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+INCIPIT VITA SANCTI CUBIANI

What makes a saint a saint? Is it the black robe of the Benedictine or the sackcloth of the desert? Surely not, for many a holy person has lived out their entire life in the fickle world, never assuming the habit or taking the vows of the monk. Is it, then, the approbation of Holy Church? As to that, consider how the Church in our own time and for many centuries past has reserved her approval only for those safely dead, unable to answer for themselves or to live on to do something ecclesiastically embarrassing. Saints are made in their own lifetimes, not in whispers of miracles and the dead weight of paper in the dusty archives of the Vatican. Are we to look for the answer on the road to Damascus, in the ineffable light of the divine breaking through into the lives of a chosen few? Perhaps so, although we may never known for sure until one day the rushing fire that stands the world on its head descends on us as well. Till then, the only hope we have is to study the saints around us, and the lives of those gone by, and in observing the particular, and indeed the ordinary, gain some insight into sanctity at large and its peculiar flavour.

So, I give you the life of Saint Cubby. This is not the Cubby of Cornish fame, Cubby of Holyhead, the son of Saint Levan, but instead an eponymous, far obscurer man. He was utterly lost to posterity until one of the many hundreds of copies of the Vita Sanctae Trinianae to come down to us from the Middle Ages (a copy much worn with use and splattered with suspicious-looking stains, the normal condition for that particular Life) was found to be a palimpsest, written over the sole surviving manuscript of the history of our Cubby.

Little is known of his early years, though it seems he came to the profession of sanctity only in adulthood. Cubby grew from humble peasant stock. No celestial portent, neither comet nor pillar of flame, attended his birth. He grew up an initiate of the art and mystery of the swine-herd, in the forests of oak and beech that clothed the upper slopes of his native valley. The pigs under his charge went daily about the woods on ends of their own, for the most part the discovery and consumption of acorns, mast and (in due season) truffles, while Cubby devoted much of the time thus freed for his use to sitting at the feet of the hermit Simeon.

For many years past this Simeon had occupied a cave in the hills, spending his days in contemplative prayer and enjoying the respect and offerings of the folk of Cubby's village. For a recluse with no social life to speak of, he was a surprisingly bluff and jovial fellow, always ready with a joke and a smile for his eager protégé. Under this wise direction the said protégé acquired a reasonable mastery of reading and writing in the Latin tongue, a smattering of Greek, and a comprehensive knowledge of the Desert Fathers and their animal companions.

Alas! One autumn this idyllic life was rudely shattered when the countryside was swept by a virulent plague, which carried off not only the Blessed Simeon but all of Cubby's family and almost the entire population of the village. Cubby survived, as did the pigs, who wandered off under the trees and found their lives considerably extended, but otherwise little altered. When next we hear of our saint, he is already a full-grown man, settled in the eremitic life, resident in a hilltop cell conveniently near a thriving village, but in some ways still an innocent in the ways of the fallen world.

Cubby wasn't a very successful saint. He knew it himself, the people of the village at the bottom of the hill knew it, and most of all his fellow saints Hieronymus and Serapion knew it. They were his nearest neighbours in the sanctity business, possessed proper saintly names, and were always modestly recounting the demons that tormented them and the succubi that attempted to entrap them with forbidden lusts. Cubby had never met a demon, though of course he had a general idea of what they should look like. Neither were his visions of the transcendent deity and the glory of the angelic host all which they should have been.

When Cubby built his wattle hut, he had done what seemed to him at the time to be the sensible thing, and put the door on the eastern side, facing away from the prevailing winds. Only later did Serapion take him aside and gently point out that the entrance was supposed to be on the west, so that those winds (and snow in winter) would blow right in and work up a nice ascetic chill. Cubby couldn't wear a hair-shirt for more than a few days before the itching and the bugs became so maddening that they drove him to take it off again, although worn inside-out it was nice and warm in winter. When he flagellated himself the scourge wounds healed right up again, refusing to fester and exude pus as those of his colleagues did.

No wonder, then, that the other two saints considered him a very low sort of hermit, and drove themselves to ever further frenzies of prayer and penance in expiation of his evident unworthiness. The villagers, too, preferred to seek advice and blessings, and to leave their offerings, at the hut of Serapion or of Hieronymus, who always had great mounds of food groaning at their doors, which they very properly refused to eat. Cubby, on the other hand, went hungry from necessity rather than from choice, surviving on the produce of his vegetable-patch and the hives of his bees, to which last he could be seen most evenings recounting the events of his day.

HOW SAINT CUBBY MET THE WANDERING JEWS

Cubby stood at the window, sipping cider and contemplating the unfamiliar but pleasant view across the river to where the Wrekin reared its tree-clad slope. Now and then he leafed casually through the manuscripts on the book-ledge under the sill, all solid, inspirational stuff. There was an Apophthegmata, a Birth of Mary, the Spiritual Exercises of John of Prum (a work very much ahead of its time), and the inevitable well-thumbed Life of Saint Trinian. It was Maundy Thursday, and Cubby was spending Easter with his old friend Sampson. Serapion had sniffed in a very significant way when he found out that Cubby was planning this trip, but he could hardly complain too much. Being a hermit didn't entirely rule out the occasional call on a fellow ascetic, especially at so holy a season, for a few days of prayer and some profouind theological disputation. It was after all in the best traditions of Scetis.

