Lowly Fruit, Lofty Consequences
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Tales from the Cloister, Part VI
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This story picks up the thread spun in Part One of the Tales From The Cloister series. A revisit is recommended, if only to brace for what Brother Percival has been up to.
***
Brother Percival had promised himself he would tread lightly from now on. Not out of fear, or at least not entirely, but because the Abbot’s last warning had carried the peculiar finality of a man who had already drafted the excommunication scroll and was merely waiting for the next excuse to date it. For months now, Percival had kept his head down, dutifully copying psalms, tending the herb garden, and offering only the gentlest corrections when Brother Oswald tried to explain the Trinity using turnips.
It was now autumn, and the Cloister had turned golden. The orchard behind the scriptorium rustled with the dry whispers of falling leaves and the dull thud of ripened apples. Brothers in frayed robes moved quietly between gnarled trees, their wicker baskets filling with bruised promise. Bees hovered lazily in the honey-thick air, drunk on sun and fermenting fruit. One particularly persistent bee attached itself to Brother Eamon’s hood, prompting him to swat half-heartedly and mutter, “This must be one of Brother Percival’s friends, stubborn and noisy.” Unbothered, the bee relocated to his ear.
Some distance away, beneath the twisted shade of a Bramley tree, Brother Oswald sat cross-legged in the grass, a single apple rolling between his hands. His eyes were fixed somewhere between the horizon and the heavens—which, to the Abbot’s seasoned eye, was rarely a good sign. The last time Oswald had gazed skyward for more than thirty seconds, he had launched into an impromptu sermon about purgatory being “just a very stern waiting room.” Though time had passed since the now-infamous brew, the Abbot remained unconvinced that its effects had fully run their course. Caution, he reminded himself, was the better part of ecclesiastical management. And so, robe billowing faintly in the breeze, he made his way toward the seated monk with the careful tread of a man who had once interrupted a heresy mid-soliloquy.
“Brother Oswald,” he said gently, pausing beside the tree trunk. “Enjoying the air?”
Oswald blinked up at him, squinting into the sunlight. “Oh, Father Abbot. Yes, quite. The apples seem especially pensive this year.”
The Abbot’s brow creased. “Pensive.”
“Mmm.” Oswald nodded gravely. “They fall just so. As though not by gravity, but by choice.”
The Abbot cleared his throat. “I see. And are you… otherwise well? Sleeping through the night? No episodes of, ah… angelic disputation?”
“Oh yes,” Oswald replied brightly. “Haven’t debated with a single archangel in weeks!”
The Abbot gave a slow nod, cautiously optimistic. “Good. Good. Then perhaps you might help gather some apples? Fill a basket or two, and make sure they’re taken to Mother Heledbeth’s priory down in the village. They’re preparing winter stores, apple sauce and juice. Very wholesome. Entirely unfermented.”
Oswald tilted his head, the apple still in his hands. “Not the cellar, then?”
“Definitely not the cellar,” the Abbot said, with a smile just wide enough to be mistaken for friendly.
“Of course,” Oswald murmured, rising slowly to his feet. “Pure, pious apples. For sauce.”
“Exactly.”
The Abbot gave him one last look, scanning for any flicker of metaphysical instability, then turned and walked back towards the orchard, robes swaying in priestly rhythm. Oswald, for his part, watched him go, then looked down at the apple in his hand and whispered, “Well, you heard him. No causing schisms.”
***
Later that afternoon, the friars gathered their filled baskets beneath the arching gate of the orchard, readying them for the journey to the village priory. A wooden cart stood waiting, its wheels crooked with age and its boards patched with more faith than timber. Two placid oxen had been led from the stables, broad-shouldered beasts with the gentle eyes of overworked saints, and were now chewing cud in unhurried expectation. Brother Oswald approached, leading the pair with surprising ease. His expression was serene, and his gait almost contemplative, as though guiding oxen were a task worthy of spiritual reflection. He was halfway to the cart when a voice, rich with faux innocence and barely repressed excitement, greeted him from the path.
“Brother Oswald! Just the man I hoped to find.”
It was Brother Percival, striding toward him with what appeared to be a haphazard bouquet of wild begonias clutched in one hand.
Oswald blinked. “Begonias?”
