Shadow in the Dark

by Antony Barone Kolenc

  “And did you not hear,” Brother Leo continued, “the abbot recently appointed me to manage Penwood Manor? I must travel there today to ensure they are fulfilling their harvest goals.”

  Penwood was the manor that Lord Godfrey had got so upset about yesterday.

  After Brother Leo left, Xan took a small metal pail and a wire brush to the ring of bushes on the meadow with the fountain at its center. The striped fish swam in circles under the murky water. To those fish, every day was exactly the same, just like Xan’s life would be now.

  He scrubbed at the lowest, flattest stone on the outside of the fountain. Bits of green moss gave way beneath the strength of the wire brush that he’d dunked into the pail of water.

  If only the great weight upon his soul could be so easily chipped away.

  His parents had been murdered at the hands of bandits. He himself had been left for dead by that brutal scarred man. Maybe they were all cursed, just as Old Tom had said.

  “You’re still here.” A soft voice approached from behind. It was Lucy.

  He spun around. There she was, walking with Sister Regina, who was dressed in black cloth from the tip of her head to the heel of her boots. The nun wore a large crucifix; a wisp of golden hair stuck out from the edge of her habit, brushing against the dimple on her rosy cheek.

  “Good dawning,” she said. “I am Sister Regina. Lucy has told me all about you.”

  Xan stood and gave a half-wave. “Good morn.”

  “Sister and I were enjoying some fresh air and decided to visit the fish,” Lucy said, her hair gleaming in the morning light even blacker than the nun’s habit. “The monks always draw a few from the fishpond and place them in the fountain ’til winter comes.”

  “They’re swimming around in there, same as always,” he said.

  The three of them sat on the ledge and stared into the water.

  “I thought you’d be in Chadwick with your family by now,” Lucy said.

  Xan gave a deep sigh and told them about yesterday’s events. When he’d finished, Lucy’s brown eyes were glistening, and even the nun was pressing her sleeve to her cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry, Xan,” Lucy said. “I’ll say all my prayers today for you and your family.”

  That was a sweet offer. His prayers for his parents had not brought them back to him, yet maybe Lucy’s prayers would combine with Brother Andrew’s to let his family rest in peace.

  “I understand how alone you must feel right now,” Sister Regina said.

  He peered into her eyes—green and sorrowful. She seemed moved by his story, but no one could truly understand how he felt. How could they?

  “I too lost my family when I was young,” the nun said, her voice trembling. “A plague swept through my village. I will not speak of it, except to say that in one week I lost my mother, my father, and even my little sister, Eva.”

  Pressure grew within Xan’s chest. “How old were you?” he asked.

  “Fourteen.”

  He nodded. Maybe this woman could understand. She too had lost everything, and she had felt her loss in full. Xan was spared at least that—knowing he was alone but not remembering how much he’d loved his parents or all the things he must live without now that they were gone.

  “How did you carry on without them?” he asked.

  The nun grasped the wooden crucifix on her robe. She pointed at it: Jesus nailed to a cross, an anguished expression on his face.

  “I saw how our Lord Jesus suffered for me. Then I knew I was not alone; that God understood my pain. Now, I have God as my father, Jesus as my brother, and Mary as my mother.”

  Xan gazed at the crucifix. The crown of thorns encircled the crucified man’s head like a monk’s tonsure. Truly the man lay in misery upon it.

  “The Lord helped me bear my burdens,” Sister Regina said. “And over time, true faith and joy were born in my heart, but only after a great labor of confusion and doubt.”

  Xan bowed his head low but said nothing. Was the path the nun took to find happiness the only way? It sounded much too painful.

  A long moment passed as all three of them watched the striped fish in the hazy pool.

  “When Father left me here at the convent, I felt so miserable,” Lucy said. “Then one day I asked Sister Cecilia to teach me to play the harp and I started to feel better. Do you see?”

  The girl’s sad expression had been replaced by a peaceful look.

  “You think I should learn to play the harp to make me feel better?” Xan said.

  Lucy shook her head. “That’s not what I meant at all.” The little mole on her cheek turned down with her lips. “Find something to learn; some purpose here. That’s what I mean.”

