Rod could see the anger rising in him again, and spoke quickly, calmly. “Easy, easy. It was a long time ago.”
“And the wrong’s been righted. Aye.” Simon managed to dredge up his smile again. “I did learn the error of my ways; I did repent, and did full penance. For when I fled my native village, I wandered, blind with rage, immersed in bitterness, neither knowing nor caring whither my steps progressed. Forty leagues, fifty leagues, an hundred—till at last, worn out with hatred, I sank down in a cave and slept. And in my slumber, a soothing balm did waft to me, to calm my troubled spirit. When I waked, I felt refreshed, made new again. Wondering, I quested with my mind, to seek out the agency that had wrought this miracle. I found a well of holy thought which, in my slumber, I had drawn upon, unwitting. ‘Twas a company of holy brothers and, by great good fortune, the cave I’d tumbled into was scarce an hundred yards from their community.” Simon gazed off into the distance. “My soul did seek their solace, and did lead my steps unto them.”
“Possible,” Rod agreed. “But I thought there was only one monastery in this land—the Abbey of St. Vidicon, down South.”
“Nay; there’s another, here in Romanov, though ‘tis not overlarge.”
Rod nodded, musing. He knew that the main monastery was a conclave of espers, who knew about the outside universe and modern technology, and who were continually experimenting with their psi powers, trying to find new ways to use them. Could this northern monastery be the same type of thing? Maybe not, if they hadn’t noticed Simon’s troubled spirit so close by.
On the other hand, maybe they had… “So just being near the monks, healed your soul.”
Simon nodded. “Indeed, their peace pervaded me. I made a broom, and swept the cave; I made a bed of branch and bracken. As the days passed, I made a cozy house there, and let the friars’ peace still my rage, and fill my soul.” He smiled, gazing off into the past. “Their serenity abides within me still, so deeply did it reach.” He turned to Rod. “After some weeks, I did begin to ponder at their peace and calmness. What was its source? How did they come by it? I hearkened more carefully to their thoughts. And of them all, I found most wondrous were those that dwelt on herbs and their effects. So I commenced to spend much time within the minds of the monks who labored in the stillroom, distilling liquors and elixirs. I drank up every fact, each notion.
As the leaves turned toward winter, I built a door to my cave; I tanned furs and made a coat, then sat down by my fire and hearkened all the more closely; for the monks were pent up for the winter. The snows lay deep; they could not venture forth. Then even friends could grate each upon the other’s nerves. The brotherhood was ripe for rifting. Quarrels did erupt, and I hung upon their every shout, eager to see if they might still be holy. Yet I was amazed; for, even when their tempers flared, the monks remembered their devotions. They forgave each other, turned away!“ Simon sighed, shaking his head. ”How wondrous did it seem!”
“Damn straight!” Rod croaked. “How’d they do it?”
“By their devotion to their God,” Simon said, with a beatific smile, “and by being ever mindful that He, and His Way, were more important than themselves, or their pride—or, aye, even their honor.”
“Their honor?” Rod stiffened, staring. “Hey, now! You can’t mean they thought that God wanted them to be humiliated!”
Simon shook his head. “Nay, quite the contrary! They trusted their God to prevent such!”
Rod felt a certain foreboding creeping over him. He turned his head to the side, watching Simon out of the corners of his eyes. “How was He supposed to do that?”
“By giving them to know, within themselves, which deeds were right to do, and which were wrong. Then, even though a man forebore to do some deed that other men did expect of him, he might yet know himself to be worthy, even though his fellows did jeer. Thus might he turn aside in pride, without a trace of shame—for look thou, when all’s said and done, humiliation is within thee, not something visited upon thee by thy fellows.”
Rod frowned. “Are you trying to tell me a man can save face, even though everybody else is pointing the finger of scorn at him?”
Simon shook his head. “There was never need to. For if any man stepped aside from a quarrel, and another ridiculed him for it, the first had but to say, ‘My God doth not wish it,’ and the other would comprehend, and only respect him for his forebearance. Indeed, ‘twas not even needful for the first man to say aught aloud; ‘twas only needful that he say unto himself, in his heart, ‘My God hath commanded me to love my neighbor,’ and he would not think less of himself for retreating.” He looked directly into Rod’s eyes. “For this ‘honor’ that thou dost hold dear, this ‘face’ thou speakest of, is most truly but thine own opinion of thyself. We commonly suppose that ‘tis what others think of us, but ‘tis not so. ‘Tis simply that most of us have so little regard for ourselves, that we believe others’ opinions of us to be more important than our own. Therefore have we the need to save our countenances—our ‘faces,’ which term means only what others see of us. Yet we know that only by what they say they think of us—so our ‘faces,’ when all is truly said, are others’ opinions of us. We feel we must demand others’ respect, or we cannot respect ourselves.“ He shook his head, smiling. ”But ‘tis false, dost thou see.”
“Surprisingly, I think I do.” Rod frowned. “If any man really has a high opinion of himself, he won’t care what others think of him—as long as he knows he’s good.”
In the cart, Flaran shifted impatiently. He had been following the conversation from a distance and seemed displeased by its direction.
Simon nodded, eyes glowing. “ ‘Tis true, ‘tis true! Yet few are capable of that. Few are so sure of themselves, that their own opinion can matter more to them than all the rest of their fellows’ regard—and those few who are, be also frequently insufferable in their arrogance.”
“Which means,” Rod pointed out, “that they really don’t have much faith in themselves—or they wouldn’t have to make such a show of their supposed superiority.”
“ ‘Tis true, by all accounts. Nay, most of us, to have any sure sense of worth, must needs rely on some authority that’s above us all, that doth assure us we are right. It will suffice, whether it be law, philosophy—or God. Then, should tempers flare, and thou dost draw back thine hand to smite me, and I, in wrath, set mine hand upon my dagger—one of us must needs retreat, or there will be mayhem sure.”
“Yes,” Rod agreed, “but what happens if neither of us is willing to? We’d lose face, we’d lose honor.”
Simon nodded. “But if I can say, ‘I will not strike, because my Lord hath commanded me to love mine enemy’—why, then can I sheathe my dagger, step back, withdraw, and think myself no less a man for the doing of it.” His smile gained warmth. “Thus may my God be ‘the salvation of my countenance.’ ”
Rod nodded slowly. “I can see how that would work—but you’d have to be a real believer.”
“Indeed.” Simon sighed, and shook his head. “Tis the work of a saint, friend Owen—and I am certainly none such.”
Well, Rod had his own opinion about that.
“Yet there was sufficient of the monks’ peace that did invest me so that, when the seasons turned to spring, and a villager came to beseech me for a cure for his cow, which was a-calving, but had taken ill—why, in my loneness, I delighted in his company, even for so short a while. I did distill the herbs that he did need, and sent him on his way. Some weeks later, another came—then another, and another. I welcomed their company, and strove to gain their liking—yet I minded me what I had learned of the good brothers—that the folk themselves were of greater import than their actions, or careless words. Thus did I learn to contain mine anger, and never reveal in wrath aught that I might have learned from their thoughts. Eh, but there were times it was not easy; for though their lips spoke courteously, their minds could hold insults grievous about the weird wood-hermit whose aid they sought.” He smiled, amused at the memory of himself, the staunch innkeeper, as a wild-eyed anchorite. “Yet I was mindful that they were my fellow men, and of infinite worth thereby. Sorely tried I was, from time to time, to utter words that would have blasted pride—the hidden truths about themselves that would have made them shrink within. Yet I forebore, and was ever mindful that they were for cherishing. I served them all, from the poor peasant to the village priest, who first felt me to be a challenge yet finally came to respect me.”