In one of his increasingly rare lucid intervals, Jamie asked me to let him die. I answered curtly, as I had the night before, "Damned if I will," and went on with what I was doing.
As the sun went down, there was a stir of approaching men in the corridor. The door opened and the abbot, Jamie's uncle Alex, came in, accompanied by Brother Anselm and three other monks, one carrying a small cedarwood box. The abbot came over to me and blessed me briefly, then took one of my hands in his.
"We are going to anoint the lad," he said, his deep voice kind. "Do not be frightened."
He turned toward the bed and I looked wildly to Anselm for explanation.
"The sacrament of Extreme Unction," he explained, moving close so that his low tones would not disturb the monks gathered around the bed. "The Last Anointing."
"Last Anointing! That's for people who are dying!"
"Shh." He drew me farther away from the bed. "It might more properly be called anointing of the sick, though in fact it is usually reserved for those in danger of death." The monks had turned Jamie gently onto his back, arranging him tenderly so that he might lie with the least hurt to his raw shoulders.
"The purpose of the sacrament is twofold," Anselm went on, murmuring in my ear as the preparations went on. "First, it is intended as a sacrament of healing; we pray that the sufferer may be restored to health, if that be God's will for him. The chrism, the consecrated oil, is used as a symbol of life and healing."
"And the second purpose?" I asked, already knowing.
Anselm nodded. "If it is not God's will that he should recover, then he is given absolution of sins, and we commend him to God, that his soul may depart in peace." He saw me tighten in protest, and laid a warning hand on my arm.
"These are the last rites of the Church. He is entitled to them, and to whatever peace they may bring him."
The preparations were complete. Jamie lay on his back, a cloth modestly draped across his loins, with lighted candles at the head and the foot of the bed that reminded me most unpleasantly of grave lights. Abbot Alexander sat at the bedside, accompanied by a monk who held a tray with a covered ciborium, two small silver bottles containing holy water and chrism, and a white cloth draped across both forearms. Like a bloody wine steward, I thought crossly. The whole procedure unnerved me.
The rites were conducted in Latin, the soft antiphonal murmuring soothing to the ear, though I did not understand the meaning. Anselm whispered softly to me the meaning of some parts of the service; others were self-explanatory. At one point, the Abbot motioned to Polydore, who stepped forward and held a small vial under Jamie's nose. It must have contained spirits of ammonia or some other stimulant, because he jerked and turned his head away sharply, eyes still closed.
"Why are they trying to wake him?" I whispered.
"If possible, the person should be conscious in order to give assent to the statement that he is sorry for any sins committed during his life. Also, if he is capable of receiving it, the Abbot will give him the Blessed Sacrament."
The Abbot stroked Jamie's cheek softly, turning his head back to the vial, speaking quietly to him. He had dropped from Latin into the broad Scots of their family, and his voice was gentle.
"Jamie! Jamie, lad! It's Alex, lad. I'm here wi' ye. Ye must wake a bit now, only for a bit. I shall be givin' ye the absolution now, and then the Blessed Sacrament of Our Lord. Take a wee sup, now, so ye can answer me when ye must." The monk called Polydore held the cup against Jamie's lips, carefully pouring the water a drop at a time, until the parched tongue and throat could take more. His eyes were open, still heavy with fever, but alert enough.
The Abbot went on then, the questions in English, but pitched so low that I could scarcely catch them. "Do ye renounce Satan and all his works?"
"Do ye believe in the Resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ?" and so on. To each one, Jamie answered "Aye," in a scratchy whisper.
Once the sacrament had been given, Jamie lay back with a sigh, closing his eyes once more. I could see his ribs as the deep-sprung chest moved with his breathing. He had wasted dreadfully, between the sickness and the fever. The Abbot, taking the vials of holy water and chrism in turn, made the sign of the Cross on his body, anointing forehead, lips, nose, ears, and eyelids. Then, in turn, he made the sign of the Cross with the holy oil in the hollow of the chest over the heart, on the palm of each hand, and the arch of each foot. He lifted the injured hand with infinite care, brushing the oil across the wound lightly and laying the hand back on Jamie's chest, where it lay below the livid slash of the knife scar.