“Let him not be violent nor over-anxious, nor exacting nor obstinate, not jealous nor prone to suspicion, or else he will never be at rest. In all his commands, whether concerning spiritual or temporal matters, let him be prudent and considerate. In the works which he imposes, let him be discreet and moderate, bearing in mind the discretion of holy Jacob, when he said: ‘If I cause my flocks to be overdriven, they will all perish in one day.'”

“…perish in one day.”

“Perish in one day,” Benedictus himself repeated wearily, and he passed his hand across his forehead, as if to brush off a fly. “Taking then the testimonies born by these and the like words to discretion, the mother of virtues…”

“discretion, the mother of virtues…”

“…let him so temper all things, that the strong may have something to strive after, and the weak nothing at which to take alarm.”

His hand touched his forehead again. The fly was back and it was not a fly, but a thought, and it was not a thought but a picture, the water, the lake, the boy…

“…at which to take alarm”, Maurus repeated. Looking up he saw, startled, that the Abbot was staring past him, his eyes wide open, he could see the white around the iris. What was he staring at? There was nothing but the wall of the cell…

“Brother Maurus!” The Abbot’s voice cut like a whiplash. “Placidus is drowning in the lake. He’s carried off by a current. Run to save him. Run!”

Maurus ran. He raced along the corridor–two other brothers only just managed to step aside–bumped against the door, tore it open, and rushed down to the lake. His mind was a blank. He was the Abbott’s command incarnate and put into motion, nothing less. He flew forward as if he were blown by a gale.

He could see the boy’s head, a round black thing, bobbing up and down far away in the lake, and he rushed towards it, a dog after its quarry, a heron pouncing on its prey.

The boy’s head grew, it was near, it was in front of him, he need only bend down. Bend down? In a flash his mind came back to him, and he knew, in a panic, that this was impossible, that he was on the water and yet not in it, and at once the water came up and he felt it splashing over his body, cold and numbing and full of enmity; and at the same moment the boy’s head disappeared.

But it bobbed up again, and Maurus knew that the command was still in force, and he leaped forward like a salmon and seized the boy by his hair; he threw himself on his back and the boy’s body came to rest on top of him, so light that it seemed to have no weight at all, and now only he began to swim, grasping and bewildered, towards the shore.

A quarter of an hour later he and Placidus reported to the Abbott, both pale and feeling rather dizzy.

“I have lost one of our pitchers”, Placidus confessed. “Brother Cellerarus sent me to fetch the water, and the pitcher slipped through my fingers. When I tried to grasp it, I fell into the lake.”

Benedictus nodded. “The fear you felt was penance enough, but you must learn to concentrate your mind on the task given to you.”

“Yes Father Abbot.”

Maurus tried to speak and could not. Again he tried and failed. In the end, he managed to say: “Something happened to me, Father Abbot.”

Benedictus waited patiently.

“I…I…walked…” Maurus made a tremendous effort. “I…walked…on the water,” he blurted out.

Benedictus said nothing.

“You made me do it”, Maurus stammered.

“You were obedient,” Benedictus said, “God rewards merit.”

But Maurus raised protesting hands. “I couldn’t have done it,” he said, trembling, “not alone. There’s never been… I never have…well, I couldn’t and I didn’t; I know I didn’t, because I knew nothing at all about it till it happened. It wasn’t me at all, Father Abbot, it was you. You commanded me to do it, you must have…”

Placidus said in a high voice: ‘I know it was You, Father Abbot. I can’t swim. I was drowning, and you dragged me up, I could see your melote over my head all the time.”

They both looked at Benedictus, their eyes shining. He put a finger to his lips. But they saw, for a brief moment, what few people were allowed to see: his smile, full of warmth and joy.

–‘Citadel of God: A Novel about Saint Benedict’ author Louis de Wohl