Well Dead

II. Duties of a Christian

That is, he thought no more until exactly five am the next morning. That was the time when the cock from the village proudly proclaimed the beginning of the day, and Harun thought how wonderful it would be if the castle stood alone on a solitary cliff on the shores of Thule, with no village and no roosters around. Or why couldn't cocks in real life be like the one in the dialogue of the Roman comedian Lucian? That animal contented itself with giving philosophical advice to people, and didn't try to disturb their sleep at this unearthly hour! But then, Lucian's cock had been a reincarnation of Pythagoras in animal form. Harun very much doubted that this could be said of the village rooster here in Sevenport.

The Scribe pushed himself to his feet, eyes still closed. He did not bother putting on his clothes because he had not bothered to remove them the night before. The cold autumn air was just bearable beneath three layers of wool.

He forced his eyes open. He was always like this in the mornings, but this time it was especially bad, because of the tiring journey and because he had worked so long after that. Thinking of the stack of parchments which still waited on his desk, he wondered what state he would be in tomorrow. Then he stopped wondering. Any conclusion he came to probably wouldn't be to his liking.

Yawning, he stumbled towards the door and down the long stairs. Luckily not all the way down, but only to the main hall on the second floor, where the smell of breakfast welcomed him. Harun entered and glanced at the bowls on the tables. It might have been a warm breakfast, but not a very warm welcome, at least not on his part. Sir Christian of Sevenport, as mentioned before, was a devout Christian and did not hold with worldly matters. For some reason he considered tasteless, gray-brown gruel to be less worldly than fried, spicy meats and sweet fruit. When Harun had asked him one day in what way oats were more ethereal than meats, the Lord had stared at him with a puzzled look on his handsome face and said nothing.

Harun slowly crossed the hall, a long room with a low ceiling supported by dark wooden beams, which looked just as ancient as the rest of the castle. He sat down at Sir Christian’s table. This might have been considered a special privilege by some people: the tables, all on different heights, were arranged in order of status, with the servants at one table, the steward and the castle priest and similarly more important persons at another, and finally the Lord of the castle at his own table that stood on a raised platform – with Harun as his table neighbor. Though in fact this arrangement stemmed from the fact that the servants were afraid of the heathen scribe (who knows, he might be planning to cook and eat their children!!) and the castle priest would not let him come closer to him than about fourteen feet, which he probably considered to be the contamination radius of heatheness. Sir Christian was the only one who did not object to Harun’s company. And as for how it was the other way round, Harun was not asked for his opinions anyhow.

Gradually, the others filed in. Sir Christian’s steward Radulf was one of the first. Sir Christian’s estate was not really such a large one that it would have needed a steward if it had had a Lord interested in farming, but Sir Christian was no such Lord. Worldly matters, again. Radulf was an unobtrusive fellow, of average height, with a neatly trimmed black beard and short hair of the same color. The only lavish thing about him was his fine clothing, that suggested he did quite well out of estate-managing. Then the castle priest, Father Ignatius entered, and threw Harun a dirty look. The scribe nodded back at him politely. The Father was a narrow figure with a pale face, and in Harun's opinion, looked very much like a famished carrion crow. The priest had not held a great love for Saracens from the start, and Harun suspected that he had somewhat offended him when one day, showing interest in the origin of the holy man’s title, he had asked him of which of the young people of the village he was the father, exactly. Harun shook his head. Country priests... they simply had no sense of humor.