16. Peeling the Veg.

THROUGH THE GATES OF TIME Part 16

By the time Roger had picked the television up from where it lay and set it back onto its stand, having checked that none of the plethora of wires that joined it to the rest of creation via small boxes with flickering LEDs confirming that they were alive had been disconnected, the little monk had stopped actually weeping and was sitting on the carpeted floor staring at him in wonderment.

Clearly, he was a magician. Clearly, and this was most obvious, he had a special eye, one that, using heavenly powers, could see into other worlds, and maybe even had a view of the pastures of Heaven itself.

Maybe this man was the Lord God himself, for all around was magic and he was in the middle of it, sitting on a carpet that was softer than the hard stone floor of his cell back in the monastery. Maybe even the two little people staring at him were angels in the service of the deity. It made more sense than anything else he could think of and he felt he ought to be prostrating himself before them. Maybe, and this was frightening, but maybe he himself was dead.

That must be it. He had passed beyond the realm of tears so beloved by the Abbott in his prayers (in Latin, which he was ill-educated in) and here he was, having bypassed purgatory, at the feet of the Almighty in his carpet slippers and wearing plastic-rimmed spectacles.

“He’s staring at you, dad,” said Frodo, “I think he wants to go to his home.”

“From the look on his face I’d say he wants to kiss you, dad,” confirmed Apple.

But Brother Bumptious wasn’t into kissing deities, not even mighty ones like this one in front of him. He was into prostrating himself in front of them and praying for forgiveness. And this deity was clearly the one his order spent their days and nights, fifty-two weeks of them in every year, praying to or talking about or illuminating brightly on parchment concerning his immortal doings.

He had to prostrate himself. He knew that. So he sprawled on the carpet, nose down, and started praying in the only language he knew properly, which was a medieval version of what was in the fullness of time, to become English, but as it wasn’t horribly long since William the B*****d had conquered the country, it had about it a sort of Frenchness. His fellow monks would have understood most of it, omitting the bits that were partly obliterated by the sound of weeping, which they would also have appreciated.

But the twenty-first century family of 10 Portland Crescent had no idea what was going on in the little monk’s head.

“What’s he doing, dad?” asked Frodo.

“I think the air has sent him mad,” decided Apple, “My teacher at school said that there are things in the air that can send a person mad if he’s not used to them and I think that there must be things in our air here that he’s not used to, nice clean things that smell good, and he’s gone mad.”

“I think he’s saying his prayers,” murmured Roger, “if you listen hard enough you might hear a few familiar words. He’s maybe a foreign monk doing a residence at wherever it was we found him.”

“And where you’ve got to send him back to,” said May from the door, holding a bowl of sprouts.

“I don’t fancy...” began Roger.

“And neither do I,” interrupted May, “there’s no saying where we might end up if we send him back through that closet of ours. But there’s an ancient monastery in Swanspottle and we could take him there. If nothing else comes to mind and if he can’t get back to the place we found him he’d be among fellow monks.”

“Good idea,” agreed Roger, who was all for delaying the inevitable for as long as possible on account of the fact that he was hungry and would appreciate May getting on with the dinner before he died of starvation.

May stomped tellingly back into the kitchen, and Roger read the signs.

“Go and help her, Apple,” he suggested mildly, “you know it isn’t fair for her to be doing everything on her own.”

“Because I’m a girl?” asked Apple with a huge amount of venom entering her voice, “that’s it, isn’t it, dad? Girls are less important but they have to do the important work, like feeding your tummy! My teacher says...”

“Heaven help me!” groaned Roger, “save me from mouthy teachers and insolent daughters! I tell you what, if Miss Whatever-your-teacher’s-name-is will let me, I’ll go and peel the sprouts for your mum myself!”

And he scowled at Brother Bumptious as if it was his fault that the females of the household had risen up against him, and went to join May in the kitchen.

“That was a good idea you had about Swanspottle Monastery,” he said to her, seeing the look in her eyes and knowing that a few words of praise might almost placate her.

“Well, he’s got to go somewhere and I don’t fancy going into that closet again,” said May, cutting some florets off a cauliflower.

“And he can’t stay here,” grunted Roger, holding a sharp knife and wondering what to do with it.

“Of course he can’t!” exclaimed May, handing him half a cabbage, “have you smelt his breath?”

“He’s probably never cleaned his teeth in his life,” agreed Roger, “and if he wears any underclothes I’d be prepared to bet they don’t get washed as often as they ought.”

“Don’t say that,” shuddered May, “so when are we going to take him to the monastery?”

“After dinner. We’ll treat him to a twenty-first century Christmas dinner and then pile him into the car and whisk him off to Swanspottle,” decided Roger.

“And leave him on the step as if he was a new born babe that nobody wanted?” murmured May.

“Of course not, silly: we’ll knock them up, get someone to pause in his praying long enough for us to explain that we found him, and then beetle back home, minus one little monk!”

“Makes sense,” agreed May, “after all, he is one of theirs.”

“He might actually have lived there when it was newer,” said Roger thoughtfully.

“It would make a sort of lovely story,” sighed May, “back home even though home might have changed a bit.”

“That monastery at Swanspottle is old as the hills,” nodded Roger, cutting his finger as he tried to slice cabbage, “Ouch! But he might feel properly at home there. He might even fit in.”

“He would if it’s a silent order,” suggested May, “and nobody gets that breath of his blown over them...”

And that was that. A decision had been made, but they all had to have Christmas dinner first.

© Peter Rogerson 06.12.20