  Sister Regina nodded. “Lucy has a point. If you find your purpose—where you fit into this new life of yours—then you will find your joy again. And perhaps your memory too.”

  “Have you found your purpose here?” Xan asked Brother Andrew later that day, after he’d finished his chores and the sun had begun to set below the woodland.

  They walked together in the granges, talking about what had happened yesterday.

  “I believe so,” the monk said. “At least I am on my way to fulfilling my purpose. ’Tis my life’s desire to become a priest one day.”

  Brother Andrew had explained that priests were monks who could do special jobs, such as leading the Mass and even forgiving sins through a Sacrament called Confession.

  “Do all monks become priests?”

  “Nay. Look at Brother Leo. He has lived at this abbey most of his adult years and has thrice refused the chance to become a priest. He sees a different purpose for his life.”

  Xan stared at his callused hands again. As a peasant from Hardonbury, his purpose might be to labor in the granges like the abbey’s servants and lay brothers. Yet Brother Andrew seemed to think differently.

  “What do you think is my purpose here?” he asked.

  The monk stopped walking and turned to face him. “I have been praying about that very thing, and I have a question to ask. You have traveled to Hardonbury and Chadwick. How many of those peasants do you think are lettered?”

  The old woman and Old Tom hadn’t seemed educated. Nor had the guards and many of the others he’d seen as they’d journeyed. “I don’t know, Brother. Not many, I suppose.”

  “Maybe none. Nobles teach their children, and we monks must be lettered, of course. If not for us, the ancient works from Greece and Rome would be lost to the world, along with the Holy Scriptures. We read them; interpret them; recopy them. Perhaps you too could be lettered.”

  “But I’m just a peasant from Hardonbury. Look at my hands.” He raised them high.

  The monk pushed Xan’s hands down. “Some of our novices also come from peasant families. I have observed you these past few days. God has given you a mind for learning. Your questions are thoughtful and curious. Your insight is as good as any pupil I have taught.”

  “You think I should become a novice monk?”

  “That is for God to say, not me. Our abbot would make you wait at least a year ere allowing it, anyhow. But if you wish, I could take you as my own pupil. Would you like that?”

  “Aye, Brother.”

  This might be what Lucy meant. If he learned to read and write, as she’d learned the harp, maybe he could tolerate this life. But could he ever understand his pain, like Sister Regina understood hers?

  “There’s something I don’t understand, Brother.” He told the monk about the nun’s story.

  Brother Andrew nodded as though he knew its meaning. “Sister tells of the great sorrows Jesus bore for us all. The Lord can take our pain and use it for a good purpose—even to heal.”

  “To heal what?”

  “To heal the damage caused by sin. God can work inside our hearts and—”

  A low rumble vibrated the granges. The tremor started as a tickle in Xan’s shoes but soon grew stronger. A thundering sound echoed from the edge of the woodland.

/>   “What’s that?” Xan said.

  Brother Andrew paused to listen. “’Tis the galloping of many horses. And the clamor draws nearer.”

  The sun had already set, and twilight had begun to cover the land. Why would the abbey get a host of visitors at this hour?

  Just then, a light flashed in Xan’s mind: a vision of a man rising in dim light from a mattress, his hair in shambles, his face lined with worry, a woman by his side. Somehow, Xan knew the man was Father and the woman was Mother.

  This was another memory: the moment disaster had come to Hardonbury Manor.

  “Could it be bandits?” Xan said.

  The monk jumped to his feet. “Whose horses would come in the night like this?”

  One of the sheepdogs barked in the distance, soon joined by the howling of others.

  “Jude’s folly!” Brother Andrew shouted. “You could be right. Stay here.”

  With that, the monk raced toward the abbey shouting, “Toll the bells!”

  12

  Bandits

  The bells rang across the abbey grounds—clang, clang, clang! Their urgency jarred the injury that had been healing on Xan’s head, causing it to ache like it hadn’t done for days.

  The thundering sound of the hooves had peaked and then begun to recede, replaced by screams and shouts and whooping voices in the night. Darkness had fallen upon the granges, with Xan standing alone near the rows of wheat, unable to see much of anything.

