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fellowshippers2006-01-05 01:18 pm
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-01-05 01:18 pm
Brethren, Chapter Two
Title: Brethren
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Paring: DM/VM, maybe more
Rating: PG this part, up to NC-17
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saura_, who reminds me that real people do not speak in paragraphs.
Feedback: Please! Cheers for all the comments thusfar. You all keep me going.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Wherein we learn just a bit more of Viggo’s past, giggle at Dom’s close-mindedness, and wonder when the pretty boys are going to make out. (Patience, patience).
AN: Please accept my apologies for the hiatus. I was on holiday in the States and when I got back to UCC completely swamped by jetlag and trying to suss out my timetable. All is well now, and I'll be back to posting regularly (about once a week) now.
Dominic’s first week in Bethlehem went very smoothly. It was a lot like home, apart from the surroundings—he attended daily choir meetings, pitched in with the communal work, and prayed with his brethren. A couple of the immigrants from Germany arrived with mild illnesses from the boat, and he found himself appointed as a sort of helper while Viggo healed them. Viggo was very patient, not only using him as an assistant but teaching what he knew about the herbs used and the remedies practiced. One day, after watching Viggo prepare a wrap for a deep cut one man had gotten in the fields, he was helping replace some herbs in a collection of small glass phials Viggo had carefully labelled when something struck him.
“Viggo, where did you learn these techniques, precisely? I don’t remember seeing anyone healed by herbs in this way back at home.”
“That’s because these techniques don’t exist at home, Dominic. I learned these techniques from the natives.”
“Natives?” Dominic asked, a bit shakily, his fingers slightly clumsy as he sorted out the roots he was given. He shuddered as he pictured an Indian teaching Viggo how to use these herbal remedies—he had not yet seen a native himself, sheltered as he was in Bethlehem, and though he knew Viggo had gone on the missions, it was quite another thing to picture Viggo actually being taught by these wild, frightening men. He had always assumed the white man was the only teacher in this sort of exchange.
“Dominic. Why do you pale so? I fear you are judging too quickly in your heart.”
“But Viggo… they’re… Indians. They stand to learn from us, and we have the responsibility to teach them, but is it not dangerous to allow them to school you in their medicine, and then to apply it to Christians? Is this not the devil’s work? I fear for you, friend.” Viggo sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes briefly before reaching out and clasping Dominic’s shoulder with a strong hand.
“Your mind is well-directed, my young friend. Perhaps too-well directed, however. Will you listen to my story before making such rash judgements?” Dom nodded slowly, a little embarrassed, but still frightened by the implications of what Viggo might be telling. “Right, then,” Viggo began, returning to his work with a practiced patience and skilled hands. “When I was a boy, I used to go out into the fields at harvest season. We didn’t have much, and though I was lucky enough to be taken up as an apprentice by a kind and generous doctor when I was older, at that point in my childhood I needed to work in the fields to help supplement my father’s meagre income and provide for my family. Some days, the work would be done quickly, and so I would escape to the woods where a nearby Iroquois tribe lived.
“To an Indian village?”
“Yes. I befriended a little boy there, and we communicated in signs. Slowly, after several harvest seasons passed, I learned the tribe’s language and was able to find out about their culture. My little friend’s father was a shaman, and he let me watch some of the less private sacred healing practices.”
“Like a witch doctor?” Dom paled, his fingers twitching slightly again before he placed them on the wooden table to steady himself.
“I suppose you might call it that,” Viggo replied softly with an unreadable smile. “He was an amazing man, this shaman. They called it miracle healing, I call it the grace of God, but either way I learned much through him. Later, when I was grown, I continued to venture into the country to learn practices that would aid my own work as a doctor. My experiences among the natives have aided me much in my life here, in converting.”
“But don’t the natives resist your attempts?”
“Natives and white men are not so black and white as you see them now, Dominic. The natives see the world differently than we do, but not entirely. There are common points. The Indians care for their children, and they see their communities disgraced by violence and alcohol. They are suspicious of us at first, but they turn to us to maintain their community. They see that the ways of the Lord are powerful, and they come to us. But I see it also as a reciprocal exchange.”
“I don’t think I understand.” Dominic bit his lip, concentrating more on Viggo’s words now than the task he was performing.
“The key to mission work is patience, and understanding. We give things to the Indians, yes, and we teach them Christ’s name. But I believe that they already felt His presence long before a white man set foot on their soil. How else do you explain the effectiveness of their medicine? Do you remember when I told you about how the man in New York experienced a miracle healing?” Dominic nodded silently in recognition. “Well, I do believe that he was healed by the grace of God, and most of what I did was only for his comfort, but what I did not relay to you is that he would have been lost if it were not for Indian techniques. I used a very old Indian remedy on that man, and said some prayers over him in their native tongue…”
“But that’s blasphemy!” Dominic exclaimed, shocked at the story of his new mentor. Viggo smiled as if he were telling the story to a confused child, and just shook his head slowly.
“Just because a prayer is said in a native tongue, with native methods, does not mean it is not a manifestation of the same Lord we white men worship. There are more similarities than you realize, Dominic. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to experience them firsthand, when you are ready.” Dominic nodded, looking perplexed, and Viggo smiled as they reached the longhouse where the single brethren resided. “It is almost suppertime,” Viggo pointed out. “Perhaps we can pray about this later,” he suggested, and Dominic just nodded again, a brief “okay” gracing his lips before he entered the building. He was going to have a lot to think about.
