St. Cuthbert Ministers to Plague Victims

I was hauling the last bucket from the river when the first coughs started inside the timber walls. Boisil had sent me out at dawn because the well tasted wrong, and by the time I climbed the bank the sun was already hot on the thatch. Inside, two brothers lay on their pallets with sweat darkening the wool around their necks. I set the bucket down and went for Eata, but he was already at the gate speaking with Cuthbert, who had come in from the hill villages the night before.

Cuthbert’s cloak was still damp from the mist. He listened to Eata, nodded once, and walked straight to the sick men without setting down his staff. He knelt between the pallets and laid a hand on each forehead. One of the men tried to speak and could only retch. Cuthbert stayed there until the retching stopped, then stood and asked who else felt the cold beginning behind their eyes. Three more hands went up.

By midday the yard was quiet except for the sound of water being poured into cups. Cuthbert moved from pallet to pallet with the same steady step he used on the mountain paths. He did not raise his voice. When a man shivered so hard the frame shook, Cuthbert would sit on the edge and hold the blanket flat with one hand while the other rested on the man’s shoulder. The shivering eased a little each time.

I kept the fire going and carried away the cloths. Toward evening the prior, Boisil, came out of the church and took Cuthbert aside. They spoke low. Boisil’s face was gray, but he still walked without help. He pointed to the river and to the hills beyond it, then turned back inside. Cuthbert watched him go, then came to me and said we would leave for the outlying farms at first light.

We walked two days. At the first farm the woman was already past speaking. Cuthbert stayed with her until the breath left. At the second farm the father and two sons were all down. He showed the wife how to keep their heads raised and how much water to give between the sweats. On the third morning we turned back because word had reached us that the sickness had reached the monastery itself.

When we crossed the yard again the pallets had doubled. Boisil was not among the sick yet. He met us at the door of the church and told Cuthbert the prior had died that morning. Cuthbert looked at the ground for a long moment, then asked where the body lay. They showed him. He prayed there without sitting, then went to the newest pallets.

That night the cold came into him. He tried to hide the shaking by staying on his feet, but by compline his teeth were clicking so loud the brothers near him stopped their own prayers. They helped him to a pallet near the wall. He asked for his stick and said he would be needed again at dawn. No one answered.

The brothers kept vigil in shifts. I took the hour after midnight. Cuthbert lay still except for the tremors that ran through his legs. Once he opened his eyes and looked at the roof beams as if counting them. He did not ask for anything. Near the end of my watch Boisil came and sat on the floor beside the pallet. He did not speak to Cuthbert, only watched the rise and fall of the blanket.

At first light the tremors stopped. Cuthbert’s eyes opened and stayed open. He asked again for the stick. When someone brought it he pushed himself upright, swung his legs over the edge, and waited until the dizziness passed. Then he stood. The brothers who had prayed all night watched without moving. He took one step, then another, leaning on the stick. Color came back into his face while he walked the length of the room and back.