way. Cathars, my boy, believe in a Manichean
ideal of evil which rests on the belief that everything created in the material
world – including man himself – is the work of the evil God. They
deny the cross, for they do not believe Christ died upon it and they do not
believe in the sacrament as it is given in the Roman church. St Augustine
confesses to having been a Manichean before he was converted.’

‘And what of the others like the
Waldensians?’ I pressed.

‘The Waldensians do not seek doctrine
outside the church, but their downfall rests in that they abhor wealth,
believing it to be sinful, condemning rich bishops and priests of being corrupt
and so not worthy to give the sacrament. A pious ideal when applied with
temperance, but a terrible weapon in the hands of the poor and hungry, or those
of extreme propensity whose violence leads to murder and plunder. These sects
then become, after a time, like old encumbered trees whose branches are laden
with fruit, whose seeds cause new trees to grow . . . perhaps birds carry the
seeds a very long way from their place of origin . . . and thus, when they are
carried to many diverse places, the trees they generate are different, because
they are influenced by this or that; climate, soil, etc so that they become
almost unrecognisable. This makes it exceedingly difficult for the church, as
you can imagine, for her captains are constantly facing new strains of the old
heresies.’

‘So what can be done?’

‘Not too much. Here in Languedoc we
see that even when the rivers are awash with blood it is impossible to stem the
tide of dissent because it is characteristic of the human spirit that it is
infinitely resilient. You may quash a movement here and before too long new movements
linked with the old can be seen springing up there. Like those seeds we spoke
of earlier, having become estranged from the mother tree, they develop
independently, and often in confusion, for they consist of members that had
perhaps belonged to the Cathars or the Waldensians, or Bogomils from the
ordo
Bulgariae
elsewhere. Often these men bring with them no subtlety of
doctrine, only simple moralistic ideals. The accidents of one then are
attributed to the other, and they are seen as one and the same, though
initially in principle they were very different. It is a being that comes to
life through a mixture of elements.’