A Theft of a Pencil

Robert Klein Engler
© 1999

My desk is its own country. It does not change with the seasons, but remains as constants as our daily rituals.  From a brown prairie of wood I see that a white lake of paper stretches to the hills of tools and implements. Pens and rulers sprout up like trees there.  Beyond those hills and to the left are the mountains of boxes and baskets that hold the scraps of this and that project.  Here in my miniature land of letters all the tools my hand needs to copy and illuminate reside as law abiding citizens.

This is how we work at the McGill Monastery.  A Master Scribe draws the outlines of the letters on a fresh sheet of cotton paper. He is the only one who ever has the chance to erase.  When the rest of us make our mark it stays. We learn not to erase.  Erasing makes nothing but a mess, the page is smudged and looks awful. If I make a mistake, I just draw a line through it and go on.  After the outlines are made, a Junior Scribe draws the pencil marks over in black ink. This is a delicate and difficult task.  It is almost as hard as that of the Master Scribe, for if one make an error here it stands out like a star against the night sky.  After the ink is set down, color is then applied. This is the job of the many Apprentices we employ. Finally, the work passes to the Chief Scribe.  His job is to apply the gold leaf and paint.  He has the honor of seeing the work come to life. After weeks of effort by various hands, the gold touches the letters and they take on a life of their own.  It is not hard to understand, after seeing how a page is finished, that the Holy One, blessed be He, uses letters to make and sustain the world. 

I am a Junior Scribe.  I hope soon to be a Master Scribe. I have worked here for five years without ever ruining a document or wasting paper.  I have been told on numerous occasions how good my work is and that it is just a matter of time before I am promoted.  To tell the truth, I have to wait for one of the older brothers to become sick or to die before my elevation happens, but I am patient for I have no home outside of the monastery. One day my promotion will come.  The work does not lie.  When the hand shakes it is time to retire. 

Before the Catastrophe there were great printing presses, but now we do all our printing by hand.  Always we are looking to train new scribes.  Some boys have a talent for handwriting and we seek them out.  When I came here as a mature man, I was accepted because the Master recognized my talent and valued that over my past.  But when the young men come to us from the wilderness or the outlands, we test their talent. If they are accepted, they are given small assignments at first, especially in spring.   Long days of sunlight disturb young bodies.  They are deceived into thinking there will be no more good days but this day here and now.  In the time before the Catastrophe young men had more freedoms, but those days are gone.  If they come to the Scriptorium, they have to follow a strict code of behavior.  The new boy, Sedgwick, is just now getting used to our way of life. We all follow the same code. We agree to it because we want the peace and quiet that the work of letters demands.  We know, too, that when young bodies are agitated there is always the danger of upheavals.  We had enough of those demons, for they brought us the Catastrophe. Those who survived are grateful to bid the devil’s horned creatures goodbye.

I know more about the demons than some of my companions for I was not always a scribe working here.  I will not say what I did before I took my place at this desk, but I will say I had my bouts with beauty. From that wrestling in the darkness I learned that the world is either embraced, denied or transcended.  Once, I embraced the beauty of young men, but it did not bear fruit. Nevertheless, I do not believe that God’s creation should be denied, so, here at my desk I try to do the work of transcendence.

In spite of the dangers that come with our demons, the brotherhood has as one of its duties the preservation of all the writing we can find from before the Catastrophe.  Our job is to not only make and illuminate new texts, but to preserve the names of the past.  I have taken upon myself to do some of this work at night and in secret.  I am allowed to do this for those of us who do excellent work by day are rewarded with candles.  I use those candles in my room to copy into notebooks the stories I find about the affairs of men before the Catastrophe.  Recently, I had discovered a history that goes beyond even the weapons of horror used in the Catastrophe.  It is a history that tells of a time before the ancient time, a time when men knew not of machines but of horses and bronze and their own powers.  At night I copy into my notebooks “The Saga of Hamanuti’s Ghost.”  No one knows I discovered this text in a shipment of donations from a rich merchant living near the frontier. I will tell no one about it until my translation is finished.  In this saga the writer Hamanuti reports of his love and battles. Near the end of his manuscript he writes, “At the battle of Hadispar I slew the lover of Agadon.  The lad was not a good fighter. When the battle mixed us up I immediately spied his lack of swordsmanship and went strait towards him. I slew him in no time, and remember that the boy was at least brave enough not to whimper.  But then Agadon saw what had happened and attacked me.  He hit me over the head with his sword and I fell down.  I could not help but cry out with sorrow and pain, and to stop my whimpering he ran me through the side three times.  Thus, I expired on the battlefield, but my friend Mastori who was stronger than two men, straight away slew Agadon out of vengeance for me and his hatred for the Conderi tribe. I tell you all this with a cold voice from the shades where our courage and boldness no longer glitter like jewels in sunlight.”

I learned from this saga that the nature of men has not changed even up to our day. There have always been men who like war and those who like letters. It is best they stay apart. Even now at lunch there is talk about the rumors of more barbarian uprisings. We have not heard from one of our distant monasteries for a long time. It is a three month journey from here to the Bookman Monastery, and the winter snow was deep, but we should have heard by now from our messengers.  They say the hill tribes want to destroy all the books in the world because in their opinion it was the books and the lovers of books that brought on the Catastrophe in the first place.  One of our brotherhood was martyred by them five years ago, just before my coming here, and while being burnt at the stake he declared he saw the letters flying off his manuscript on their way back to heaven. Many heard this as proof that the World to Come is at hand.  Others declared that at the very least the letters we work with have a home in the other world.

