The Miracles of Brother Jucundus

By Ronnie Bray This is a very old tale about a jolly monk, that is flawlessly told just as it happened. It dates from the fourteenth century and the monks name was Brother Jucundus. The tale tells about his strange adventures and that made his fellow monks believe he worked miracles. About seven hundred years ago in the City of York there were two monasteries built back-to-back with, so that a single huge and astonishingly thick stone wall was the back wall of Saint Marys Abbey, and was also the back wall of Saint Leonards Priory. St. Mary's Abbey was founded by King William Rufus in 1088. St. Leonard's Priory distributed alms every day from its gates to 30 poor people, give alms to prisoners in the city, supported leper houses, and also looked after 206 sick poor folk in its hospital until they were fit to return to work. In all the centuries that these brotherhoods lived back-to-back, there had never been an occasion when the common wall had made the slightest difference. However, due to the extraordinary circumstances I now relate this was about to change. Jucundus belonged to Saint Leonards monastery. No one knew what his real name was because when he was admitted to the order he had assumed the name Jucundus, after the fifth century martyr, St Jucundus and nobody thought to ask his real name because of the peculiar circumstances that surrounded his becoming a monk in the first place. He was not too happy as a monk, but still enjoyed the same cheerful spirit that he had before he took religious orders. In fact, visitors to the monastery were often amazed to meet up with such a merry fellow as Jucundus, for Monks are known to be serious and pious with little - if any - time for merriment.

Yet however shocked strangers might have been to discover the jolly monk Jucundus in the monastery, he himself had been a hundred times more shocked on the fateful morning when he discovered he was there having sobered somewhat from the revels of the previous night when it dawned on him that he was permanently cloistered with a medley of dour and sober companions, that he had possibly sought admittance to the order and been accepted, and that while out of his senses he had given his solemn word in a serious oath binding himself to serve God in that house and company and from which his morality would not allow him to escape. He was even more bewildered that could not remember how he came to be in that place in the first place. The Annals of York report that he had been a man about town well known for his joviality and good living, including good eating and good drinking. He had been invited to the feast that honoured the installation of a new Lord Mayor of York, and had been among the last to leave the banquet hall and the first to get lost as he tried to find his way home. He half remembered the dank muddy street inviting him to lay down on its hard bed several times in quick succession, and then seemed to remember seeing a porch light on in a large building and knocking intemperately with his ornamented blackthorn on the great oaken door. However, truth be told he had no recollection of the grumpy night porter opening the creaking door to him and helping him into the safety of the holy house. It might have been his semi-coherent requests for shelter and rest that led the doorkeeper to assume that he wished to join the order, and, since the Abbot was somewhat sleepy when roused b y the porter at two oclock in the morning, he might have taken the wayfarers pleas to be sheltered to suggest strongly that he sought permanent asylum within the house. However it transpired, it did transpire, and before he fell totally asleep that night Brother Jucundus name was inscribed on the rolls of the order and fi fa admun nolens etcetera. The reveller was become a monk and didnt know it! When Jucundus came to his senses after the wine had tired of its sport and forsaken his brain he realised his position and being, in his own way, as devout a man as

ever there was in the whole realm he accepted what he assumed a cruel fate had led him to. He fell into the daily routine of prayers, work, minimalist dining, watery ale, devotions, prayers, prayers, and more prayers, reciting the missal, and suffering brief and uncomfortable periods of sleep in his cell. His days ran into weeks, weeks passed into months, and months, as months are wont to do, ran into a year, with Jucundus all the while making the best of his misfortune yielding himself as well as he could to the monkish life. And it came to pass that after what seemed to him an eternity in the Abbey, although it was but a single year, as he lay on his narrow bed in his narrow cell for his customary afternoon nap, he could not find sleep because he could hear excited voices in the street underneath his window. Kept from sleep by this commotion, he set about trying to recollect how he, a glutton for fine foods in large measures, an imbiber of good wines to excess, who loved life to the full, enjoyed gaiety, revelled in companionship, engaged in sparkling conversation, was a wit, a raconteur, and as fond of music and dancing as any man came to be in such a miserable and dreary place as the Priory. He was sulking deeply about missing all the fun and enjoyment of bygone days when more people noisily streamed past his window. They were obviously in good spirits and increasing in their numbers. What business are they abroad on? he wondered. But answer came there none. As he made an effort to make out what they were saying, the sound of music wafted into his ears through his open window on the wings of a favourable wind. He recognised the sound! Then, all the noises that had assailed his ears were identified in a flash of understanding. The tumult, the laughter, the sound of buskinned feet padding along the hard ground told him in a flood of awareness, in the way the first light of dawns creeping fingers mounts the dark mountain tops and runs across night-shadowed fields and plains, forcing darkness aside as its light spreads, so spread his realisation that it was the day of the fair! The fair! The roly-poly relic sat bolt upright on his lumpy cot as his memory began to recover notions of old habits from a past he had long since shunned, but which, none-the-less, he had not ceased to love. The revolutions of his memory

