On the Fifth Day of Christmas: Chapter Nine

THE KING, THE PAGE, AND THE HERMIT:

A CHRISTMAS STORY

Read Chapters 1 & 2 HERE; Chapters 3 & 4 HERE; Chapters 5 & 6 Here; Chapters 7 & 8 HERE.

CHAPTER NINE

“I have had a dream, and my spirit is anxious to know the dream.” (Daniel 2:3)

“Arise my faithful page. You have slept well it seems,” the Duke said, gentling stirring Podevin from his rest.

“Sire!”Podevin said, jumping to his feet.

“The dream I had was incredible! The wonders we beheld! The angels, the saints, the Virgin, the Christ Child! It was overwhelming,” the page said excitedly, straightening out his tunic. “How was it that I felt like we were transported to the cave?” he asked, looking wide-eyed from Vácslav to the hermit.

“So many generations and lands between us, and yet we were there, worshipping with whole nations,” the page exclaimed. His bright eyes, wide with enthusiasm, filled with tears.

“Peace be with you, my child,” the old hermit said, placing his hand on the young page’s disheveled hair.

“It was for our benefit, Podevin. As unworthy as we may be, the multitude of the Lord’s love and mercy is always present, guiding us to worship him more perfectly, more purely, more truly,” the hermit explained.

“So I wasn’t dreaming? It was real?!” Podvein exclaimed.

“Sometimes,” the hermit continued as if uninterrupted, “this requires special gifts of grace, to encourage us on the way to our own personal Golgotha. Can you understand that, my boy?” he asked, gently titling his head to one side.

“Yes Father, I think so,” Podevin answered, feeling a mixture of serenity and excitement. 

“Then that is all that needs to be said of that,” the hermit nodded.

So, the hermit experienced that too, Vácslav silently reflected. Who is this man, a prophet? Is it on account of him that we beheld such mysteries?

***

“Here, have a little breakfast, my dear guests,” the hermit said, laying down a wooden board on the table and placing a chunk of brown bread on it next to a piece of oily yellow cheese.

“May it be blessed,” the Duke said, breaking off a piece of the stale bread.

“You chant very well,” the hermit said, addressing the Duke with inquisitive eyes.

“Yes, my grandmother – may her memory be eternal – made sure I was well versed in the Scriptures and the hymnology of our Faith from the time I was a boy,” Vácslav affirmed. Slowly nodding his head he cast his pensive eyes down. He allowed himself a moment to hold the memory of his holy grandmother– whom he loved more than his own mother– in his heart and mind. 

“And you, my dear old man, also know how to chant well…” the Duke said, looking up and engaging the hermit once more. He wanted to ask the hermit about the presence of a fully-adorned chapel in his hut, about his identity, how he knew what he did, and why–with his clear gifts of prophecy and prayer–had his reputation not reached him in the Castle.

“And what a great thing it is, to know how to read the Holy Scriptures well!” the hermit interjected before he could pose even one of his many questions.

“When we have the words of the Holy Scriptures on our lips, temptations flee. For the little devils who torment us are unable to bear the words of the Holy Spirit Who speaks through His prophets and apostles.” The hermit’s eyes shone in the light of the fading fire with what the Duke almost thought looked like playful joy.

“My grandmother was wont to say that very same thing regarding the Holy Scriptures,” the Duke said with some surprise.

“She was a righteous woman, full of good deeds; with prayer ever on her lips and humility marking her every stride,” the hermit responded with a confident voice.

“She was indeed,” Vácslav said, narrowing his eyes he studied the hermit’s face with concentration and maybe with a little hope.

“Her reputation has spread far and wide and she, to this day, is revered by all Bohemians. But knowledge of her intimate works and virtue is held by few. Tell me, my dear father, how is it that you speak of her as if you knew her? Has God revealed these things to you?” Vácslav asked. Knitting his brow he twisted the ends of his reddish-brown beard with expectation.

“Has it been so long that you no longer remember? Is it on account of my unkempt hair and beard? Have too many years of hardship and toil disfigured me so that I am no longer recognizable?” the old hermit said gesturing toward his simple clothing, his somewhat gaunt face and dishevelled, long grey hair.

Hearing this, Vácslav’s heart started to beat faster; he searched the hermit’s face for a clue.

“Oh, my boy, and what good would it have done for you to remember me, a sinful old man?” he sighed with downcast eyes. “No, no, better to forget,” he said, shaking his head, “Better to be forgotten… forgotten by the world in order to be remembered by God!”

“Forgive me, dear friend, I am unaware that we have previously met,” the Duke said, though deep within he knew there was something mysterious about this hermit whom he was attracted to from the moment he saw him outside his window.

“Ecce homo,” the old hermit said, locking eyes with the Duke. Laying his hand across his chest he bowed ever so slightly.