Tara S. McCaffrey
St. Francis de Sales Writing Group, St. Faustina Writing Group (co-leader)
Hubert surveyed the group gathered beneath the statue of King Alfred the Great. During the Middle Ages, Alfred promoted the city of Winchester as a center for learning. Hubert prided himself as a man of knowledge, and despite the king’s passionate religious leanings, Hubert was confident he and the king would have been good friends. He wondered if he would learn something new on this walking tour.
Perusing the group again, he speculated whether anyone knew that Winchester had once been the capital of England. He doubted it. He was disappointed in the caliber of those assembled. A group of women, British, he surmised from their accents, chirped amongst themselves. A few older couples, perhaps continentals, stood quietly with their tour books, like schoolchildren awaiting instruction. Hubert was confident enough in his knowledge of British history to travel sans aide. There appeared to be no other Americans. Slightly to his right, a tad too close he thought as he moved away to the left, was a slight man of perhaps Middle Eastern origin.
“Welcome to Winchester, the original capital of England,” announced the tour guide.
Hubert looked to see if anyone seemed surprised by this bit of information. There was no reaction. Hmm, well that’s encouraging, he decided.
The first stop on the tour was the City Mill, where wheat was still ground to flour as it had been for over a thousand years.
“Listen!” The Middle Eastern man spoke suddenly in a commanding voice with an accent born of that region of the world. “A sower went out to sow.” He was at Hubert’s side again.
Hubert glanced at him. What a strange little fellow. Once more, Hubert moved slightly to his left.
The guide continued. “The earliest document shows this to have been a working mill in the early to mid-900s. We know that Queen Aelfthryth gifted the mill to Benedictine nuns in 989.”
Nuns producing flour for bread. How quaint, thought Hubert.
“Over the centuries, the mill changed hands many times and eventually fell into disrepair before being rescued by the National Trust,” said the guide.
Hubert stood on the stone bridge in front of the mill. He looked at the turbulent water of the River Itchen below and imagined the nuns and their religion flowing with the ducks down the waterway, around the bend, and out of sight. If asked about religion, he liked to quip there was a trace of Catholicism in him. “I wasn’t so much raised Catholic as I was exposed to the faith. Nothing really stuck.”
The group moved to the next point of interest and, as Hubert turned, he again heard the Middle Eastern voice.
“And as he sowed, some seeds fell on the path, and the birds came and ate them up.”
Hubert was startled to see the strange man at his right side once more. He spoke as one with authority. Hubert found it amazing yet unsettling. He tried again to put distance between them as the group continued toward the cathedral.
“Winchester Cathedral, completed in 1093, was originally of the Catholic faith but is now under the auspices of the Church of England,” the tour guide continued as the group entered the massive edifice.
Much like myself, mused Hubert, considering his Catholicism. He once had allowed a small flame to grow within him. It had felt necessary, like food being necessary when hungry. He’d been surprised at the warmth of the flame and the sudden need to keep it alive. But it slowly died. He had thought perhaps he was in the “wrong pew,” so to speak, and he meandered into different faiths and practices, but never felt that initial fervency again.
Hubert’s musings ended as he was once more aware of the Middle Eastern man speaking at his side.
“Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where there was not much soil, and they sprang up quickly. But they had no root, and they withered away.”
Hubert, unnerved, turned to the man and asked, “What are you going on about?”
The man looked at Hubert and smiled.
The smile both comforted Hubert and frightened him. This man knew things that Hubert did not. Once more, Hubert moved away from him.
The group walked from the Cathedral to the Buttercross on the High Street.
The tour guide continued. “During Medieval times, a commerce town would erect a Buttercross. It was a marker for the center of commerce and also served as a reminder of a moral duty to conduct affairs in a Christian manner. As you may notice, the Cross bears an image of the Mother of God as well as twelve saints.”
Hubert watched as people walked past the Cross, absorbed in their daily cares.
I guess it has been allowed to stay in a public setting, thought Hubert, because no one even notices it anymore.
He knew immediately that the strange man was beside him again.
“Other seeds fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them with the cares of this world.”
“Now see here,” Hubert began as he turned towards the now-familiar voice. Hubert was interrupted as the tour guide commenced.
“This Buttercross took on new significance when in the twelfth century, King Henry II came to resent Thomas Becket for his strong stance on church rights. Knights, in support of their king, murdered the saint while he was at prayer inside Canterbury Cathedral. Shortly after, people began to meet at this Buttercross to walk ‘The Pilgrim’s Way’ to Canterbury to pray at Saint Thomas’s grave. Today, pilgrims still meet here to begin the long trek to Canterbury.”
Hubert, distracted by knowledge he did not previously possess, pondered. People still go on pilgrimage all that way? Why?
Once more, from his right, Hubert heard the voice.
“Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty.”
Hubert refused now to look at the strange man, though he felt his presence very close. It was as if the man were reading his thoughts. Hubert turned left and walked around the Buttercross until, safe at the other side, he hid amongst the others in the tour.
The walking portion of the tour ended at the Cross. The group entered a nearby restaurant to share a meal and a final lesson on local cuisine. Hubert stayed close to the left side as the group merged into the restaurant, but when they were all seated, he was startled to discover the strange man sitting, once again, to his right.
The man passed the bread basket to Hubert, and as Hubert tore a piece from the loaf, the man moved closer and whispered to him, “Let anyone with ears listen!”
Perplexed and frustrated, Hubert turned to ask the man what he was about, but the man was gone. He had simply disappeared.
Such a strange man, Hubert thought. Such a very strange man. And he began to eat the bread, marveling at his sudden hunger.