made his head spin until it seemed it might separate itself from his body and take on an independent life in some other place! The fair! His mind filled with images from the life of abandon that he had abandoned: There would be roundabouts, slides, a collection of terpsichorean canines. My, he thought, what fun! In his imagination, he was standing shoulder to shoulder in the midst of the noisy revels, relishing the banter, the good spirits, the shoving and pushing as too many folk tried to get close enough to see curiosities such as the tattooed man, the bearded lady, the donkey with its head where its tail should be, contortionists and acrobats, side stalls selling everything you could wish to eat if you never became full, and the drinking booths where, for a farthing, you could get enough home brewed ale to make you forget all your worries, your name, your debts, and how miserable your life was if you were imprisoned in a monastery and didnt know why. This kind of imagining was too much for the good man to bear. He so much wanted to be again part of the merry medley of life that gyrated, laughed, shouted, and sang at the light-hearted festival, because such enjoyment was the real stuff of his temperament and character, rather than the miserable solitude had endured for so long. A moments sober thought brought him back to reality, and to disappointment. He ran his chubby fingers over the coarse stuff of his monkish habit, looked down at the leathern sandals on his feet, rubbed his tonsured pate, and concluded that such joys as were offered at fairs and galas were not his to be enjoyed any more ever! At that point, he was almost resigned to settle for what he had come to accept as his duty. Yet lurking in one of the dark crevasses that most of us keep for special occasions, there remained in him the distinct possibility that he could be persuaded from duty and toward the feasting by a latent hope that attending the pleasures of the carnival might restore him to his earlier playful state. Even if it was but a temporary measure. As if Fate was tapping him on the shoulder, he noticed his right foot was tapping along with the music, and that soon after, his left foot joined in, tapping in time with its companion. He shrugged at the futility that swept over him and with a sigh rose from his cot, and shook his fists in something approaching anger at his defeat.

His shaking was so violent that everything else on his huge frame also shook, and so did his resolve until finally it crumbled and defeat was transformed into determination, decision, and through tightly clenched teeth he said aloud, I must go to the fair! I will go to the fair! And, he meant it. It was as if he had not realised until that moment how much like gaol the monastery was. That it was brighter than a dungeon was undeniable, but that it lacked a certain warmth and joie de vivre was also undeniable. I will go to the fair! he exclaimed again, mostly to steel his resolve, for no one else could hear him. In fact, he continued saying I must go to the fair until he convinced himself that it was his bounden duty to go, instead of staying in his lonely pen, miserable, whilst everyone else, save for his somnolent fellow monks, was either going to, or was already at, the fair, and the least excited of them was, he knew, having a lot more fun than he was. It is at such moments as this that the courses of history are prevented from reaching their first avowed intents, and are redirected to different destinations. Thus it was that his need to fulfil sacred obligations yielded softly to his need to be jolly at least once more before he shuffled off his mortality, was tucked up in his winding sheet, and planted to feed rose bushes and raspberry canes until the trumpets sounded and he got out of his grave, shook off the moulding earth and fragments of his own decay, and walked once more in the light. Less than two seconds after these last thoughts, Brother Jucundus crept excitedly but quietly down corridors that hummed with a symphony of snores from the sleepers, and a chorus of roars from the crowds enjoying their way to the entertainment. Unseen, Jucundus slipped into the Priors room, filled his pockets with cash from the alms box and continued his silent passage to the lodge where the Porter also sleeping and snoring kept the keys for the stations and offices. Jucundus helped himself to a key for the outer door, and, on reaching it, placed the massive iron piece in the lock, turned it, drew back the bolt, and with a few mousy creaks opened the oaken door and slipped out to join the merry throng. Once among them he was immediately at home.

