As its name suggested, the travelers’ next stop was a burrow beneath a lone sycamore tree. No one knew who - or what - had planted that tree in the middle of an otherwise featureless grassland. No one knew who - or what - sustained it against the battering storms and long seasons of drought that afflicted the lee. But it had clearly grown there for countless generations, its many trunks and branches reaching up like bone-white claws to grasp the crystal blue sky above.
“‘Lo, pilgrims!” shouted a little voice as Master John limped towards the sycamore’s base. “Come, come! This way!”
On the cat’s back, Timothy peered down into the underbrush in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the speaker. Whoever it was, however, was well camouflaged and therefore lost to his sight —
— until, that is, they stepped through a door and started descending a tunnel in the soil. At that moment, an elderly pygmy mouse finally revealed himself by throwing off his cloak and lighting a torch. “This way,” he continued to mutter. “I have medicines this way.”
Soon, Timothy found himself sitting inside a cozy little cave, watching anxiously as the other mouse cleaned, treated, and dressed Master John’s wounds. The little doctor-of-the-moment seemed sure in his ministrations. Still, there was something odd in the way he carried himself — something Timothy couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“As usual, Brother Anthony,” groaned Master John when their host had finished, “you outshine Peacefield’s most celebrated physicians.” He touched the gauze wrapped around his head with one paw and nodded sagely. “I barely felt your work.”
“You’re lying, Master John,” huffed Brother Anthony. “Drink your willow bark tea while I retrieve our supper.” And with that, he melted into the dark of an adjoining corridor, twittering with barely contained energy.
“You know him, teacher?” Timothy asked after a beat.
“I do,” confirmed Master John. “When we were young, we both lived in Worcester. Of course, I was entirely unaware of Brother Anthony’s existence — up until the night he tried to kill me.”
Timothy coughed on his own saliva. “What?!”
“Don’t worry, my young apprentice, it’s quite alright. It was many seasons ago — well before you and your littermates were born. In fact, I was barely weaned myself — a rake of a kitten who was only just learning to control his baser instincts.”
“You were indeed,” chimed in Brother Anthony, who’d returned with one basket of seeds and one basket of crickets. “A real ratcatcher. Barely civilized.”
Master John looked rueful. “I made many mistakes back then — ones I still regret. And chief among those is the way I treated your siblings, Brother Anthony. I had no intention of harming them — but taunting them was still a sin.”
“Yes. So I decided to do something about you,” said Brother Anthony. “I was bristling with indignation and mousey pride, and I thought it was time the cats were taught a lesson. So I stole my father’s blade, fully intending to plunge it into Master John’s guts.”
“And?” Timothy was listening with bated breath.
“Master John woke up before I could strike my avenging blow. As I approached, he stirred, blinked one of his eyes at me, and said —”
“‘Go ahead, brave mouse. You’ve earned one prick for your audacity alone.’”
Master John and Brother Anthony both laughed.
“That was arrogant bluster on my part,” admitted the former.
“Indubitably. But I admired it all the same,” replied the latter. “And to this day, I still consider that moment the start of my conversion.”
Master John turned to Timothy. “Brother Anthony is a Hermit,” he explained. “That’s why he lives alone here: to reflect on Creation and the Maker’s ways.”
“In particular, to reflect on the similarities that bind all the Enlightened. Every visitor I meet - whether mouse or cat or prairie dog - shares qualities with the rest — a Nature, if you will, that’s universal despite our many differences. That’s interesting to me. It flies against everything I was taught. And it challenges modern fancies too.”
“I assume you’re referring to the Reparative Philosophy that’s currently in vogue?” Master John delivered this with a little growl at the base of his throat.
“You assume correctly.” Brother Anthony spit. “Fools. They peddle the same hatred; they simply reverse the dominant and submissive parties. But vengeance and division are not what the Maker wants for us all. Creation is good. Truth has substance. Love is real. And I say we are meant to be united. We are meant to solve our problems together, with fellow feeling.”
“Well said, my friend. Well said!”
Then Timothy gave voice to his curiosity. “This ‘Reparative Philosophy’ — is Princess Anastasia a believer?”
“It’s very likely,” said Master John.
“Is that why she hates the painting of Old Sage?”
“Aha!” crowed the old hermit. “Is this painting the reason for your visit, Master John?”
Timothy couldn’t contain his excitement. “We’re going to discover who painted it — if we can.”
“And what purpose will that serve?”
“Well, gee. I was just hoping if the princess and the citizens of Peacefield knew where it really came from - and why exactly it was painted - they’d be less likely to tear it down.”
“Ah, so you’re an optimist — like your benighted mentor.”
“Huh?” To Timothy, the logic of his quest seemed obvious. If he could find the true history of the painting, he could finally correct the mistake that animated the cause for its destruction. He knew - he just knew deep in his marrow - that it wasn’t meant to be a celebration of oppression and evil. And if he could prove it, imagine how many minds that would change!
“I don’t wish to pour cold water on your fire, boy. If you accomplish your goal, you will likely turn some hearts. Others, however, may be lost entirely — including, I fear, the king’s daughter.” Brother Anthony wiped the crumbs from his whiskers with a napkin. “The trouble, you see, is that many Reparatives don’t come to their beliefs through reason and reflection. Oh, they are often quite capable of aping the process through their many pretty words. But for many, those words are mere justifications for unexamined prejudices and resentments that they would rather not confront.”
“So Princess Anastasia doesn’t hate the painting because she thinks it insults mice?”
“That’s difficult to know. I am not the princess. But it is possible her real, deeper motives are not reflected in the things she says. Language only scratches the surface of the Enlightened Mind.”
“But I wouldn’t declare this entire mission hopeless yet, Young Timothy,” Master John finally cut in. “At the very least, you will benefit from your new knowledge — even if, in the end, no one else listens to your message. Truth has substance, yes. And it is worth seeking for its own sake.”
To be continued...
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