name="Reciprocity" by Ray Gregory

Reciprocity

The old bishop cinched his robe about his waist, then eased back into his comfortable armchair. He gazed down at Thomas sprawled on the carpet. The boy looked mesmerized by the flames dancing on the hearth. His fervent young mind had been elsewhere all afternoon. But oh, the rest of him! The finely chiseled intaglio of his shoulder blades, his spine glistening like a serpent writhing in silt, his haunches as firm and agile as a young Pan’s. The old bishop sighed.

In complexion, features, and especially intellect, Thomas was far fairer than his native brethren. But then, some two-and-a-third millennia ago, great Alexander’s army had overrun the land. Could not the boy’s ancient forebear have been one of that formidable band? Brilliant young Thomas might even be the proof that Alexander’s own seed had taken root in the native muck. Would the great one not have savored all manner of the local delights, from the liveliest of boys to the comeliest of women? The old bishop sniffed with satisfaction as he nestled his cropped white hair against the headrest of the armchair. Life in this bygone backwater, this unspoiled repository of the primal essentials, indeed had its rewards.

Thomas remained silent. For all his precociousness, all his training and education, even at the hands of the old bishop himself, the boy still seemed troubled by the news from his village that morning. Some nameless goatherd, as the old bishop recalled it, had saved a young girl from drowning in the river, but in the process lost his own life.

“Thomas!” the old bishop snapped.

The boy rose obediently to his knees. The old bishop leaned forward. He patted Thomas’ head as golden flecks from his signet ring danced in the curly chestnut locks. What a tangled, brooding mixture the boy was. In the sanctuary, frocked in gleaming white linen, how his savage young sinews bent to the heavenly authority of the Church, how his quavering guttural tongue, tamed by English as well as Latin, strained to receive the pristine Host!

Another lesson was in order. The old bishop cleared his throat. He lowered his voice. “Reciprocity, Thomas. You know the word, from the Latin reciprocus, reciprocare?”

Thomas met the old bishop’s stare. “Yes, Excellency, as in motion forward and backward.”

“Very good, Thomas. And in human affairs, I scratch your back, you scratch mine. As they say, what makes the world go round.”

“And do unto others, Excellency?”

The old bishop snickered as he slid his hand to the nape of Thomas’ neck. He pinched a ringlet of hair behind the boy’s ear, caressed the sheer strands between his thumb and fingertips, the way he would appraise the weave of a fine new chasuble.

“Of course, Thomas, do unto others, but with foresight and responsibility. One must always look ahead, determine the likelihood of the other person returning the favor. Do unto others indeed, if, in the course of life, they can, and will, do unto you. Reciprocity is the root of order, civilization, righteousness. It is God’s will for man.”

“But Excellency, did not Jesus say...”

“Ever the budding theologian, Thomas? Questioning is good, but only when it leads you in the direction of heaven, not elsewhere. Let’s not forget the original formulation of the commandment — eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. One gives and gets according to what is just and reasonable, no more, no less. So do unto others to the extent that they will do unto you. As our Lord and Savior said, he came not to change the old law, but to fulfill it.”

Thomas paused, squinted. “Yes, Excellency, but did not our Lord also say...”

The old bishop raised a taut index finger to his lips. “Shh! You’re a smart boy, Thomas. Very clever. But never parse the words of the Lord. That’s what the Protestants do, constantly, and see how lost they’ve become without the firm anchor of authority.”

Thomas bowed his head. “Yes, Excellency....”