At the fair, Jucundus was happier than he had been since the monastery doors closed on him that fateful night when he had turned his back to the world, his face towards God, and lost himself in selfless service without knowing why. On footing the fair ground, Jucundus found himself. He went everywhere, talked to everyone, told funny stories, made jests, and was in such good humour that he laughed as he had not laughed for a twelvemonth. He chortled, giggled, and guffawed, his whole frame shaking with laughter. A large crowd of people stopped to see and marvel at the jollity of the shaking friar, many of them joining in his infectious display. As to his expenses, he spent some of the alms money on gingerbread biscuits. They had been his favourite as a small child. He stuffed them in his mouth as fast as he could, ignoring the blanket of crumbs gathering on his chin. And since no visit to the fair was ideal without gawking at the Bearded Lady, he paid her a visit, and was reduced to more body-shaking roaring mirth by the sight of the stoical dame who practised her knitting in inscrutable silence, ignoring the laughter, the jeers, the sarcasm, the insults, and the unkind remarks directed at her by a public, some of which had grown drunk, but had not grown sensitive of the feelings of others. Then, Jucundus, with some difficulty, hoisted himself aboard the whirligig, riding repeatedly and shouting himself hoarse from unconfined bliss, until he was sure he was going to lose his afternoons supply of spiced pastries, and so dismounted to permit his digestive system to compose itself. Then, when all was quiet in Tummy Town he headed for the coconut shy where he won a fistful of Barcelona nuts and without pause fed them into his face. Next to the ale tent for a quart of old ale. It was so good to his taste after the Priorys watery brew that the first was followed by another, and another, and more others. His face took on a bright crimson hue, but his heart was light, his mind given to mirth, and his staggering conspicuous and, to the casual observer, dangerous. Those that watched him quaffing expected him to either fall down dead drunk, or else fall down just plain dead. Spectators of more morose natures feared he might not fall down at all but burst, scattering him and his stomachs contents freely, and drowning everyone within twelve feet of him!

Surprisingly, he did neither, but reeled dangerously out of the tent, and headed for the see-saw. He sat on it awkwardly, with much merriment, and wild flourishes of exhilaration, and waited for a partner with whom to ride up and own. Such was his size, that it would take two men to balance his mass, and for some moments it seemed he would find none, until a pair of farm labourers volunteered to act as counterweights to provide the merry monk with some fun, and give the crowd a spectacle to remember. Mounting the plank together, it was found that the young mens combined weight gave them the advantage of a couple of pounds over the merry monk, so he shot up in the air waving his arms wildly, and singing, In dulce jubilo, Up, up, up we go! at the top of his voice. After some minutes of vigorous see-sawing the lads took a rest, leaving Brother Jucundus stuck up in the air. There was nothing he could do other than wait for them to recuperate and then kick the plank up again, so he waited patiently, casting his eyes about him and beaming broadly from his aerial vantage point. He beamed at everything he saw until, that is, until he cast his eyes downwards where he soon hoped to plant his feet on terra firma - and then the smile vanished from his ruby face. Said face then adopted a sombre and sheepish attitude, for stood below him on the ground, were two brethren from Saint Leonards, and they were looking at him with profound questions in their narrowed eyes that were set untidily in their scowling faces! A second later, Jucundus persuaded his face to smile again, which it did, and in his jolliest voice, he told his brethren to climb up beside him, which they did not. The farm lads saw the tableau playing out beside them and, feeling it wise not to cross the good but stern brethren of the Priory decided without consulting each other to take no further role in the developing drama, and departed in lifepreserving haste.