Percival looked down at the flowers, shrugged, and offered a wry smile. “A hobby. The Abbot suggested I take up gardening, remember? I find them calming. For about thirty seconds.”
The oxen snorted quietly behind them, as if weighing in with their own assessment of Percival’s impulse control.
“Anyway,” Percival continued, “you’re looking well. Very grounded. Not a whiff of heresy about you.”
“Thank you?!” Oswald said, unsure if it was meant as a compliment or a diagnosis.
“I mean it. You seem… almost boring. It suits you.”
“Listen,” Percival said, sidling closer, his voice lowering to that conspiratorial tone he reserved for mischief, “you wouldn’t happen to have a spare basket or two of apples, would you?”
Oswald frowned. “The Abbot said they’re all to go to Mother Heledbeth. For sauce.”
“Yes, yes,” Percival nodded solemnly. “For sauce. Very noble. Very unfermented.” He paused. “But I was thinking… you know how the monks tend to doze off halfway through Compline this time of year? Wouldn’t a touch of natural refreshment - apple-based, mind you, nothing scandalous - help revive their spirits?”
Oswald hesitated. He looked at the oxen, who returned his gaze with what could only be described as bovine scepticism. Percival raised his begonia-laden hand in a pantomime of piety. “No wormwood. No yarrow. Just apples. And faith.”
After a long moment, Oswald exhaled. “Two baskets. No more.”
“You’re a saint!”
“No, I’m a fool.”
“Same thing in this place.”
“Hey, but if the abbot…”
“…if the Abbot catches wind of it, I’ll deny everything and blame the oxen.”
As Oswald hoisted two baskets off the cart and handed them over, the oxen looked on, tails flicking in synchronised judgment. Percival offered them a solemn nod and, on impulse, extended a begonia as a peace offering. The larger of the two sniffed it, sneezed, and resumed chewing cud with the air of a creature unimpressed by monastic theatrics.
***
Back in his chamber, a cramped, stone-walled sanctuary that smelled faintly of rosemary, candle wax, and disobedience, Brother Percival set the baskets down with the reverence of a man handling relics. The apples, plump and sun-dappled, seemed to glow in the late afternoon light, as though aware they had escaped sauce and salvation in favour of a darker, fizzier destiny. He examined each one with care, murmuring to himself as he sorted them by size, sheen, and imagined personality. “You look like you’ll ferment fast,” he told a particularly tart-looking Bramley. “And you… you’ve got mischief in you. Front row.” From a dusty corner, he retrieved a small wooden press that had once been used (officially) to squeeze herbs for medicinal tinctures. Unofficially, it had also squeezed an alarming amount of gooseberries, elderberries, and one experimental batch of nettles that had burned both mouth and reputation. The nettle cider had been nicknamed “Purgatory’s Mouthwash.” He gave the press a pat. “Let’s behave this time.”
As he worked - chopping, mashing, pressing - a soft gurgling noise began to rise from the earthenware jug by the hearth, where a test batch had already begun to bubble. It was a sound he loved: the first whispers of fermentation, like a hymn hummed by the yeast itself. By Vespers, the room was fragrant with the scent of crushed apple skins and the faint, tangy breath of beginnings. Brother Percival stood in the doorway, apron damp and hands sticky with pulp, watching the sun sink into the ocean like a gold coin dropped into a well. He felt… hopeful. A simple cider. Nothing radical. No herbs. No hallucinations. No heresy. Just the humble apple, doing what God intended.
A fortnight passed without incident, a feat that, in the Cloister’s recent history, verged on the miraculous. There were the usual squabbles, of course: Brother Alaric accused Brother Benedict of hiding the good ink, while Brother Benedict retaliated by rearranging all the bookmarks in Alaric’s psalter. Brother Bede spent three days trying to prove that his cough was divine punishment for someone else's sin. But all things considered, peace prevailed. And in the cool, dim sanctuary of the herb cellar now partially repurposed for “horticultural storage”, Brother Percival tended to his barrels with the quiet pride of a man who believed he might finally have brewed something that didn’t taste like penance. The cider was golden, still, and mildly effervescent. He’d even bottled a few samples, corked with care and marked with a discreet chalk cross, which he assured himself was either for good luck or plausible deniability.
