Large-Hearted Boy. Part Nine.

Selden was surprised by his singing. What’s come over me?, he wondered. And why so morbid today?

And wasn’t that Geoffrey’s silhouette in the doorway? Has he heard me? Blast! The nerve of the boy to spy in on him, he thought. But his anger left as fast as it came. The boy’s thirsty. So am I. If he stands in the doorway, it’s only to suggest that a public house must be nearby.

Despite the master’s forgiveness, Geoffrey’s horse nudged the boy roughly, moved to the act at Selden’s suggestion. Selden smiled at his own joking and called to the boy. “Your horse is as impatient as you are.” The boy smiled, the master knew.

Selden stood, but before he left the choir, he lifted a number of the miserichords, to see the carvings that decorated the wood beneath the small perch. Whenever he traveled, he made a point of admiring the work of the anonymous craftsman who spent hours on these panels, panels that would rarely be seen. What delighted him most was that the scenes and figures portrayed under the seats were always profane. Never rude or unbecoming–well, sometimes the cravings were suggestive–the men and women depicted in the panels all went about their daily pursuits without knowing their God stared over their shoulders. They threshed, or ploughed, or even kissed under his mercy and, humorously, to Selden at least, under the hindquarters of a priest or brother. The miserichord where he had sat was his favorite. A cow turned her gaze toward the viewer. Behind her was a tumbled man and his milk pail. The cow looked almost as though she could smile.

“Pater,” Geoffrey called out loud. “You have a visitor.”

Selden looked toward the doorway and now saw two silhouettes. A short, squat figure struggled with her bonnet.

“Come in,” he bid her. “Blessings.”

“Blessings, Pater!” she shouted from the distance.

He saw her curtsy and felt her impatience and worry and watched as she came only a few feet closer, into the balanced light of the nave.

“Matron,” he said. The ample figure in his view heard it as a question.

“Aye, that I am. Though my espoused has been dead some ten years, Pater.” And she stated her business. Her alarm was growing. “Our priest, our village priest, he has a fever and I cannot keep it down, Pater. He sent me to you. He knew you were to come, so he told me, and sure enough, Pater, here you are and it’s a blessing, it is. Won’t you come to him?”

“Of course, Matron,” and he strode down the stone aisle. “Take me to him.”