Joshua’s eyes shot left and right, perhaps to ensure the Shadow wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. “Well, actually, on this one night when—”
The door to the refectory swung open; the startled child yelped.
Brother Andrew entered with a smile, followed by a tall, slim man with a bushy mustache that curled around the edges of his lips. The other man wore a brown tunic, much like his own, and carried a wooden tray holding a cup, a head of cabbage, and a black loaf of bread.
“Good dawning, Alexander,” the monk said. “I see you have met one of our fine lads.”
Joshua squeezed the broom and started sweeping again. “’Twas just working my chores, Brother.” The child scurried out the door.
The man with the brown tunic placed the tray on the table, bowed to Brother Andrew, and exited without a word. No black robe—that might mean the man wasn’t a monk and that other kinds of people also lived at the abbey.
“How are you feeling this morning, Alexander?” Brother Andrew asked.
Alexander put a hand on his bandages and winced. “I think I’m well enough to go find my parents.” He bit into the bread loaf, which crumbled around his lips.
Brother Andrew reached out and pulled on the bandages.
Ouch! Though the monk grasped them gently, each tug caused a sharp pain until the final bandage fell to the stone floor.
“There. How is that?” Brother Andrew said.
The pounding had already begun to lessen, as though his head was joyously celebrating its freedom from bondage. “A bit better, thank you.”
“Excellent.” Brother Andrew smiled. “Last night, while you slept, the abbey’s leech examined you and said your bandages could be removed today.”
Maybe the monk was playing a joke on him. Leeches were slimy little creatures that lived in rivers. How did he know that, anyhow? Perhaps he had seen one, or his parents had told him.
He smirked at the monk. “A leech really told you that, Brother?”
The monk’s laughter echoed through the high-ceilinged room. “Not an actual leech, my son. A ‘leech’ is a monk learned in herbs and medicine who uses leeches for healing.”
How odd.
He bit into the green cabbage, so moist that it squirted water on his tongue while he chewed.
“As for your parents,” the monk said, “I have no news to report. But I have spoken with the prior and the abbot about your situation, and we have come up with a plan.”
Five days without his parents coming could mean they didn’t want to find him for some reason. Unless they didn’t know about Harwood Abbey. “Is Hardonbury far? Can I go there?”
The monk shook his head. “Far, but not too far. Today, the plan is to get you settled and give your body a little longer to heal. Tomorrow, the abbot directs me to take you to Hardonbury.”
He frowned. Another day without knowing his parents or his real name.
“All right, Brother. If you think that is best.”
“Now tell me,” Brother Andrew said. “How do you like the name I have chosen for you?”
Alexander. Surely that wasn’t the name his parents would have given him, so long and difficult to say. Yet the monk had been delighted by it.
Brother Andrew must have sensed his doubts. “Your namesake is Alexander the Great, one of the great warriors of history. Over a thousand years ago, his father, King Philip of Macedon, conquered Greece and built an empire. While still a boy, Alexander showed courage, strength, and great wisdom. He was tutored by none other than Aristotle, the brilliant Greek philosopher.”
The monk must be quite a dreamer to give such a name to an injured boy who threshed wheat. Brother Andrew’s face lit up as though he’d fought alongside Alexander the Great himself.
“Alexander the Great led his army on a crusade that captured many lands. My son, you should have seen it—soldiers as strong and numerous as the sands of the Sahara. All feared them. And at only nineteen years, that boy ruled one of the greatest empires this world has ever known.”
The monk patted him on the shoulder. “That is why I chose the name Alexander. I sense there is more to you than meets the eye.”
The name had dignity—maybe too much dignity. Falling down in the forest and banging your head didn’t make someone worthy of such a name. Unless the monks knew he’d done something strong and courageous in the forest and were keeping secrets from him.
“Do you not like the name?” Brother Andrew’s expression sank in disappointment.
He shrugged. “’Tis a fine name, Brother. Except . . . ’tis so long to say.”
