Words of The Lamb magazine

           Brother Grimoald shuffled into the sanctuary from the scriptorium corridor, several vellum scrolls clutched in his numb fingers. He approached the altar, genuflected, crossed himself, and, reaching into his habit pocket, produced the last of yesterday’s crusts. Setting the vellum on the floor, he broke the crusts into crumbs and sprinkled them along the altar step.
            A scraping echoed in the stillness. Grimoald straightened. Dust danced in the painted light. He shuffled to the lectern and craned around it. Two muddy feet protruded.

            “Hello, hello,” he rasped. “What’s this? Rattus ecclesiae? Is a church mouse scuttering about?”

There was no answer. Grimoald could now see a pair of quivering knees.

            “Well, I’m no cat, so you’d best come out.”

            A boy, perhaps seven or eight winters old, peeked out. Grimoald smiled.

            “Hello there, what brings you to St. Michael’s? There’s no mass to be sung until vespers, and it’s not a feast day.”

            The boy gazed out from under a thatch of dirty hair. He was shivering.

            “Come.”

            Grimoald sat down on the altar step. The boy hesitated, glanced back at his hiding spot, then hunkered down a few paces away.

            “You’ll catch your death of cold,” said the old monk. “Come here,” he extended an arm. The boy slid under the folds of the habit. After a time, the shivering ceased.

            “Now, what brings you to us?”

            There was no answer.

            “Laddy, I should like to help, but if you won’t speak up, I may have to refer the matter to my lord abbot.”

            “I… I wanted to see the Book,” breathed the boy.

            “The book?”

            The boy nodded toward the lectern.

            “Can you read?”

            The boy shook his head.

“Then whatever for?”

            The boy stared at his feet. “For the words with the unchanging magic.”

            “Unchanging magic?”

            “The words that make a story the same every time. I want to see how they stay the same.”

            “Ahhh. Our church mouse is curious about writing.”

            The boy nodded.

            “Well, we make lines on vellum,” Grimoald waved at the scrolls by their feet, “and those lines keep the sounds that make words.”

            The boy frowned.

            “Here, I’ll show you.”

            Grimoald picked up a scroll and spread it on the flagstones. Following along with a gnarled finger, he read:

            Sinite parvulos et nolite eos prohibere ad me venire.

            The boy stared, mesmerized. Leaving the scroll where it was, Grimoald took his quill and inkwell from his habit pocket.

            “This is how we put the words down. What is our church mouse’ name?”

            The boy was too busy processing these new and wonderful concepts to answer. Grimoald scratched the quill across an unused corner of vellum. Carefully, he tore it off and handed it to the boy.

            The boy stared, more wide-eyed than ever.

            The old monk rose with a sigh. “Now, I’d best be back to my labors, and you’d best be getting along. The sanctuary’s too cold a place this time of year.”

            The boy gazed at the vellum shred, pressed it to his chest, and hurried out the door. As Grimoald reached the corridor, he heard the soft grinding of tiny teeth on stale crumbs.

            “Rattus ecclesiae,” smiled Brother Grimoald.

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            It was a cold autumn evening when a Saxon peasant came to St. Michael’s asking to see Abbot Aistulf.

            “How can I help you, my child?” asked the abbot with a politeness borne of habit more than intent.

            “It’s my father. He’s died and—”

            “You seek burial?”

            “No.”

            The abbot’s eyebrows rose.

            “I mean, we have a spot. No, I wanted to know what this means,” the peasant extended a tattered shred of vellum. “Da always claimed it was his name, but…”

            Aistulf took the shred, squinted, and sat down heavily. He had not seen that printing in years but knew what it said without reading.

            “Rattus Ecclesiae.”