Consequent to their dismount, the see-saw came down heavily and hit the ground with a thud that sounded like dooms calling card. The earth shook under the impact, and the plank broke in two, unceremoniously launching Jucundus tumbling and rolling in the dust at the feet of his capturers. Sensing that his time was up, the frolicsome friar repeatedly tried to raise himself to his feet but could not, so instead he raised a refrain that reflected his now sombre mood, In dulce jubilo, Down, down, down, we go! His companions said not a word but bent down and lifted Jucundus to his uncontrollable feet. They found that though he was upright, they had not enough strength to support him, and so commandeered a wheelbarrow into which, with assistance from an amused crowd, they poured him, and just as silently wheeled the singing monk back to the monastery in no little disgrace, and not without a dash of embarrassment on their own parts on account of their ungainly progress over the rough terrain with their cumbersome load. During the rumbling and wobbly journey, Brother Jucundus ceased not to smile, and, when the mood took him, he continued his mirthful outbursts. Even as he was delivered to the solemn court of the Prior and Chapter of Saint Marys Priory he remained in his pre-monk condition exacerbated with too plentiful a diet of fairground ales. He knew they could, if they deemed it necessary, subject him to a heavy penalty, but his optimism was as high as his intoxication, and so he worried not at all about what they might decide to do with him. He saw no sin in happiness and assumed that they were of the same mind even in the face of their austere habits to which he had been exposed for a whole year. If he had once been able to profit from experience, that capacity had been washed away by the tidal wave of intoxicants he had poured down his ample throat in the past few hours. But, the wheelbarrowed monk was the only person in the chamber who did not have a grim and foreboding face. It has been said that, If you can keep your head when all around you are losing theirs then maybe you do not appreciate the gravity of the situation.

This precept prevailed at Jucundus Court of Doom, for he smiled and jested throughout the proceedings, ignoring calls for him to be orderly. The witnesses who had been dispatched to seize the wayward friar sat empty-eyed, hard-faced, and cheerless as they told how and in what circumstances they had found the fugitive. They adopted disgusted expressions when telling about his being on a see-saw, making his adventure sound as if it was a great evil and evidence that the sky-born monk had been hand in glove with old Lucifer himself! The court had heard enough. Whatever excuse he might give, and he gave none, being for the most part unconscious of the proceedings, but occasionally experiencing a small degree of consciousness that served him only to deliver some trifling nonsense or other irrelevant matter that served only to harden the court against him even more. The facts were plain: Jucundus had broken monastic rules rules that he had voluntarily sworn to uphold, and must submit to their penalty, and their penalty could be extreme. Yet, the court was not inclined to punish him unjustifiably. Perhaps there was an explanation for his conduct that day that was not known to the assembly. If so, then any sentence could be mitigated and thereby lessened. The Prior, manifestly upset with the matter, demanded of the reprobate, What have you to say in your defence? Jucundus, not awake to what was happening, waved and smiled at his inquisitors, following which, he made attempt to rise, overbalanced, fell back into the bed of the wheelbarrow, and sang robustly, In dulce jubilo At that point, the tribunal had had enough. Their patience with the errant brother was at its limit. He had brought shame and disgrace on the Brotherhood by his behaviour, and nothing but the extreme penalty death could make amends for his blatant disregard. So, it was ruled, death it was to be, without appeal, and the grisly sentence carried out at once without stay or delay. The condemned monk was then unceremoniously tipped from the barrow onto the stone flags and raised almost to his feet by four stout brethren who drag-walked him to the wine cellar accompanied by the Prior and community, whence the ungainly procession made its way down into the dankness.