The next morning, just after Prime, the Abbot assembled the brethren beneath the cloister’s great archway and, with his hands folded and his voice unusually formal, announced: “We shall receive a guest.” A rustle of interest moved through the robes.
“His Grace, Archdeacon Theobald of Connacht, will grace our table this Saturday.”
There was a collective shift in posture, half awe, half indigestion. The Archdeacon was no ordinary prelate. He was known for his piety, his temperance, and his unnerving ability to detect theological impropriety at fifty paces. He had once, famously, excommunicated an entire village for hosting a dancing goat.
“We shall receive him with all the dignity and humility appropriate to our station,” the Abbot continued, his gaze sweeping across the monks like a particularly judgemental tide. “Brother Oswald, you shall journey to Mother Heledbeth’s priory and return with apple juice, sauce, and a few jars of jam for the Archdeacon’s breakfast. Ensure nothing is bruised. Or fermented.”
Oswald bowed. “Yes, Father Abbot.”
“Brother Alaric - kitchen oversight. No burnt porridge, no ‘interpretive baking,’ and I don’t want to hear the words ‘wild garlic’ unless it’s been pre-approved.”
Alaric gave a sheepish nod.
“Brother Bede, you’re on library patrol. If the Archdeacon so much as glances toward our codices, I expect every volume to be in order, every page free of crumbs, ink stains, and the occasional bookworm.”
Benedict gave a strangled cough of assent.
“And Percival…” The Abbot narrowed his eyes. “Just… stay where I can see you.”
“Of course, Father,” said Percival with a small bow. “My begonias and I have no plans to leave the garden.”
The Abbot gave a grunt that might’ve been scepticism and turned on his heel.
With the morning directives thus issued, the brethren scattered like windblown leaves, some to the kitchens to prepare the midday meal (which, given the state of the monastery larder, meant staring at turnips and hoping for inspiration), others to the library, where Brother Alfric was already bellowing about proper folio alignment and the dangers of ink blot migration. The air was thick with purpose, dust, and the faint aroma of something possibly edible being boiled into submission. Down in the cloister gardens, novices clipped rosemary with the solemnity of papal scribes, while across the courtyard, Brother Jerome attempted to dissuade a goat from chewing the corner of Saint Augustine’s City of God. Life in the monastery had resumed its usual rhythm, measured, mildly chaotic, and filled with the kind of divine bureaucracy that ensured sanctity took the scenic route.
As dusk crept across the stone walls, painting them in strokes of gold and ash, the great bell tolled for Vespers. Candles were lit, chants floated through the arches, and the sky above the abbey blushed in resignation. But near the stables, amid the soft rustle of hay and the clink of tired oxen being unyoked, Brother Oswald stood rigid. His robe was damp with sweat, his brow furrowed in alarm. He glanced furtively about, then gave the oxen a half-hearted pat and made straight for the cellar. He burst through the narrow door with the desperate energy of a man seeking absolution or accomplice, ideally both. Below, the air was cool, thick with the scent of damp stone, old wood, and mischief past. In the flickering light of a single lantern, Brother Percival looked up from a row of neatly arranged bottles, expression caught somewhere between surprise and mild guilt.
“Brother Oswald,” he said cautiously. “Either you’ve had a revelation, or something’s gone terribly pear-shaped.”
Oswald looked as though he might burst into tears, or Latin, whichever came first. “They’re broken,” he said, voice cracking under the weight of his calamity. “Half the bottles… maybe more. The cart hit every stone between the priory and here, and I swear, Brother, I began to wonder if God Himself had planted them all with the sharp end pointing skyward, just to test my faith, or my axle.” He led Percival hastily around the stables to where the cart still sat, lopsided and forlorn in the waning light. With trembling hands, he pulled back the tarp. “Look.” Percival peered inside. Half the bottles lay in shards, their contents soaked into the straw in a sticky offering to the saints. The rest, though miraculously intact, held a liquid no longer bright and golden, but murky, sullen, and faintly fizzing. Whatever purity the Mother had bottled, it had taken a darker turn.
