In the everlasting peace that followeth the final breath, I, Brother Elias, once a poor monk of Holy Order in the years near unto the Lord’s incarnation of fourteen hundred, do look backward upon the days of my earthly sojourn.

God in His mercy granted me the charge of the vinegar-making within our house, and of that labour I speak now with thankful heart.

Each morn, when Lauds were ended and the first light touched the cloister stones, I would take my way down the worn steps into the cool vault beneath. There the great casks of oak stood in ordered silence, and upon the surface of the wine rested the Mother—that living, cloudy veil which the Lord Himself hath set to work His hidden transformation.

I would draw off a measure of good wine, neither too new nor too harsh, and place a portion of the Mother therein. Then followed the long waiting of many months. The vessels stood open to the still air, and day by day the wine did yield its sweetness, turning by slow degrees into that sharp and lasting liquor which we call vinegar. I tended the casks with careful hand, feeling the cool of the stone with my palm, shielding the mother from foul draughts and unclean vessels, and trusting always to the patience that God requireth of those who would work well in good time.

I did instruct the younger brethren in these same ways. I showed them how to know a sound Mother—thick, fair, and sweet-smelling of the promise of sharpness—how to keep it safe, and how by taste and scent to judge when the vinegar had come to its proper strength, never to rush. Some learned with ready mind; others needed many seasons of gentle teaching. Yet the knowledge was never mine alone; it belonged to the house of God, and to those who should come after.

Greater still was the blessing when the folk of the town came to our gate, bearing fevers, festering sores, or the lingering ills of the body. Then would the infirmarian send for me, and I would prepare a draught of the vinegar, well diluted with clean water and a little honey. It cooled the raging blood, cleansed wounds more kindly than harsher remedies, and eased the ache of joints and the trouble of the stomach.

Freely we gave it, asking only their prayers in return. In such service I felt most surely that I wrought the work of God, not by mighty signs, but by the quiet labour of preserving what the earth and the Mother’s slow changing had provided.

My days were ordered by the holy offices, by the turning of the seasons, and by the patient ripening of the vinegar. I sought little and received much: the fellowship of my brothers, the dignity of useful toil, and the knowledge that what I made did heal the sick and sustain the community.

When at last the Lord called me from this world, I left the casks in the keeping of those I had taught, the mothers still living and still labouring.

Now, from this place of rest, I look back without sorrow. Great is my gratitude that I was suffered to spend my years in so humble and so good a service. The making of vinegar was my appointed work, a daily act of obedience unto the Creator’s secret designs. I did that which I loved, and in the doing of it I served both God and my neighbour.

Such a life is well lived, and for it I render thanks without end.

Brother Elias