It has been suggested that Brother Jucundus had some notion of his fate, because as the descent was in progress his melodic voice rang around the stone chamber, In dulce jubilo, Down, down, down we go! And down indeed did they go to execute their judgement on the poor fellow. This they did by sitting him on a buffet in a corner of the cellar, then thrust at him one loaf of bread, fresh baked and hot from the oven, and a cruse of water. It should have been wine, but, they agreed, the felon Jucundus had had more than enough wine that day. As he sat in the cellars gloom, Brother Jucundus noticed some brethren carrying large stones and tubs of mortar to his vicinity, and watched patiently as they built a wall across the corner in which he was sat, hovering between this earth and some other place where life was beautiful all the time, in which corner they would leave him to starve to death in total darkness. Jucundus watched his executioners work. He waved to them, smiled at them, jested with them, and sang his happy song to them, without knowing what was going on. Long before the wall reached the arch of the vault, Jucundus had fallen fast asleep, clutching the loaf, resting the water bottle on his ample lap. Stone after stone was mortared into place until the last chink was filled, and the friar was sealed up in his tawdry tomb. Gravely, the Prior intoned a prayer that God would have mercy on the soul of one who had received no mercy from his Prior or his brethren, and then led the monks up from the cellar to return to their devotions and their godly lives. ----------At this point, we pause to consider the fate of this oddly godly man. For what we might think a trifling offence he was sentenced to die by being walled up with little food or water. However, we must recognise that all such religious houses have rules of conduct to which all who are inducted into their orders have sworn to uphold.

We need also to recognise that these events took place in an age when it was believed that making a wrongdoers body suffer was a good way to save his soul, and being saved forever in heaven, rather than being lost forever in Hell, was considered preferable. It is often unwise to judge the actions of men in the past by the standards we hold to in our own day and age. With that in mind, we will proceed with the narrative. ----------It is apparent that Jucundus was at first really aware of his deadly situation, despite suggestions from some that he might have guessed it. The ale had made him drunk, not daft, so if he had had even a tiny clue as to his fate it is doubtful that he would have calmly co-operated in its fulfilment. That he did not co-operate suggests that he was still very drunk, and had no inkling of what was happening to him, or what the outcome would be. Jucundus was a man blessed with joi-de-vivre and he was definitely not suicidal The booze had made him sleepy, so he slept snoring alone in the darkness as the cold crept in as a silent assassin to steal his life. Remarkably several hours later he woke up in his Cimmerian tomb. It took him some time to work out where he was and why he was where he was. Finally it dawned on him, and when it did he proved that he was neither assenting to his death nor in league with his afflictors, for he began to kick and punch the walls with a ferocity that can be reached only by someone determined to live while gripped with the fear of imminent death. He kicked, lashed out, and threw himself against the walls, hoping to breach one and escape. He bounced off one wall and then threw himself against the other. Although his body was aching and racked with pain, he continued without rest to try to break through the walls. After what seemed like an age, one of the walls suddenly weakened and gave way. It caught him off balance, so he fell backwards, tumbling over falling stones as other stones fell on the falling monk.

When the dust had settled and his eyes had grown used to the dim light, he found himself in an unfamiliar place. He was almost sober now. He surveyed his surroundings but could not imagine how he got there. He stood, painfully; smarting from the bruises the masonry had inflicted. He brushed dust and mortar from his habit, and rubbed his shins where the stones had landed on his legs, so that walking was painful but not walking was equally painful, so he walked. He tottered up the cellar steps. Mercifully, the door at the top was not locked. Stepping through it he found himself in a corridor that looked remarkably like Saint Leonards Priory. Yet he did not recognise the monks, and the monks moved slowly, seemingly sullenly, certainly, and silently, making no greeting as he passed them. He had no idea where he was and was not sure where he had come from. It was several hours before the candle inside his head took flame, to reveal to the startled man the incredible fact that he had fallen out from Saint Leonards priory and fallen in to Saint Marys Abbey. Lest you should take the notion that he was fortunate in this, apart from his life being preserved, he had, as one account puts it, jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Monastic life is hardly ever a jolly affair, and that had been a problem for Jucundus. Yet, some cloisters that are actually deadly dull can seem like pleasure palaces when compared to others that are ascetic, rigorous, melancholy, where the inmates are ill-fed and are continuously silent! Misery should never be mistaken for piety, and Jucundus knew the difference. Saint Leonards had been pious, but Saint Marys was miserable, and he was even more miserable to find himself its prisoner. Jucundus eventually understood that he had been walled up to die for his misdeeds, although the details of his offences were not fixed in his recollection. He deduced that he had been sentenced to die, which explained his waking to find himself alone in the dark with but little to eat and drink. That being so, he reasoned, it was better that he submit to his present trials than return to his old place and possibly be tried again, sentenced again, and have to die again! He decided to say nothing and to act innocently and do whatever the cadaverous denizens of that place did.