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Paring: DM/VM, maybe more
Rating: PG this part, up to NC-17
Beta:
saura_, who reminds me that real people do not speak in paragraphs.Feedback: Please! Cheers for all the comments thusfar. You all keep me going.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don’t sue.
Summary: Wherein we learn just a bit more of Viggo’s past, giggle at Dom’s close-mindedness, and wonder when the pretty boys are going to make out. (Patience, patience).
AN: Please accept my apologies for the hiatus. I was on holiday in the States and when I got back to UCC completely swamped by jetlag and trying to suss out my timetable. All is well now, and I'll be back to posting regularly (about once a week) now.
Dominic’s first week in Bethlehem went very smoothly. It was a lot like home, apart from the surroundings—he attended daily choir meetings, pitched in with the communal work, and prayed with his brethren. A couple of the immigrants from Germany arrived with mild illnesses from the boat, and he found himself appointed as a sort of helper while Viggo healed them. Viggo was very patient, not only using him as an assistant but teaching what he knew about the herbs used and the remedies practiced. One day, after watching Viggo prepare a wrap for a deep cut one man had gotten in the fields, he was helping replace some herbs in a collection of small glass phials Viggo had carefully labelled when something struck him.
“Viggo, where did you learn these techniques, precisely? I don’t remember seeing anyone healed by herbs in this way back at home.”
“That’s because these techniques don’t exist at home, Dominic. I learned these techniques from the natives.”
“Natives?” Dominic asked, a bit shakily, his fingers slightly clumsy as he sorted out the roots he was given. He shuddered as he pictured an Indian teaching Viggo how to use these herbal remedies—he had not yet seen a native himself, sheltered as he was in Bethlehem, and though he knew Viggo had gone on the missions, it was quite another thing to picture Viggo actually being taught by these wild, frightening men. He had always assumed the white man was the only teacher in this sort of exchange.
“Dominic. Why do you pale so? I fear you are judging too quickly in your heart.”
“But Viggo… they’re… Indians. They stand to learn from us, and we have the responsibility to teach them, but is it not dangerous to allow them to school you in their medicine, and then to apply it to Christians? Is this not the devil’s work? I fear for you, friend.” Viggo sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes briefly before reaching out and clasping Dominic’s shoulder with a strong hand.
“Your mind is well-directed, my young friend. Perhaps too-well directed, however. Will you listen to my story before making such rash judgements?” Dom nodded slowly, a little embarrassed, but still frightened by the implications of what Viggo might be telling. “Right, then,” Viggo began, returning to his work with a practiced patience and skilled hands. “When I was a boy, I used to go out into the fields at harvest season. We didn’t have much, and though I was lucky enough to be taken up as an apprentice by a kind and generous doctor when I was older, at that point in my childhood I needed to work in the fields to help supplement my father’s meagre income and provide for my family. Some days, the work would be done quickly, and so I would escape to the woods where a nearby Iroquois tribe lived.
“To an Indian village?”
“Yes. I befriended a little boy there, and we communicated in signs. Slowly, after several harvest seasons passed, I learned the tribe’s language and was able to find out about their culture. My little friend’s father was a shaman, and he let me watch some of the less private sacred healing practices.”
“Like a witch doctor?” Dom paled, his fingers twitching slightly again before he placed them on the wooden table to steady himself.
“I suppose you might call it that,” Viggo replied softly with an unreadable smile. “He was an amazing man, this shaman. They called it miracle healing, I call it the grace of God, but either way I learned much through him. Later, when I was grown, I continued to venture into the country to learn practices that would aid my own work as a doctor. My experiences among the natives have aided me much in my life here, in converting.”
“But don’t the natives resist your attempts?”
“Natives and white men are not so black and white as you see them now, Dominic. The natives see the world differently than we do, but not entirely. There are common points. The Indians care for their children, and they see their communities disgraced by violence and alcohol. They are suspicious of us at first, but they turn to us to maintain their community. They see that the ways of the Lord are powerful, and they come to us. But I see it also as a reciprocal exchange.”
“I don’t think I understand.” Dominic bit his lip, concentrating more on Viggo’s words now than the task he was performing.
“The key to mission work is patience, and understanding. We give things to the Indians, yes, and we teach them Christ’s name. But I believe that they already felt His presence long before a white man set foot on their soil. How else do you explain the effectiveness of their medicine? Do you remember when I told you about how the man in New York experienced a miracle healing?” Dominic nodded silently in recognition. “Well, I do believe that he was healed by the grace of God, and most of what I did was only for his comfort, but what I did not relay to you is that he would have been lost if it were not for Indian techniques. I used a very old Indian remedy on that man, and said some prayers over him in their native tongue…”
“But that’s blasphemy!” Dominic exclaimed, shocked at the story of his new mentor. Viggo smiled as if he were telling the story to a confused child, and just shook his head slowly.
“Just because a prayer is said in a native tongue, with native methods, does not mean it is not a manifestation of the same Lord we white men worship. There are more similarities than you realize, Dominic. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to experience them firsthand, when you are ready.” Dominic nodded, looking perplexed, and Viggo smiled as they reached the longhouse where the single brethren resided. “It is almost suppertime,” Viggo pointed out. “Perhaps we can pray about this later,” he suggested, and Dominic just nodded again, a brief “okay” gracing his lips before he entered the building. He was going to have a lot to think about.