“I can’t go to the Abbot with this,” Oswald whispered. “He’ll think I drank them. Or worse - that you brewed them. Please, Percival. I need your help. Just a few bottles. Just enough to put on the Archdeacon’s table and avoid a schism at breakfast.” Brother Percival straightened slowly, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with the solemn gravity of a man who had just been asked to commit a minor ecclesiastical crime. “Oswald,” he said at last, in a tone usually reserved for addressing sin, “you’re asking me to commit a deception.”
Brother Oswald wrung his hands. “Only a small one. The bottles will be sealed. The Archdeacon won’t notice. He’ll sip politely, murmur something about terroir, and that will be that.”
“Terroir,” Percival echoed, lips twitching. “That’s a strong word for what’s been fermenting under the library steps.”
“You said it was gentle!”
“I said it was subtle. Which it was, until three days ago. Then it started making noises.”
Oswald paled.
Percival sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. We’ll pick the least turbulent bottles, wipe the corks, and say a prayer for intestinal peace.”
Oswald looked like he might weep with relief. “Bless you, Brother. Truly.”
“Don’t start with the blessings yet,” Percival muttered. “If this goes wrong, I want it clearly recorded that you came to me.”
“And the oxen had nothing to do with it.”
“They never do.”
As Oswald scurried off into the gloom, crates in tow and guilt trailing behind him like a forgotten scapular, Brother Percival remained behind for a moment in the courtyard, lit only by a sliver of moon and the faint glimmer of scandal. He stared down at the empty baskets and sighed - not out of guilt, but something far more complicated. He never set out to deceive, not truly. His concoctions were honest things: apple, yeast, time, and the occasional burst of unintended theological introspection. That they sometimes inspired sleepless nights, spontaneous debates on transubstantiation, or one regrettable attempt to bless a donkey - well, none of that was in the recipe. Intent mattered, didn’t it? He wasn’t brewing rebellion… just cider. And yet, as the wind stirred the branches above and a lone apple thudded into the grass beside him, Percival had to wonder what kind of morning awaited them once the Archdeacon uncorked his bottle.
The night went by in uneasy stillness, broken only by the occasional creak of beams, the rustle of robes in restless sleep, and a faint clinking from the cellar where Brother Oswald muttered contrite prayers while rearranging the salvaged bottles with the reverence of a man re-baptising evidence. Then, as dawn cracked open across the monastery roofs, the first cock’s crow rang out, one that echoed through the cloister like a trumpet of mild alarm. Within moments, bells followed, and then the slow stirring of sandals on stone. Morning had come. And with it, the Archdeacon.
The sun rose gold and generous over the western coast, warming the monastery’s cold stones with an autumnal glow that felt almost like grace. Dew glistened on the cloister’s mossy paths, and distant seabirds called out like heralds on retainer. The scent of turned earth, crushed apples, and woodsmoke mingled in the morning air as the brothers filed into their respective tasks - some to the chapel, others to the kitchen, a few unlucky souls to the latrine trench. It was on such a morning that the Archdeacon arrived. Not in a grand carriage, nor even a fine horse-drawn cart, but perched with dignified discomfort atop a two-wheeled barrow that had been retrofitted with a bench and pulled by a rather sulky mule named Hildegard. The journey from the episcopal seat had been long, and by the look on his face, eventful. Still, his robes were immaculate, his rings polished, and his bearing every inch the man of ecclesiastical standing. The monastery’s bell had tolled once in welcome. The gate creaked open. And there stood the Abbot, in full habit, hands clasped in ceremonial serenity, waiting to receive the holy guest.
“Your Grace,” the Abbot greeted, bowing with just enough reverence to signal respect without subservience. “You honour us. And just in time for Lauds and a humble breakfast.”
The Archdeacon stepped down stiffly, as if unsure whether his legs would remember how to walk, and smiled a thin, polite smile. “Brother Abbot,” he said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves, “the road is long, but the Lord’s work is longer. I trust the brothers are in good spirits?”
The Abbot offered a serene nod. “Most are. One or two are… contemplative. But all are eager to greet Your Grace.”
From a few paces behind, Brother Oswald stared at the back of the Archdeacon’s head as if it might burst into flames. Beside him, Brother Percival was very still, hands folded - save for the single bedraggled begonia clutched like a relic in his left hand - a faint sheen of anticipation (or guilt) glistening on his brow.. Neither dared speak.