Sampson had been away in the woods since early morning, checking on the health of his pig and blessing the local wildlife, but Cubby expected him back at any moment. Yes - there he was. But who was that coming up the hill with him and trying desperately to match the old hermit's cracking pace? The stranger was a man of medium height, rather too amply built for a true ascetic, but vaguely familiar.

After a little while, Sampson and his companion reached the hilltop cell, and the visitor, still puffing and panting from the climb, was introduced as a wandering pilgrim, Ahasuerus, currently making his way to the Easter rites at the shrine of St Phoebammon not far away. "I invited him to rest a while, and share our frugal supper," explained Sampson, "though of course we have little to offer>" Cubby smiled to himself. Long experience had taught him all there was to know about Sampson's frugal meals.

After the repast, they sat all three on the grass outside the door of the cell, bloated from the meagre fare and mellowed by the cider they'd washed it down with. Ahasuerus must have had just a touch too much of the drink. because when the conversation turned, as it was bound to do at that season, to the events of Holy Week, the pilgrim became a little maudlin and started to reminisce. He claimed to have played a role, albeit a minor one, in that great story, and indeed to be the genuine and original Wandering Jew. He quoted Matt.xvi.28 at his audience. "He just happened to be looking at me when He said that - and I've been waiting ever since. I wish He'd hurry up about it."

Sampson was thrilled to meet the famous vagabond at last, a living link with the Messiah himself. Cubby wasn't quite so convinced. He remembered now where he'd seen this Ahasuerus before. It had been a few years since, at the shrine of St Phoebammon, and the wanderer, then calling himself the Bishop of Arimathaea, had delivered a sermon of truly leaden sparkle.

The sun sank low in the sky. Sampson pressed his guest for further anecdotes of first-century Palestine, and Cubby watched a figure climb slowly up the hill towards them in the fading light. He was tall, thin and wizened, seemed very tired, and sat down with a sigh on the ground when he reached the little group outside the hut.

Sampson made the new arrival welcome, and raided what was left of the contents of his larder still further to provide food and drink for him. "Cartaphilus is my name," he announced, "and I've been on the road now for a long, long time. I am indeed the Wandering Jew. When Jesus was leaving Pilate's palace with his cross, I told him to get a move on, and I've regretted it ever since. He said, you know, that I should wait until his return."

Ahasuerus stared long and hard at his professional rival, who returned him stare for stare with equal severity. Suddenly, they both laughed, and began to discuss mutual acquaintances of long ago and far away - Cartaphilus' auntie and her rheumatism, the buxom fruit-seller in the Zealot's Market, Ahasuerus' cousin who sent into the Sanhedrin Police. When they got on to the subject of how Jerusalem had never been quite them same since A.D.70, Cubby and Sampson glanced at one another, got quietly up and crept inside, leaving the two old Jews to their ancient memories.

HOW SAINT CUBBY ASSISTED AT THE CORPOREAL ASSUMPTION OF A PEASANT INTO HEAVEN

It was the feast of Saint Ghislain, and Cubby was wandering the high hills, deep in holy meditation and thoroughly enjoying himself. Of course, he couldn't admit to it, being a saint. The loud and disapproving snort from the hut of his neighbour Serapion as he'd passed by it just before dawn, had told him what his fellow hermit thought of men of God who went out for walks when it wasn't even raining. But the sun shone, the birds sang out their territorial ditties, and here and there clumps of pleasant little flowers poked their heads above the sward. Spring was most definitely in the air, and who could blame our Cubby if his meditations turned upon the wonders of nature around him, instead of the lures and blandishments of Satan? To be frank, he'd never been much bothered by demonic temptations, unlike his colleagues, who were always wrestling with cadaveric manifestations or tantalising succubi.

On this particular day, Cubby had set himself to climb the holy Mount Finn-Barr, by the pilgrimage path which wound around its slopes. Now and then, one of the sharp little flints that covered the ground worked its way in between his sandal and his foot, and he had to pause to remove it. After a stiff climb, he reached the top, and was rewarded by a wide and lovely vista over the sunny countryside all around. His neighbours, Serapion and Hieronymus, had thought it too obvious to mention that you were supposed to ascend the mountain on your hands and knees, getting them pleasantly cut to ribbons in the process. What's more, any ascetic worth the name would have waited for a chilly fog, avoiding the worldly, tempting view from the summit and probably acquiring a nasty ague as a bonus.

So Cubby climbed his holy mountain, said his prayers , and came down again with a stride perhaps a little too jaunty for the health of his soul. As he walked the lower slopes, he felt content with himself and the world, tired of limb, and ravenously hungry. It was entirely by accident that his homeward road took him past the holding of one Hrothgar, a peasant of those parts well known for his piety and for his willingness to trade a blessing for a filling meal.

