Each step echoed through the corridor, chorusing his glee. Mathieu's rough robes scratched and itched as they grazed his legs. Surges from the morning's service still rattled within his core, and he smiled as he followed.
The first night in the monastery had been cold, damp, and foreboding. He hadn't slept. The weight of the vows, and doubt in his decision suffocated. The belfry's bells shattered any lingering doubt, he'd scurried to his place in the pews, knelt, and greeted the day without rest. Within fogging frankincense, the rhythm of the Abbot's words. Mathieu found peace.
The brother ahead shouldered a heavy timber door and led the young monk to a cluttered room. A modest chair, and mountain of ill figured wax welcomed him. Sitting on the small windowsill was a steel stamp in the shape of a cross, and a worn curved knife with an ill stained handle. Without hesitating the older monk sat upon the singular chair, reached for a disfigured candle, the blade, and held them to the daylight for Mathieu to see. He didn't speak as he moved. Holding the candle to the wall he measured against notched scores denoting sizes, and carved. The discarded wax thudded against the floor and without looking the monk kicked the waste to a small bucket in the corner. He then peeled the sides, shaping the deformities away, the excesses falling like confetti, raised the wick, stamped the side, and set the finished candle on the floor.
Like a machine he reached for the next, this piece larger, matching a closer bigger measurement, and began again. Wordless the monk repeated the process without pause four more times. He then looked to Mathieu, passed him the stamp and knife, stood, and left the seat.
The young man was at a loss. He sat, rolled up his sleeves, reached for a smooth cylinder and got to work. The wax was cold, and hard. The knife sputtered and skipped across the surface. A far cry from the graceful strikes of the older man. Remembering himself, Mathieu stood, placed the piece to the wall and struck the end off. He'd cut higher than he intended. His face flushed with embarrassment for none to see, save God herself.
With a sigh he moved to the next marker, and removed a larger husk of wax. To the floor fell what would have made a reasonable piece, though too small for the monastery's standards. Had his robes had pockets Mathieu would have stolen the shame away to his quarters, and hid his mistake. There was no choice but to accept, stamp it, shape it, place the error to the bucket, and move on.
Four completed candles took the boy ages longer than his teacher. Dried wax wedged between his fingernails, coating his tips. By the sixteenth, and untold hours between, his hands ached, and mind furied. A sounding knock and weighted push upon the door interrupted.
Another older monk stepped in, looked at the progress without emotion, and beckoned the boy to follow. Mathieu was led to a cold dining hall, handed a plate with two slabs of unbuttered bread and a pitcher of water. Unspoken words were answered by Mathieu's stomach growls. A prayer whispered and the boy supped. When his crumbs were cleared his eyes darted for direction. Noticed by another elder they gave a simple gesture from their hand back towards the cold waxy room.
He worked until the light failed. In a room full of candles there was not a single match. The church bells rang, and Mathieu brushed speckles of lost candles to the floor from his robes. He poked his head from the room and watched the other monks wandering towards their pews and altar. Together they prayed in the darkness, ate in silence, and retired to their rooms. Against the rough straw Mathieu flexed his fingers, stretching away their aches.
The day hadn't been how he'd expected. Though exactly what Mathieu had imagined he couldn't say. A path in service chosen from a future without promise. No skills to speak of, no favour from the women in the isolated farming village he'd grown in. Tomorrows looked bleak. Piety, and modesty promised salvation and purpose to the aimless young man. Chill seeped through the stone walls and Mathieu sang a quiet prayer for himself. Over his thin blanket he lay his robe for added weight and warmth.
Before his dreams could wink the bell sang again, and the day repeated. No one ushered him back to the room, he was sent with but a look. Curiosity halted his questions, and he rose to work. The day dragged and the next followed in suit. Mathieu marked his progress and time passed by the growing litter of shavings carpeting the floor. Halfway through the morning his task was broken by another monk who fetched the bucket of scrapes, and replaced it with an empty one. He looked about the room, Mathieu and the chaos on the floor, and returned with a coarse broom. One sweep, and lift of the shavings went to the bucket, then the handle passed to Mathieu and the silent command was received.