Although it meant saving his life, he found following their example an arduous task, because he remained a jovial fellow at heart, and longed for good company, stimulating conversation, and an occasional jest. However, the rule of silence was scrupulously honoured, except, that is, for one special day each year, Easter Sunday. Because of that, no one asked him who he was, why he was there, or where he had come from. They assumed that he had entered the monastery in the normal way as they had all done. His silence, although essential to save his life, cost him dear. His bed at Saint Marys was ten times harder than the lumpy straw-filled paliasse of his former lodging. The food was worse, usually tasteless, often uncooked, and a lot less of it. The ale was, he thought, a half-decent drink of water spoiled by having some brown muck sloshed into it to make it look like ale. He hadnt tasted anything worse since he had fallen over in his uncles pig sty and landed face down in the much with his mouth wide open! The Rules of the Order were so strict that they infuriated the free-spirit, Jucundus, but he could do nothing about them. So, settled to his fate, he ate whatever was put on his plate, drank whatever they poured into his jug, meditated on his wrongdoing, maintained his daily rounds of prayers, and served in whatever capacity, and in whatever place he was directed to toil by an ill-clad arm to which was skilfully attached a pointing finger. That gesture he took to mean, Go there, and do what the others are doing. It did, and so he did! Nevertheless, the austere life of Saint Marys took its toll on the once jolly, once fat, but still old, friar. In a few months, he lost the plumpness of his body, as it fed on itself to make up for the short rations that came out of what they were pleased to call the kitchen. His face lost its round look, his jovial manner was gone, and was replaced by a woeful appearance. His empty jowls hung down, so he looked like a starving bloodhound. He yearned for the comfort he had enjoyed at Saint Leonards, but when he remembered the sentence of death, his craving for the good old days was moderated to a remarkable extent. Living badly, he thought, is better than dying well. Time passed, and almost a year after his arrival at St Marys, Jucundus was a changed man. He never got so used to life at Saint Marys to the point where he

found it satisfying, but he was happy to be alive, although he was unhappy for the circumstances of his present life. Still, he often said to himself, I am alive, and that is worth something. Mayhap I can escape if and when opportunity arises. With such thoughts he consoled himself and settled for his lot. It was around this time that the Abbeys antique cellarman gave in to Deaths determined beckoning. His stroke of bad luck was followed by a stroke of luck for Jucundus because the Abbott appointed Brother Jucundus to be keeper of the ale and wine store, and presented him with the key to that chamber, along with a fulsome expression of his confidence in him. In that office Jucundus determined to serve faithfully and well, being careful not to abuse his position, which he faithfully honoured by dealing fairly with all and by showing favour to none, not even to himself. Until well, a few weeks later It came to pass that a short time after his appointment as cellarman, the anniversary of his visit to the fair came around and the noises he heard outside Saint Marys served as reminders of his fall from grace, his cruel almost death, and his good fortune in that his life was preserved. He remembered fondly that days beginning, although the end thereof was more than a little unclear. He knew the fair was there that very day, and again he longed to attend. Jucundus the cellarer heard through the half-sunk basement window the thudding of feet, joyful cries and shouts, and music in the distance. His resolve assumed a malleable state. He felt the call, but also sensed danger as if the Angel of Death, who was not too long gone from that place, was preening his wings for sudden flight in his direction, and he sobered. However, longing to attend the pleasurable place partake of its pastimes, but with a growing sense of immanent doom if he breached his sacred obligations a second time moved Brother Jucundus to drink just a little more of the fruit of the grape than was wise. He stood, he explained to himself, in need of consolation. He consoled himself with tankards filled not with the watery brew served to the community each day, but with sweet Malmesbury reserved for guests, such as Cardinals and Senior Clergy of the Order.