Hrothgar was sitting outside his hut, watching the afternoon sun sink towards the horizon and the footsore hermit descend the slope towards him. His greeting was all that a hungry saint could desire. After a tour of the farmyard blessing everything in sight, Cubby found himself indoors, tucking in to a substantial bowl of beans and turnips. Hrothgar disapproved a little, perhaps, of so large an appetite in a professional mortifier of the flesh, but said nothing. He had noticed that Cubby's blessings were nowhere near as perfunctory as those of his colleagues in the business.

Cubby was making quite satisfactory inroads into the meal, when there was a strange and eerie noise outside, in the gathering gloom. It was high-pitched, unearthly, and accompanied by a golden and undoubtedly holy light which flooded in through the doorway and cast sharp shadows from everything inside. Hrothgar, after an initial hesitation, went out to see what it was, and Cubby debated whether to follow. He decided that so preternatural a manifestation would probably stay around for a while - indeed, the light and the sound were still increasing - and certainly Hrothgar would return in a moment or two to fetch him out. So Cubby turned his attention back to the beans.

By the time he'd finished his meal, and eaten a nice ripe apple, one of the last of the autumn crop, the holy light was starting to fade. He emerged from the cottage, still chewing the apple, but the farmyard was empty. Over his head, some little way up in the air, a shining golden disc was hovering. Cubby fell to his knees. "Sancte Ghislane, ora pro nobis!" he cried (it seemed appropriate), and as he did so the disc headed off in the direction of the holy mountain, its eerie whine fading as it went. Soon it had shrunk to a tiny golden dot, and then it vanished altogether. After a suitable interval of prayer Cubby got up and looked around. Of Hrothgar there was no sign at all, though he searched the farm quite thoroughly. There could be only one conclusion. The Deity, in His infinite wisdom, had recognised the exceptional piety of this particular provider of hot dinners to the clergy by bodily assuming him into heaven without the tedious necessity of dying beforehand. It was a shame about those meals, though. The local saints were going to have to look elsewhere for their meagre sustenance when they passed this way in the future.

HOW SAINT CUBBY LOST HIS HOLY REPUTATION

One stormy afternoon, Serapion was standing in the driving rain outside his cell, intoning his fourteen-thousandth Ave of the day, when he saw a woman stumbling along the path up the hill towards him. She was clad in tattered rags, she looked pale and ill, and she had a nasty hacking cough.

"Go back, Daughter of Eve!" he cried. "Come not close to tempt me with your wiles!" (Saints often used to talk like this to the lower orders of the laity).

"Have pity, rev'd sir, pity. All I ask is shelter from the storm. Please, just for tonight?"

"Begone!"

The saint gazed with satisfaction at the woman's back as she stumbled slowly back down the hill.

An hour later, Hieronymus was lying on the bed of stones in his hut, wrestling with some peculiarly fascinating lusts of the flesh, when he heard a noise at the door. Looking up, he saw a succubus leaning over to tempt him. A very low grade of demon, to be sure - ragged, haggard, and coughing unpleasantly. Interesting, he thought, that succubi should suffer like everyone else from bronchial trouble at this time of year. He snatched up the vial of holy water (which he always kept close to hand, just in case) and dashed the devil in the face with it, shouting, "Begone to hell, vile fiend!" and following up with a kick to its retreating rear. Then he settled back to his interrupted temptations.

Another hour passed, and Cubby was sitting outside his cell, the rain having stopped for the moment, feeding the sparrows from his meagre dinner, and watching the glorious red of the setting sun. He noticed a woman coming up the hill towards him. She was ragged, didn't look at all well, and was making heavy work of the climb. Every so often she stopped for a bout of coughing.

He hurried down towards her and assisted her up the slope and into his hut, where he laid her down on the straw pallet and turned to his poorly-stocked larder to warm some broth.

"Thank you, rev'd sir, thank you," she whispered, with an attempt at a smile. "You're a real saint, that you are."

Over the next few days, Cubby nursed his invalid back to health as best he could, though the offerings from the villagers dried up completely as soon as the scandal that he had a woman in his hut reached their ears, helped no doubt by Hieronymus and Serapion who thought it most unseemly for a saint, even an incompetent one. After a while he began to realise that sainthood wasn't everything. Encouraged by his patient's tales of the far places of the world she'd seen in her wanderings and by his own realisation that perhaps he wasn't cut out for a career in holiness anyway, Cubby cast aside his hut, his prayers and his reputation, and went off into the world with his beloved. They were never heard of again - not, at least, in the village below the hill.

In a very short while Cubby and the woman were utterly forgotten, while Hieronymus and Serapion went on to live short, ascetic lives and make marvellous reputations for themselves. In centuries following, great churches were raised where their cells had been, so that even when the men themselves had faded from history, people still came by, saw the dedication of the church, and thought, "St Serapion? And who was he really, I wonder?".

But was it Cubby who had chosen the wiser path?

+EXPLICIT VITA SANCTI CUBIANI.

I first wrote this little whimsy in the early eighties, and have re-edited it somewhat for the Net. My various inspirations include Vernon Lee, Caesar of Heisterbach, Ursula Le Guin, Helen Waddell, H.W.Timperley, William Canton, Sabine Baring Gould, and lots more.

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