“Shall we enter?” the Abbot gestured, leading the Archdeacon beneath the stone archway. “The chapel is ready, the brethren gathered… and the table is set. We’ve apple preserves, warm bread, and a rather fine juice from the village priory. Entirely unfermented.” Then, turning back to brother Oswald, he added in a lower voice, “…and once the crates are unloaded, tend to the mule, will you? Take her to the stables and… make sure she doesn’t, ah, chew through the fence again.” He darted a glance towards the archdeacon, then leaned in and added under his breath, “Brother Aloysius is still looking for his Psalter. It had hoofprints.” Oswald’s eyebrows lifted. “Again?” The Abbot gave a tiny, despairing nod. “She has a taste for scripture.”
***
The entire abbey was gathered in the chapel, a modest, wind-worn structure whose stone walls still echoed the fervent chants of long-departed monks. Candles flickered in wrought-iron sconces, casting dancing shadows across solemn faces. The scent of beeswax, damp linen, and autumn earth hung gently in the air. At the front, the Abbot stood tall and polished, his best stole draped precisely, voice smooth as river-pebble as he welcomed the Archdeacon. “Your presence honours us, Father. We are doubly blessed - in spirit and in season.” The Archdeacon bowed his tonsured head in modest deference, then stepped forward to begin the prayer. His voice rang out with ecclesiastical vigour, clear and commanding, as if trying to convert the cobwebs in the rafters.
Brother Oswald, breathless from having just tethered the mule and sprinted across half the cloister, slipped into his place near Brother Percival. His robe was slightly askew, his hair rebellious, but he folded his hands and bowed his head with the air of one trying not to be noticed by either God or the Abbot. As the prayer swelled in sonorous Latin, Brother Oswald dared a sidelong glance toward the Abbot and the Archdeacon seated at the front of the chapel. The visiting dignitary stood tall, arms lifted in ecclesiastical grandeur, invoking divine grace upon the monastery, the harvest, the Abbot, and - unknowingly - the small catastrophe resting in a crate within the refectory. Beside him, Brother Percival was very still. Hands folded. Eyes reverently closed. A faint sheen of anticipation hovered about him, though it might’ve just been sweat. Prayers concluded in a chorus of "Amen"s that fluttered like doves to the vaulted ceiling. The Archdeacon lowered his arms and smiled, gracious yet expectant, the way dignitaries often did when liturgy was over and sustenance near. The Abbot gestured warmly. “Shall we proceed to the refectory, Father? You must be famished after such a journey.”
“Indeed,” the Archdeacon replied, his voice still rich with ecclesiastical resonance. “Though I find fasting sharpens the spirit… and the appetite.”
The monks filed out in quiet procession, robes brushing stone, the rhythm of sandals on flagstones echoing their solemn pace. Brother Oswald trailed behind, eyes fixed on the back of Percival’s tonsured head. He briefly considered tripping him, just to prevent what was about to unfold, but decided against martyrdom via slapstick. In the refectory, the table had been laid with care. Linen cloths, slightly singed from Brother Malachy’s last attempt at ironing them with a hot stone, covered the long wooden surface. Earthenware plates gleamed, their modest contents arranged with monastic precision. At the head of the table, a special setting awaited the Archdeacon, flanked by two bottles, one of which gave a soft plink as a bubble ascended. Oswald spotted them immediately and squinted. They looked... respectable. Light amber-hued, stoppered tight, even faintly glistening in the morning light. The clarity, to Oswald’s immense relief, was still there. The liquid shone golden and honest. One bottle even seemed to emit a faint fizz, like a suppressed thought. Oswald and Percival took their usual seats along the side, as far from the head as etiquette allowed. Oswald leaned in. “Is it too late to feign illness?” he whispered.
“Only if you want the Abbot to dose you with sheep bile and leeches again,” Percival murmured back.
A hush settled as the Archdeacon entered, robes immaculate, gaze sweeping the table with the approving detachment of a man accustomed to being served but suspicious of anything unfamiliar. The Abbot hovered nearby, performing introductions. “We’ve prepared a modest breakfast with local produce, including some preserved fruits from Mother Heledbeth’s priory…” he paused meaningfully, “…and, of course, a refreshing juice from this year’s orchard.”