It must be told that whilst one mug of river ale, as Jucundus pointedly labelled the common drink, was enough for any man, Malmesbury wine had an inviting sweetness, strength, and effect. One glass of Malmesbury begged for companionship, and it seemed that the quaff was best pleased when in the company of no fewer than a half-dozen of its fellows, after which it invited all that would join the party. Besides which, no one was keeping tally! And so it did not surprise him when he felt himself falling into the comforting arms of Nepenthe, but yet managing to down two or more jugs full of consolation before he lapsed into oblivion. His sleep was profound and prolonged. Meanwhile, up in the refectory his fellow monks waited with increasing impatience for their morning ale. They had never had to wait for their beer before, and were not used to exercising of patience in such a crucial matter. One or two of them tapped their empty mugs on the long oaken table. It was the best they could do because of their vow of silence. Not daring to speak, others shuffled and banged their feet on the floor, to add their disquiet to the unspoken battery of complaints growing among the gathering. Others twisted around on the benches, as if the movement would bring answer to the pressing but unspoken questions, Where is my ale? and, Why was it not delivered in timely fashion? Some, it is said, even muttered unintelligible sounds into their beards. Since these utterances could not properly be described as speaking, little notice was taken of it, and no penalties for infraction of the rule of silence were imposed. The Abbott, who had, as had they all, disavowed anger as an unworthy and devilish passion, was visibly furious. With beetled brow and clenched teeth, he rose from his chair, strode out of the dining room, the whole community hustling behind him. They moved en masse as fast as they could without running. The Abbott and his posse went through the cellar door and rippled down the stone steps to find why they were still sat sitting dry-mouthed a full half-hour and more after the morning ale bell had rung, and what unearthly power had stayed the delivery of their brew?

They found the answers to these questions laid out on the cellar floor snoring fit to bust, and smiling broadly, but insensibly. Not only was the sight of Jucundus in flagranti delicti enough to stun the sober fraternity, but it loosed their tongues, and all began to chatter at the same time. Although it was not Easter day, their annual talking day, the Abbott was convinced that the seriousness of the situation allowed the breach to pass unnoticed. The condition of their cellarer would not, could not be overlooked. It was that is, he, Jucundus, was unpardonable. They did not retire to the Abbotts chamber to hold court on their comatose comrade, but decided then and there to excommunicate Jucundus, and afterwards to impose condign merited punishment on him. After bell was rung, book closed, and the tallow candle snuffed out, Jucundus was an ex-monk. The tenor of the Abbey and its corps of religious was so different from that of the Priory, that whereas the punishment at Saint Leonards had left room for the offender to remain inside the Church and aboard the ark of salvation, the Abbott and his monks unanimously declared that the hapless drunk should be removed from membership of the Church. By this means he was effectively denied a boarding pass for what they believed was the Lords solely appointed vessel of salvation, and thus by that denial steered ex-Brother Jucundus towards the abode of the eternally damned. The manner of his death was to be by immurement: the luckless fellow was to be walled-up as before; quite drunk, as before; unconscious, as before; alone, as before; to wait upon Death, as before; and supplied with a freshly baked loaf of bread and jug of water as before! They chose the cellar as before because that was the scene of his crime, as before, and they would leave him to die a lingering death of starvation, dehydration, and cold, as before! They found a suitable alcove close by his place of rest, and found to their delight that there was enough stone laid about the niche to build a wall to enclose the sozzled sinner. This happy circumstance they believed was a gift from an approving Divinity.

All hands were set to the task and in little more than an hour Jucundus entombment within the walls was almost complete. Almost, but not quite. It was at this point that Brother Jucundus roused somewhat from his stupor. However, being too intoxicated to comprehend what was happening, he began with merry voice to sing his favourite song, In dulce jubilo, Up, up, up we go! As if he were enjoying the delights of the fair again as he had done on the fateful day one year ago. Lustily he sang, loudly he sang, and, of course, he sang, In dulce jubilo, Up, up, up we go! As the last chunk of stone was pushed into the last chink hole, Jucundus drunkenly imagined he was back riding the whirligig, tumbling down the slide, and prodding the Bearded Lady with a chubby finger. Then he fell back to sleep again, and slept the clock round. The next time he woke, he was still merry. He was not concerned that he was alone in the dark because monks are used to that. Finding his feet, he began to sing again, In dulce jubilo, Up, up, up we go! Moreover, he was still engaged in riotous warbling when the cellarer of Saint Leonards Priory, next door, went down into the cellar to collect ale for the monks. The servant filled his flagon with ale and was about to carry it aloft when he heard a voice he thought he knew. He was paralysed with cold fear for he was certain that he recognised the singing of the one person he did not expect to meet again in mortality. It sounded like the voice of a man he had helped to seal up behind a wall in that very cellar, so that he would die, and it was, he reflected, one year ago to the very day since his own hands had been laid to the task of securing the yet living body of Brother Jucundus.

