Carry on Monking 2

The bell rang loudly in the dormitory.  "It's four o' clock in the morning," shouted the abbot.
"How do you know?" asked Alan.
"The candle says that.  Time to sing prayers before we milk the sheep."
"Milk the sheep?  I thought most farmers had cows nowadays."
"You don't think cows can live on grass this short, do you?  We also have a goat.  But first to
prayers."  Alan followed the abbot into a place that looked like a church hall with pews.
"We'll begin by singing Psalm 119," the abbot said.  The monks started singing.
"It's the longest psalm in the Bible," said Brother Bere.  "By the time we've finished singing it
it'll be light.  I'll have to give you some lessons in Latin psalming."
"Do you think I could sing like that?" asked Alan.
"You'll soon learn," said the abbot.  After prayers Alan and Brother Bere walked into a field
together.
"How do you milk a sheep?" asked Alan.
"I'll show you.  I put a bucket underneath it like this.  I squeeze it's little udder there.  And
here we are.  Stinking milk.  It'll take about an hour to fill the bucket.  After we've done this
we'll go foresting."
"Foresting?"
"Into the forest to pick our breakfast.  Herbs, berries, edible fungus and edible leaves."
"Aren't some of the plants in the forest poisonous?"
"What we know about herbs and fungus we know from bitter experience.  We're experts now.
We weren't fifty years ago.  But don't worry, the monastery has got a big cemetery in which
we buried our mistakes.  Monks die of all sorts of things.  Plague, war, crop failure and
famine, and, more often than that, the cold.  I'm not putting you off, am I?"
"Certainly not.  Now I know God I'm quite anxious to be with him in Heaven.  Pity anyone who
lives to a ripe old age like sixty."  Brother Bere finished milking the sheep.
"Let's go foresting.  I usually set a few traps for the animals in the forest.  Can't live on berries
and fungus all the time."
"Don't complain Brother," shouted the abbot.
"Father Bones, I was thanking God for the provision of the occasional rabbit or the occasional
squirrel in his beautiful forest.  I will show Brother Alan where the traps are."  Brother Bere and
Brother Alan found a squirrel caught in a trap and returned to prepare breakfast.  Breakfast
consisted of mushrooms, at least Alan hoped they were mushrooms, berries, leaves that
looked like something in between cabbage and lettuce, tree roots that monks had dug up
and boiled, slices of cheese and lumps of meat, all shared among twenty men in tiny
portions.
"Is this our main meal of the day?" asked Alan.
"It's your only meal of the day," said Brother Bere.
"Don't complain Brother," said the abbot.
"If you can stand another week of the abbot telling you not to complain you'll be fine."

The next morning Alan and Brother Bere met the abbot.
"How's your Latin?" he asked.
"It's going well Father," said Alan, "Brother Bere has been giving me lessons.  I can sing the
first few psalms now."
"Excellent.  Brother Bere, this afternoon can you teach Brother Alan how to draw a capital
letter A on a manuscript?  It'll probably take you the whole afternoon to do it."  That evening
Alan and Brother Bere sat under the stars.
"I'm going to teach you the 19th psalm," said Brother Bere.  "The heavens declare the glory
of God, the skies proclaim the work of his hands," he sang in his best Latin.  "Day after day
they proclaim speech, night after night they proclaim knowledge.  There is no language in
which their words are not heard."
"Wow!" said Alan.
"I used to be in a monastery at Monkwearmouth.  That's near where you come from, isn't it?
Only half a day's walk from Albany Village.  They had lovely food.  Boiled onions during lent. The rest of the year the onions were fried.  Egg fried."
"If you were happy at Monkwearmouth why did you leave?"
"A plague wiped out all the monks.  I went to visit my mother for a few weeks.  When I came
back there was a note nailed to the door.  'Keep Out.  A plague has visited this monastery
and killed all the monks.'  I've always wondered who nailed the note to the door."

