Smudge and the Book of Mistakes by Gloria Whelan

T he cruel winter winds blew across Ireland and over the sea to the island of Morcarrick, frosting the stone walls of the monastery of St. Ambrose and turning the water in the monks’ washbasins to ice. Cuthbert sat shivering in his cell, reflecting on his failures.
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    Cuthbert had been sent to the monastery after his father saw the boy would be hopeless as a warrior. Cuthbert was not big, but small and pale like a seedling that has just emerged from the ground.
    He was an impatient boy who gave up easily. When crumbled under the weight of heavy metal armor, he would not put the armor on again. He refused to retrieve his sword of iron after it slipped from his weak grasp. He gave up archery on his first try because the arrows missed their target. When he was thrown from his horse, he refused to climb back on.
    Cuthbert said, “If I try a thing once and I fail, why would I try it again?”
    Outraged, Cuthbert’s father cried, “Send him to the monks!”

    Cuthbert was fifteen when he arrived at the mona stery of St. Ambrose. The sleeves of his robe swallowed his hands; his hood fell over his face, blinding him, so that he was forever bumping into things.
    He found the monks’ behavior strange. When they were disobedient or said something unkind, they didn’t wait to be punished. They hurried to punish themselves. They went without their meal; fasting, they called it. When Cuthbert did something he was ashamed of he liked to comfort himself by eating an extra bit of bread and honey to make himself feel better.
    And there was the choir. Like the cicadas that sing in the trees,
the monks chanted all day long and in the night as well. The sound of their plainsong was sweet, but when Cuthbert opened his mouth,
his voice sounded like the crows that perch on the monastery roof.
    â€œYou must practice,” the choirmaster said.
    â€œIf you do something badly,” Cuthbert said, “why do it over and over?”
    The monks tried him in the kitchen but he refused to learn how to gather honey after a bee stung him. He was assigned to the sewing room but he would not practice his stitching and the robe he made for Brother John fell apart, exposing Brother John’s underwear.

    Thinking he could do little harm with a goose quill, they put Cuthbert into the scriptorium where the lettering was done. Cuthbert was happy in the scriptorium. He liked letters. Each letter had its own unique story to tell. The H with the two little rooms, one on top of the other. The ups and downs of the M and W . The X , like crossed swords. And he had a wonderful idea for X . Why could you not put a little tail on the end of one of the swords?
    He suggested the little tail to Brother Bede, who was in charge of the scriptorium. Brother Bede laughed and laughed. Then he gave Cuthbert a slap and told him to hold his tongue.
    In Cuthbert’s eagerness to make the letters he so loved, he dribbled and blotted the ink. His pages looked like a flock of blackbirds had settled on them. Brother Ethbert, who was the best scribe in the mona stery and knew it, took to calling Cuthbert “Smudge.” It was time to shift Cuthbert to another job.

    On the Feast of Saint Blaise the very ancient and stubborn Abbot of St. Ambrose called for Brother Bede. Brother Bede bowed a very low bow. He trembled, for it was known that the abbot was strict and would not put up with so much as a whisker of disagreement.
    â€œIt is very cold today, Abbot,” Brother Bede said.
    â€œWhat do you mean I look very old today!” the hard-of-hearing abbot said. “Why wouldn’t I with fools like you to deal with?”
    When Brother Bede tried to explain what he had said, the abbot raised his hand for silence. “I have something of the greatest importance to say to you. I have chosen our own Brother Gregory, the finest illuminator of manuscripts in the world, to illustrate the Christmas Story. The manuscript will be praised