The monk smiled. “I can solve that. What if we called you Xan for short?” He pronounced the nickname as “Zan.”
Much shorter and simpler, even a bit mysterious. Xan—the boy with no name and no memory. The look on his face must have provided all the answer Brother Andrew needed.
The monk clapped his hands. “’Tis settled, then. Now rise and follow me, Xan. ’Tis time you met the other boys and moved into the dormitory.”
No doubt, some of the boys were older than Joshua. They’d probably make fun of him: a new boy with a made-up name and no memory. What would he have done back in Hardonbury if boys had made fun of him? He might have cussed or punched them. Or would he have run away?
Brother Andrew was still talking. “First, I will introduce you to the monk in charge of the boys. Since the plague, a few of our monks have taken turns each week watching over the dorm.”
“And whose turn is it this week?” Xan asked.
“Brother Leo.”
That was the mean old monk. Brother Leo would probably be sticking his fat finger into Xan’s face a lot, screaming at him to hurry up and do chores.
“Why do you make a face?” Brother Andrew said, staring at him. “Brother Leo is a good man.” The monk ushered Xan out the door. “Come now, Xan. You have slept half the day away, and there is something magnificent that you absolutely must see.”
4
Games
A crisp wind slapped Xan’s cheeks as Brother Andrew led him around the abbey’s stone structures—some connected by covered walkways—gesturing and explaining as they walked.
Their first stop had been the abbey church, with its vast empty center and high-arched ceilings that drew the eye to Heaven. Carved statues dotted the little alcoves, and beeswax candles gave off a sweet aroma and glow. A window of many-colored glass rose behind an altar.
“Our priests say Mass here every day in front of this altar,” the monk said.
Each building at the abbey had a complicated name and a special purpose. There was the refectory, the large dining room where the monks ate; the dormitory, where they slept; the library, where they studied; the scriptorium, where they hand-copied the Sacred Scriptures; and other places too numerous to recall.
The monk pointed to an eight-sided structure with a sharply pointed roof and a single window. “That is our chapter house. We often meet there to conduct abbey business.”
Maybe Hardonbury had special buildings like this, too. He might have worked in one with his father, threshing wheat or cleaning tools or some other task that made calluses on his hands.
They continued along a cobblestone path and came upon a rock house barely large enough for one person. “That,” Brother Andrew said, “is our abbot’s house. Under The Rule, we monks obey his commands as though coming from God. He is as wise and just as he is advanced in age.”
The monk reached into a fold in his robe and pulled out a wooden cross. “I almost forgot. Keep this. Our abbot whittled it as a gift for you while you were healing. Use it to pray.”
The cross fit neatly in Xan’s palm. Unlike the one in the monk’s cell, this cross didn’t have the figure of Jesus on it. Each of the whittled bumps in the wood felt smooth to the touch.
“How do I use it?” he asked.
The monk raised the brow over his blue eye. “You might not recall, but our Lord Jesus died on a cross for love of us all. When yo
u hold that cross, say your prayers and know you are loved.”
Xan passed his thumb along the bumps. The Lord—Creator of all things—dead upon a cross: he somehow knew about that puzzling notion, yet no prayers came to mind. Maybe no one ever had taught him to pray. He stuck the cross safely in his leather pouch.
They left the stone buildings behind them and passed through a gate into a golden field of wheat. Strange that he should know it was wheat, rather than barley or rye.
A throng of workers in brown tunics harvested the wheat while others threshed it in the distance—thump, thump. Another man tended sheep in a pasture with a black-and-white dog.
“These men aren’t wearing robes, like that man in the refectory,” Xan said. “Why not?”
Brother Andrew nodded, as though he approved of the question. “Many come to work here in the granges, especially at harvest time. Some are lay brothers; others are monastery servants.”
“Like slaves?”
“Of course not.” The monk wavered. “Though I suppose we are all slaves for Christ, each serving in his own way. Monks pray and study; these men make sure our abbey is productive.”