The rich baritone bellow was unmistakable and proof positive of the identification of the singer, who continued, In dulce jubilo, Up, up, up we go! just as merrily as he sang it whilst being sealed into his chamber of doom. It was Brother Jucundus! A mixture of terror, joy and, an unquantifiable feeling in his throat propelled the cellarer upstairs, the jug of ale forgotten, shouting at the top of his lungs, Brother Jucundus is alive and singing his song. His fellow monks stood open mouthed, staring at him as if he were insane. They were in sober mood, unprepared for wildness and jokes, such as they thought the cellarer to be playing on them. They had just left the chapel where prayers for their Prior, who had suddenly died yestereve, were said in utter solemnity, and were in the attitude of mourning when confronted by this excited and, perhaps, mad with grief ale keeper. Poor fellow. Some of their number thought that the chap had been rather a little too liberal with himself and measured out for himself rather a little too much of the ale than was good for him, and being in his cups imagined strange things. True he had not done so before, but grief grips people in different ways, and that must be how much grief and rather too much ale had affected him. Poor fellow. It occurred to some who were following the line of he is drunk, that if he had drunk too much ale there might not be enough for them, and said so out loud. Moved by that thought, as a body they rushed the cellar door, down the steps, and stood in a gaggle in the middle of the cellar floor to see whether they could check the ale level in the barrels and, perhaps, also hear what had been reported to them. Before they could tap a barrel with a spiking mallet to register its contents, they were arrested by the sound! Was it singing they hard? It was! Then, a brief silence was followed by a brief song in their astonished ears. Brief it was, but nonetheless it was unmistakable! In dulce jubilo, Up, up, up we go!

It was a miracle, they all agreed. One year to the day when Brother Jucundus had been walled up in his tiny crypt to die, and yet unless their ears were deceived, here was the same man, still alive, and singing as lustily as ever he did. There was silence for some seconds broken only by the song that all knew was his favourite song. Then they erupted into pandemonium, and lifting their skirts ran as fast as they could to get pickaxes, mallets, and crowbars, with which to tear down the wall, and retrieve the miraculously preserved monk. They had built the wall so strongly and securely that it took some time to breach it, the mortar having had a full year to cure. After frantic tearing at the wall, they removed as much of the masonry as they reckoned would make a hole that would let the jolly old fat friar escape. When the breach was made, they were astonished to see their old fellow standing, grinning, and singing, still himself in spite of his having lost several stones in weight. He looked thin and gaunt, but there was no mistaking that it was Brother Jucundus, and he was alive, even after being immured for twelve months! What lent even greater credence to the miracle, was the fact that the loaf of bread gave to him was still warm, his jug of water still intact, and yet he was alive! So convinced were they that his life had been miraculously preserved that as one man they cried out, Jucundus our Prior! Jucundus our head and our father! With this cry on their lips they lifted Jucundus on their shoulders and bore him in triumph to the Priors seat, where he was duly installed, and in that office he ministered to the community for many long years, as happy as he could be, and until the sun of his earthly day set, and he set out for his eternal home, where the sun never sets. To those who may be inclined to scoff at the idea of miracles, it is only fair to remind them that the definition of a miracle is not so much what happens, but when it happens. Thus, to deny Jucundus as one who enjoyed miracles is not too far a stretch for anyone. Perhaps when you are not as happy as you like to be, you can remember Brother Jucundus and be cheered by his story. You might even cheer yourself with his song.

In dulce jubilo

Copyright 2008 Ronnie Bray RETOLD YORKSHIRE FOLK TALES