"Are you looking forward to the sailing trip?" Alan asked Brother Bere.  "I know the sea can
be stormy sometimes, but it's good to get out, isn't it?"
"You won't exactly be sailing," said Brother Bere.  "The boat hasn't got any sails."
"Do you have to row it then?"
"It hasn't got any oars either.  It's the basic model.  The luxury model has oars and sails.  We
have taken a vow of poverty."
"Do you find that hard sometimes?"
"Yes.  We're supposed to live on herbs from the forest and goat's cheese, but I add the
occaisional fried onion, squirrel or visitor's present of a pie to the men's diet."
"If the boats got no oars and no sails how does it go anywhere?"
"It just drifts where God wants it to go."
"Really?  Wouldn't that take a long time?"
"I can swim faster."  The men helped the abbot carry the boat down to the sea.  They put it in
the water and climbed into it.
"How long does the voyage take?" Alan asked the Abbot.
"I can't say.  It depends where you end up.  Ireland takes a week.  Wales takes 2 weeks.
Cornwall takes 3 weeks.  They say that Brother Bernard sailed in this thing for a whole year
and ended up in a land called America, far across the sea."

Brother Bere began to shiver.
"Are you all right?" asked Alan.
"Not really.  I've been standing here for 2 days.  There's 2 inches of snow in the coracle so I
can't sit down.  I'm soaked to the skin."
"Don't complain Brother," said the Abbot.
"If there's 2 inches of snow in the coracle it won't sink, will it?" asked Alan.
"No," said the Abbot, laughing.  "A little bit of snow?  I've had 9 inches of snow in a coracle
before.  Snow's lighter than water.  It helps it float."  Brother Bere handed some salt biscuits
to the men from a tin container that had been obtained on a visit to Cornwall.
"Anyone want a biscuit?" he asked.  "I've had so many of these little salty biscuits that I'm
going crackers."
"The cook was trying to think of a name for those biscuits," said the Abbot.  "I think that would
be a good name.  Crackers, that's what we'll call them.  Thank you Brother Bere."  A small
island came into view amid the freezing snow and fog.  "Land ahoy!" shouted the abbot.  An
hour later the ship reached the shore.  They all got out of the boat on to the shore.  "There's a
monastery on this island," said the abbot.  They walked for several miles across the snow
covered sandy beach.  It was incredibly beautiful but incredibly cold.  They came to the
honeycombed caves where the monks lived.
"Ahoy there!" came a shout from one of the caves.  They climbed up the rocks to the monk
who had called them.
"What is it like to live here?" Alan asked.
"It's not so bad," said the monk.  "I get four ounces of bread a day.  Mind you, the wheat has
to be grown locally so it's all rye bread.  It's like eating a mouthful of sawdust."
"Don't complain Brother," said the abbot.
"Indeed not Father.  I was not complaining.  I am happy and content with my lot and spend
several hours every day grinding up the rye with a mill stone as there is no windmill here.
Thank the Lord that the rye grows so easily here and thank him for the fish.  The sea here is
so full of fish."
"Don't you ever get bored?" asked Alan.
"Not at all.  There's psalms to sing and the stars are so beautiful on a cold winter's night."
"Don't you get lonely?"
"No.  We have lots of people visit us.  The rich people come here because they feel
unfulfilled.  They have wages of 2 pounds a year and houses and lands but it doesn't satisfy.
They ask us for advice."
"What do you tell them?"
"I tell them to sell all they have and give the money to the poor."
"Do they do it?"
"No.  They never do it.  But it makes them feel good that I've told them that."  Alan turned to
speak to the Abbot.
"Father Bones, these people need a leader.  I would like to become their Priest."  The abbot
looked amazed.
"That's fantastic.  What courage you have.  What zeal.  Rarely seen in one so young."
"But Father Bones what about his Latin lessons?" asked Brother Bere.
"I'm sure the monks here can teach him Latin easily enough.  I'll ordain you."  The abbot
scooped some snow off the ground, melted it in his hand and dipped his finger in it.  He
made the sign of a cross on Alan's forehead and said a prayer in Latin.  "There you are,
you're a parish priest and this is your parish.  God bless you Alan."