Xan peered at his brown tunic and touched a callous on his hand. “Am I to become a servant and work in the granges if we can’t find my parents?”
Brother Andrew smiled. “A boy with so many intelligent questions? You can aspire to much more than that. But do not fear, Xan. We shall not rest ’til we find your parents.”
Coming to the edge of the granges, they climbed a gently sloping grassy hill. The abbey’s structures jutted behind them; a woodland stretched to the left, with a row of hedges and a trail that led under the trees. A green meadow stretched out below, leading to other stone buildings.
In the distance walked two girls dressed in white, carrying bundles of cloth. The taller girl’s thick, shimmering hair blew in the breeze, blacker than a monk’s robe.
“There are girls at the abbey, too?” Xan said.
“They live in the convent down that lane.” Brother Andrew pointed to a broad building at the end of a dirt road that began at the bottom of the hill. “The abbess and her nuns care for them. You will see them from time to time delivering linens and such to our abbey’s chamberlain.”
There was something captivating about that girl with the black hair. Too bad he wouldn’t get a chance to speak with her before tomorrow, when he would return home to Hardonbury.
The monk led him down the hill to a two-story building—the boys’ dorm. A solid door with a ringed, metal handle stood open. Inside, at the bottom of a flight of stairs, sat the monk with the untamed gray eyebrows. He held a large scroll in his hands, and his lips mouthed silent words.
Brother Andrew smiled widely. “Leo, I have brought you a visitor. Call him Xan.”
The old monk turned a fiery eye on Xan. “Aye, we have already met.” He pointed at the door. “The others are coming in from their chores, Andrew. Take him to them. I am praying right now.”
Brother Andrew led Xan outside, where laughter had begun to echo from around the side of the dorm. A dozen boys had gathered into two messy groups on the grassy meadow. They wore tunics of brown, white, and black, similar to Xan’s. Joshua was there too, standing with a group of younger boys while a few of the older ones barked commands.
Xan straightened his back and gritted his teeth. He must have made friends before, so he should probably trust his instinct to stand tall and strong, even if his throbbing head felt weak.
“Children,” Brother Andrew said. “This is Xan.”
Joshua waved to him from the edge of one group, a long grin on his freckled face.
“He will be with you for . . . for tonight, at least,” the monk said. “Be kind to him; he is still recovering from an injury to his head. Indeed, I am afraid he has lost his memory.”
“So he can’t remember anything?” Joshua asked, his red hair flopping over his eyes.
“Not a thing,” Brother Andrew said.
The monk should have left that detail out. A few boys were snickering about it. One burly-looking boy—broad shoulders, hairy arms, and a permanent smirk on his lips—whispered something to another boy. Maybe they were planning on playing a trick on Xan.
“Well, then.” Brother Andrew gave Xan a supportive pat on the back. “Brother Leo will take good care of you tonight. I will see you again tomorrow.”
With that, the monk headed back up the hill, maybe to say more prayers. Being with these other boys would probably turn out fine, but Brother Andrew had been kind and had wanted Xan to understand things. Brother Leo and these lads seemed much less interested in his welfare.
As the boys clustered into groups again, Joshua tugged on Xan’s tunic. “How old are you?”
An easy question. “I . . . I don’t remember.” He could count to twenty yet did not know his age. It was as if someone had stuck a firebrand into his memories and seared only certain ones.
Joshua looked him up and down. “Older than me, that’s for sure. When were you born?”
Inquisitive little Joshua was likely to ask a hundred “easy” questions he couldn’t answer. All his “I don’t knows” would become a bore to the boys, and soon they would hate him for it.
Instead of answering, Xan pointed to the others. “What’s this you’re playing here, Joshua?”
The child burst into a grin. “’Tis called barres.” He led Xan to the others. “Can Xan play?”
