Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [17]
The canon shifted in his seat. Joan had never seen him look so uncomfortable. He was a missionary, trained to lecture and to preach, unaccustomed to the give-and-take of logical debate. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.
“Indeed,” Aesculapius went on, “is it not lack of faith that leads men to fear the scrutiny of reason? If the destination is doubtful, then the path must be fraught with fear. A robust faith need not fear, for if God exists, then reason cannot help but lead us to Him. ‘Cogito, ergo Deus est,’ argues St. Augustine, ‘I think, therefore God is.’”
Joan was following the argument so intently that she forgot herself and exclaimed aloud in appreciative understanding. Her father looked sharply toward the partition. She darted back into the shadows and waited, scarcely breathing. Then she heard the hum of voices again. Benedicite, she thought, they did not see me. She crept softly back to the pallet, where John lay snoring.
Long after the voices ceased, Joan lay awake in the dark. She felt incredibly lighthearted and free, as if an oppressive weight had been lifted from her. It was not her fault that Matthew had died. Her desire to learn had not killed him, despite what her father said. Tonight, listening to Aesculapius, she had discovered that her love of knowing was not unnatural or sinful but the direct consequence of a God-given ability to reason. I think, therefore God is. In her heart, she felt the truth of it.
Aesculapius’s words had turned a light on in her soul. Perhaps tomorrow I can speak to him, she thought. Perhaps I will have a chance to show him I can read.
The prospect was so pleasing that she could not let go of it. She did not fall asleep until dawn.
EARLY the next morning, her mother sent Joan into the woods to gather beechnuts and acorns as fodder for the pigs. Anxious to return to the house and Aesculapius, Joan hurried to complete the chore. But the ground of the autumn forest was thick with fallen leaves, and the nuts were hard to find; she could not go back until the wicker basket was full.
By the time she returned, Aesculapius was readying to leave.
“Ah, but I had hoped you would do us the honor of dining with us again,” said the canon. “I was interested in your ideas on the mystery of the Triune Oneness and would like to discuss the subject further.”
“You are kind, but I must be in Mainz this evening. The bishop expects me, and I am eager to take up my new duties.”
“Of course, of course.” After a pause the canon added, “But you do remember our conversation about the boy. Will you stay to observe his lesson?”
“It is the least I can do for so generous a host,” Aesculapius said with studied politeness.
Joan took up her sewing and stationed herself in a chair a short distance apart, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, so her father would not send her away.
She need not have worried. The canon’s attention was focused entirely on John. Hoping to impress Aesculapius with the extent of his son’s learning, he began the lesson by questioning John on the rules of grammar following Donatus. This was a mistake, for grammar was John’s weakest subject. Predictably, he performed dismally, confusing the ablative with the dative case, botching his verbs, and in the end showing himself utterly unable to parse a sentence correctly. Aesculapius listened solemnly, the line of a frown creasing his forehead.
Red-faced with embarrassment, the canon retreated to safer ground. He began with the great Alcuin’s catechism of riddles, in which John had been thoroughly drilled. John made it through the first part of the catechism well enough:
“What is a year?”
“A cart with four wheels.”
“What horses pull it?”
“The sun and the moon.”
“How many palaces has it?”
“Twelve.”
Pleased with this small success, the canon moved on to more difficult parts of the catechism. Joan feared what was coming, for she saw that John was now in a state of near panic.
“What is life?”
“The joy of the blessed, the sorrow of the sad, and … and …” John broke off.
Aesculapius