“Ah,” said the Archdeacon, lifting one of the bottles and holding it up to the light. “Slightly cloudy. Honest. None of that over-filtered nonsense the Franciscans favour.”
Brother Percival offered a beatific smile. “Amen to that.”
The Archdeacon, oblivious to the inner anguish seated halfway down the table, reached for a knife and sliced a modest portion of bread. He paired it with soft cheese, nodded approvingly, and finally, inevitably, reached for the bottle. With the crisp pop of a cork, a gentle hiss followed, like a secret escaping. He poured a measure into his cup. The golden liquid shimmered, catching the morning light in a way that made Brother Oswald mumble a quiet prayer for divine intervention, or at least indigestion. Brother Percival, for his part, watched with an expression of studied serenity; his hands were folded, but his thumbs tapped a quiet rhythm against each other. The Archdeacon lifted the cup to his lips with ceremonial deliberation. He took a sip - not a mere taste, but a generous monk’s-mouthful - and paused. The room froze. Even the oxen outside seemed to hush their cud. He smacked his lips once. Thoughtfully. Then, to the horror of Oswald and the internal shrieking of Percival’s soul, he took another sip.
“A curious depth,” he said at last, rolling the liquid around his palate. “Full-bodied. Hints of… quince, perhaps? And something faintly… philosophical.”
Percival’s eyebrows twitched upward, but he said nothing. The Archdeacon took a third sip. “It has conviction,” he declared, as though describing a particularly zealous homily. “A bold, rustic honesty. Bold for an apple juice, I might add.” Brother Oswald, white as a candle, muttered, “That’s how it starts.” The Archdeacon, now visibly enlivened, set down his half-empty cup with a satisfied sigh. “Quite invigorating,” he declared. “You must try some, Abbot.” The air in the refectory shifted. The Abbot, who until now had maintained a polite distance from anything in a bottle, hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the Archdeacon, then to the glass, and then - with the solemnity of a man offering himself to the lions - reached for the second bottle. Brother Oswald stiffened so sharply that his chair gave a tiny squeak against the stone floor. Beside him, Percival’s hands tightened around his spoon with white-knuckled reverence.
“This is it,” Oswald thought. The Archdeacon’s eyes lit up in recognition, never a good sign when sampling anything made by Brother Percival. We perish at breakfast.
The Abbot uncorked the bottle with the air of a man resigning himself to grace or doom, whichever came first. He tilted the vessel, the liquid gleaming gold as it swirled into his cup. Oswald shut his eyes. Percival mouthed what may have been a prayer or a recipe. Then, just as the Abbot raised the cup to his lips - BZZZZZZZ! A furious, zigzagging bee barrelled through the open window like a tiny excommunicated soul on a mission. It circled the Archdeacon’s mitre, looped once around the Abbot’s head, and made a beeline (as it were) for the juice. The Abbot froze, mid-sip.
“St Francis preserve us!” he hissed, swatting ineffectively as the bee landed squarely on the rim of his goblet.
“Persistent little thing,” the Archdeacon chuckled. “Must be one of Brother Percival’s friends.” Oswald choked.
The Abbot, frowning with the dignity of a man upstaged by a pollinator, slowly lowered the cup. “Perhaps… later,” he said. From across the table, Percival exhaled so sharply his begonia drooped. The Abbot set the cup down with careful reverence, eyes still scanning the air for further insect invaders. The bee, apparently satisfied with its dramatic timing, zipped off toward the rafters. There was a moment of quiet -not silence, but the strained sort of quiet that sits heavy in a room full of monks trying very hard not to scream. The Archdeacon then cleared his throat and turned to the Abbot:
“Tell me, Brother,” he began casually, dabbing at his lips with a linen cloth, “what are your thoughts on the differences between the Eastern and Western rites?” A silence deeper than all previous silences fell across the refectory. Forks hovered mid-air. Bread was clutched but not broken. The Abbot blinked:
“I… I think both traditions offer unique insights into the glory of the Almighty.”
“A fair answer,” the Archdeacon said, nodding. “Diplomatic.” He took another sip of the cider. “But if pressed… would you say the filioque clause enhances or undermines the doctrine of the Trinity?”
Brother Oswald turned visibly pale. Brother Percival, spoon mid-air, closed his eyes and whispered, “Oh, sweet Mother of Gruit…”
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