The burly, hairy boy strutted over. He was Xan’s height, with limp, sandy hair and arrogant eyes. “I don’t s’pose you know how to play.”
Joshua tugged at Xan’s tunic again. “That’s John. He’s captain of the other team.”
Xan paused before answering John’s question. Surely he must have played games back in Hardonbury. This barres game seemed popular, so why didn’t he know the rules?
He shrugged. “I don’t think so. I really can’t remember.”
John shook his head in disgust. “You’re going to be quite the nuisance, aren’t you? Well, you’re not going to be on my team, that’s for certain. Morris, you can have him.”
A lanky boy stepped over and eyed Xan closely. That must be Morris, the other team captain. He was so tall that Xan’s nose barely reached his shoulders.
“You look strong enough,” Morris said. “You’ll do. Teach him the rules, Joshua.”
As the boys formed into two lines—team captains placing them in order—Joshua explained how to play. John’s team would send out its first player, who would be chased by the first player from Morris’s team. Then John’s second player would be sent out to tag Morris’s first player, while Morris’s second player was sent out to chase John’s second player. John’s third player would then chase Morris’s second, and so on. In this way, each boy had a target to tag while avoiding being tagged themselves. Whichever team tagged all its targets first would win.
“’Tis great fun!” Joshua said.
Except Brother Andrew hadn’t let Xan search for his parents today because he needed rest. Running wildly about a meadow couldn’t possibly be good for healing. If he hurt himself again, the monk might make him wait even more days to go to Hardonbury. Plus, his head still throbbed.
“Ready, set, and go!” John said, as his first runner took off, sprinting across the field.
“Go!” shouted Morris to his first player, who chased after John’s first runner.
Soon both teams scampered about in all directions, laughing and hollering.
Xan’s turn was coming up. Should he play? If he didn’t play well, the boys would think him stupid and slow. That wouldn’t matter after tomorrow, but what if he never found his parents?
“You’re up, Xan,” Morris yelled. “You tag David.” He pointed to the tallest boy on John’s team, with dark curly hair that desperately needed trimming. “And go!”
David was fast. Within seconds, he’d already caught his target and was running over the grass toward a circle of neatly trimmed bushes with a wide
fountain at its center.
“He’s getting away, Xan!” Joshua shouted from behind. “Run faster!”
Xan tried to speed up, but his feet refused to cooperate. He might have been a strong runner back in Hardonbury, but the drum crashing in his head was making every step unbearable.
“Tag, I got you!” Hands pushed Xan from behind, causing him to stumble clumsily.
What a disaster—he’d already been tagged. And David, perched on the ledge of the fountain, was hooting out rude animal noises. Maybe Xan should have gone inside to lay down.
He reached the fountain, constructed of smooth, flat rocks of all shapes and sizes. It held a pool of still water—only a couple of feet deep—and several striped, greenish fish swimming beneath.
“Slowpoke!” David sprinted toward the dorm, his dark curls refusing to blow in the wind.
Xan stopped to catch his breath. This was not going well at all. He held his pounding head in his palms and leaned on the ledge as the striped fish meandered in circles. As he looked into the water, his reflection stared back: eyes brown and wide, head as round as a ball, high cheeks, and ears with tips that stuck out from his straight brown hair.
He shouldn’t have been here playing dumb games when his parents were out there somewhere searching for him. Maybe they were in the woodlands right now, calling his true name.
Just then, a voice did call out, but not from his parents. It was a girl. She sounded panicked.
He looked in the direction of the cry. Several boys had gathered round in a circle on the grass outside the dorm. The girl’s shout had come from the center of that circle.
“Oh, no!” Xan pounced off the ledge and sprinted toward the dorm.
5
Lucy
Xan ran while the boom, boom, boom crashed in his head.
As he got closer to the dorm, the girl’s voice rang out again. “Leave me alone!”
Jeering boys shouted over one another.
“She’s afraid of warts!”
“She’s gonna cry.”
Shadow in the Dark Page 3