Rain and fog announced the fall. Buckets came and went, and the mountain of the candles stood formidably against Mathieu's stride. Each day's dent amounted to nothing. The peak's recessions and wanes pure perception. It shapeshifted like the tide. While his technique improved, his pains never eased. From time to time monks would interrupt, remove the finished candles, and teeming bucket of scrapes. After months Mathieu dared to ask,"for how long shall i craft these candles?"
A touch on his shoulder, a knowing nod, answered. "Until the wax is finished,"
Disheartened, his movements became lethargic and despondent. The quiet, and the smooth slivers began to suffocate. The boy stared from the window to the heavens in a quiet desperate prayer for strength, for aid. Not another candle was finished in the remaining hours that day. Following the call of the bells Mathieu moved from his sore seat to his rough spot on the pews. When he began to lose his hope his eyes found the pierced hands above the alter. He looked at his own his nails coated like the blood of his lord, and he shook off his trivial woes. He returned to the cold waxy room before the palest of light arrived the following morning. If the mountain need climbing, the lad would reach.
His strikes found grace, his movements rhythm. Despite arriving an hour earlier, the day moved faster than any other. The light extinguished almost as fast as it had risen. The bell rang and his gut echoed. Mathieu had missed lunch. The room was a mess of debris, and the tower stood truncated. His smile pushed the broom and he swept in a blur before racing to the pews renewed, and reborn.
Eyebrows raised when the monks arrived to collect the finished works the next day. Gratitude emanated as they patted his back, not wanting to interrupt his process. More monks came to aid in the retrieval, sweep the overwhelming scrapes to extra buckets, and extended excessive proud pats. As he strode for his bread he spied a wagon teeming with their works, the Abbott waving to the traders as he stood beside a heavy chest.
Mathieu's body shook. He hadn't known his efforts aided in the monastery's expenses. Lunch was larger, a scoop of beans, and the sounds of happy chewing. That night as he lay upon his straw bed his fingers the sorest yet, his back in agony, Mathieu had never been happier. Within the week he cut the mountain to a small heap.
The end in sight he returned to execute the job only to find two monks leaving his room, dusting their hands. Inside the mountain towered taller than before. The climb endless, he struggled to work. That day he crafted less than he had his first. He retired to his quarters without supper, seeking solitude, rest, and rescue. No matter the prayers, nor the monotony of his quiet repetition, sleep would not come. Doubt sang, and the young man rose.
He couldn't take it, the new home had become a prison, his decision a mistake. Mathieu stole to the night, blind in the darkness, and followed the worn dirt road. Over his steps he cursed and swore, directionless, overwhelmed. After hours of storming he spied a golden glow.
His wayward steps took him to a nearing town. Their lives lived later than the monks above. Above the streets candle lit lanterns guided tired souls homeward. Beneath their light Mathieu recognized the emblems he'd stamped. His eyes widened in awe.
Before the monastery Mathieu had but known the dotting farmlands of his community. The vibrance, and the pulse of the town was all new. Their laughter, their chatter, all under light shaped by his hands. As he wandered through the sunlike wonder he spied through windows passed. Shopkeepers closing, scholars and poets scribbling, parents reading to their children, all under the church's candles.
Song erupted from a pub down the corner, and Mathieu watched merriment as bright at the tiny flames above. And he wept. His heart quieted, and he hurried home returning to his modest hovel. On the fringes of the horizon, just above the a patch of tree tops he could still see the golden glow. That light guided him like a compass. Back to his rhythm. Rested, renewed, graced. The wax across his fingers a badge of honour, his work, his life, understood, his task full of honour. He worked tireless from dark to dark, to give others a little, quiet, light.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write