From where I sit in the Scriptorium I can see all that happens in the great hall.  I was shocked to see that the new boy, Sedgwick, was assigned a desk right next to brother Archer. But then why not?  Brother Archer is the type of man who always makes a pass at the new ones, yet he always ends up being rejected by them as well.  He doesn’t understand that what he wants will only happen in the World to Come.  In the present world his desire must be transcended by letters.  Brother Archer is a constant cause of embarrassment to us with his forward ways, but we keep him around because no one can draw flowers the way he draws them. The rich buyers want flowers on their manuscripts, so Brother Archer is left to carry on and we follow after him sweeping up the mess. 

Knowing what I do about Brother Archer, I was not surprised to see him steal the new boy’s pencil.  It happened the other afternoon when the new boy had gone to help the older brothers unload a shipment of paper.  I just happen to look up from my work to let my eyes gaze across the room to the soft light that was broadcast from the windows. I was hoping to let my gaze rest on the distant hills when I saw Brother Archer excuse him self.  He rose from his desk and with the swiftest of motions brushed by the new boys desk and quickly grabbed the pencil from its cup and secreted it in the folds of his robe.  He left the room and did not realize what I had seen. I turned by eyes back down to my work and bowed my head as if nothing had happened.  It was then that I realized my heart was pounding and that I was as excited as the thief. Pencils are hard to come by these days.  We have a supply in the storeroom, but once these are gone we do not know where to find others. I knew what was going to happen next and I had to do something to prevent it.  The new boy was going to have to report to the Master Scribe that he had lost his pencil. There would be yelling and accusations.  The new boy would be threatened with punishment or expulsion.  What could he do?  He has no where else to go and is really not fit for anything else but a life of letters.  He is too beautiful to be left wandering the hills. Well, maybe he can turn to music for he still has a sweet voice, but that art has even more dangers and seductions open to him then the one he now has here.

In a few days, after the new boy had spent some sleepless nights, Brother Archer will approach him and make his offer.  If certain favors are granted, Brother Archer will solve the problem of the missing pencil because he knows the heart of the Master Scribe and this knowledge gives him the power to help the new boy out of his predicament, but only if those certain favors are granted, and soon. So, it will come to pass that the candlelight and the soft moans seeping from the crack beneath Brother Archer’s door are not the sound of a penitent in prayer.  Perhaps after that night the hand of the new boy will shake and in the morning the straight line he could draw with his eyes closed will waver.  I looked at my letters and realized I could not allow this to happen.  I must do something.  I had to confront Brother Archer and tell him I saw what he did.

I waited until our dinner was over. As we lingered about the Tables of Tandor, I walked up to Brother Archer and softly asked, “Dear brother, will you kindly give me the pencil you took from young Sedgwick’s desk?”

“What pencil are you referring to?” he asked deceptively. “I do not have his pencil.  That young man is rash and careless and he lost it. Didn’t you hear the master say so?”

“You forget, dear brother, where my desk is.  I can see all of the great hall from where I sit.  I saw you take the pencil this morning even as I worked.”

“You see much when you should see but letters,” dear brother.

“God has given me two eyes.”

“So, you admire the young man, too,” Brother Archer said, flashing a sly smile.

“He is handsome, but innocent.  I have sampled that banquet and had my fill.”

“Indeed, but others have not eaten so high as you, dear brother. Do they not hunger still?  Why must I do what you ask and fast when there is a feast next to me?”

“You forget dear brother that I was not always a man of letters. The rumors of my sins before I came to the monastery are perhaps true.” 

“Yes, I have heard those rumors, but what can they mean?  You are a man of 
the pen now.”
“That is true, and even though the pen is mightier than the sword, it is not difficult to fashion a sword from a pen.  Please give me the pencil you took so that I do not have to sin again.” 

At that moment Brother Archer reached into the folds of his robe with his right hand.  “Come closer,” he said, “so that the others may not see.”  I stepped to within a foot of his frame and could feel the hot air of his breath on my cheek.  Suddenly, his hand slid into mine and I held the cold wood of a new pencil.  “Take it,” he whispered, “and be off with you.  I want no more to do with it or your scribbling.”

That night, when the others were asleep, I returned to the Scriptorium.  I placed the pencil on Sedgwick’s desk.  He never knew what I had done, but the next morning I saw his face light up when he returned to work and was greeted on his desk by the bright pencil he thought lost.  A glow of confidence came forth from the boy’s face.  When the Master came by and saw him with the pencil, he nodded and grumbled, “I see the prodigal son has returned home.” 

When the master moved on, Sedgwick turned to follow him with his eyes, but instead, his eyes caught mine and we saw into one another’s souls.  I could not help myself.  I winked at him a sign of recognition.  Sedgwick was taken by surprise, but then a broad smile grew across his face.  It was hard to tell from where I sit, but I do believe he also blushed.  I knew then that we would talk later. 

The day ends with our hands stained by the color of our work. A boiled supper, a goblet of wine, and the conversation of brothers waits for us downstairs in Baskerville Hall. I will talk tonight to young brother Sedgwick and share with him something of what I know about letters.  Maybe we will continue to talk as the sweet days of spring skip into summer. I am satisfied now to work at my desk knowing his beauty is before me and that what I hold in my heart for him will show in the work of my hand as it makes the letters of our holy books. Listen, the bells announce our work is finished for today.  I set the pen down and let my eyes retreat from my desk to look beyond the windows towards a landscape of honey colored light.