The Scribe(74)

Theresa didn’t like his comment. She wondered if this was the friar who had stolen Hoos’s dagger while he lay in bed. The infirmarian noticed the young woman’s look of mistrust, but he was unmoved.

“If you do not like what you hear, take it up with Alcuin,” he said, pointing toward the scriptorium, and deciding that he would not give her another moment of his time, he turned away to mix a poultice.

Theresa wasn’t sure whether to visit the monk. Although Hoos had warned her against him, the truth was that so far Alcuin had kept all of his promises. She also needed to pay Helga back the money she had borrowed to buy the horse. Suddenly she remembered the sample of grain she had taken during her clandestine visit to the mill. It was still in her pocket, so she decided to show it to him and use it as an excuse to discuss her wages.

She found him at the door of the scriptorium, just as he was leaving. He was not expecting to see her, but greeted her with a friendly manner nonetheless.

“I’m sorry to say that your friend—”

“I know, I’ve just come from the infirmary.”

“I don’t understand what might have happened to him. If I had more time… but I have several matters of the utmost importance to take care of.”

“And Hoos is not important?” she asked insincerely.

“Of course he is. I promise I will examine the case for a while this evening.”

Theresa nodded, pretending she was satisfied, then she rummaged in her pockets and brought out a handful of the grain she had purloined from the mill. When Alcuin saw it, his eyes grew almost as wide as his mouth. “Where did you get that?” he said, looking closer at the cereal.

She told him the story, explaining she went back for the grain and leaving out the part about the horse. The friar examined the grain for a moment before picking up a twig from the ground, which he used to sift through the cereal. He told her to put it back in her pocket and thoroughly wash her hands. Then they set off for the apothecary.

After checking that nobody was there, Alcuin lit several candles and closed the doors and windows so that no one could see them. He then asked Theresa to place every last grain into a metal dish. When she had finished, he made her shake the inside of her pocket onto the same dish and instructed her to wash her hands again.

“Have you felt any discomfort in your stomach?” he asked.

She shook her head. She had some discomfort, but it was from spending the night with Hoos.

The monk arranged all the candles so they were positioned near the dish. The golden grains of wheat glowed like the sun in the light of the flames, as did Alcuin’s face, which was so close to the receptacle that it reminded Theresa of an animal sniffing its fodder. He asked Theresa to bring him two white ceramic bowls and some tongs from a nearby shelf. Then he began transferring the cereal, grain by grain, from the metal dish to one of the bowls.

He continued the task at a steady but slow pace, taking time to examine each grain, smelling and touching each one in a strange ritual. With three quarters of the cereal now in one of the bowls, Alcuin suddenly jumped up, brandishing the tongs that gripped a single black grain. He proudly showed it to her and let out a laugh. But he sat down again upon seeing the blank look on the young woman’s face.

Then he placed the black grain in the other empty bowl. “Come here,” he said, “and observe the shape and color.”

She looked closely at the grain that resembled some sort of tiny horn. It was a blackish, twisted thing, and roughly the same size as a fingernail cutting.

“What is it?” She thought it looked like any old seed.

“When the cereal blows in the wind, K?rnmutter roams the fields scattering her children, the wolves of the rye.”

Theresa looked at him, uncomprehending.

“K?rnmutter: the Mother Goddess of Grain,” he explained. “Or, at least, that’s what the pagans in the north believe. I suspected it from the outset, but the strangest thing is its presence in the wheat.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look closely,” he said, picking the object up with the tongs again. “This is no grain of wheat. It is ergot, a hallucinogenic fungus. What you see here is the sclerotium, the structure in which it survives after releasing its prey.” He took a knife from his belt and cut open the capsule, revealing a whitish interior. “The fungus nests in damp ears, which it consumes like a parasite, and it does the same thing to anyone unfortunate enough to eat it. The symptoms are always identical: nausea, infernal visions, gangrenous limbs, and finally a terrible death. I examined the rye a thousand times without finding a single trace of ergot, but it didn’t occur to me to look in the wheat. Not until after the death of Romuald, my poor acolyte.”

“Why didn’t it occur to you?”

“Maybe because I am not God, or perhaps because ergot does not grow in wheat,” he responded in an annoyed tone. “Observe its size. It is much smaller than rye. It was not until recently, when I recalled that the illness was only affecting the wealthier folks, that I decided I must examine the wheat.”

Theresa took the knife and examined the remains of the capsule with the point, as if it were a dead insect.

“So, if this is what’s causing the deaths…” she ventured.

“Which it undoubtedly is.”

“Then these deaths can be avoided by alerting the millers.”