  Suddenly a light arose—a flame and smoke coming from somewhere on the abbey’s grounds. Were the bandits setting the monastery on fire? Surely the monks had done nothing to deserve this, but neither had his parents in Hardonbury.

  Brother Andrew had told him to wait in the granges, but something was urging him to follow the monk—something in his memories. With each returning vision, he seemed to see the other memories that had returned all the more clearly in his mind.

  There sat the scarred bandit on his horse, staring down at the men of Hardonbury. One of those with a shovel was the man on the mattress with the messy hair and the worried look—Father. But how had that bandit murdered Father and also chased Xan far into the woodland? And why?

  The hooting and crying grew louder from the main abbey complex. Should he stay or go?

  Maybe he’d fled Hardonbury the day of the attack like a coward, leaving his family to die. Or he might have done something brave that day—aye, it must be so—something to make the scarred man angry enough to chase him such a long distance.

  No matter. Whether he’d been a coward or a hero in Hardonbury, he wouldn’t stand by now and watch these kind monks be hurt without raising a hand to defend them.

  He sprinted across the granges toward the abbey grounds. He rushed through the gate that led to the cobblestone path, following it until he neared the abbot’s tiny house.

  The firelight was brighter now, dim and foggy like the moments before a red dawn.

  At that instant, a tall man in a chain-mail shirt stepped from the abbot’s quarters holding an iron sword in a black-gloved hand. His face was older, with deep wrinkles and a pointy silver beard. Around his neck was a dragon pendant. This must be a bandit!

  Xan ducked around the corner of a wooden supply shed, where he could still see.

  A second bandit, dressed in a black shirt and pants and carrying a torch, ran up to the older one. “Was the abbot in his quarters, Carlo?”

  The one with the sword—Carlo—shook his head. “Nay. Did you search the main church?”

  “He is not there either,” the man in black said. “Why is it so important that we find him?”

  Carlo stuck the sword toward the other bandit. “That is my business. Your business is to follow my orders and collect your reward.”

  “Aye, Carlo,” he said. He took the torch and shoved it onto the wooden roof of the abbot’s house. In a moment, the flames would set it ablaze.

  “Stop!” Carlo shouted. “What are you doing? I said to strike and steal, not kill and destroy. We will not spill innocent blood without need in this holy place. Only the abbot will see harm.”

  The two bandits marched up the cobblestone path toward the chapter house.

  Xan crept out from behind the shed and followed them.

  These bandits were here for the abbot, but why? Carlo, who acted like their leader, seemed to have specific instructions. And some kind of reward would be given, but from whom?

  He followed the bandits past the chapter house. Outside the eight-sided building, a shrubbery burned brightly. Other bandits—possibly a dozen of them—bustled in and out of other structures, probably looking for the abbot. The monks must have all gone into hiding.

  The two bandits strode past the monks’ dormitory. The wavering voice of an elderly monk yelled out from within the dorm, maybe at a different bandit inside: “Stop, servant of evil!”

  Xan picked up a stone from the path. How nicely it fit in his palm; how comfortable and familiar. Had he done this before? When he was rescuing Lucy from the boys, he’d had a similar urge to throw a stone at John.

  He abandoned following Carlo and the other bandit, stepping instead through a side door into the monks’ dorm. Inside, a grunt and a crash rang out.

  The elderly monk—Father Paul, who had been in the refectory at breakfast yesterday—lay upon the floor. A tall bandit in black stood over him with a studded mace in hand, ready to strike.

  The monk suddenly reached for the bandit’s waist, grasping the leather pouch on his belt. It tore open. Coins scattered everywhere. A crumpled parchment dropped to the stone floor.

  Father Paul grabbed up the parchment and clenched it tightly as the bandit ripped most of it from his hand. The bandit raised the mace again to strike. He would probably kill the poor priest.

  Xan flung the stone at the bandit. It missed, striking the wall directly in front of him.

  The man turned his eyes toward Xan, revealing a jagged scar and a crooked nose. It was the man from his visions—the one on horseback; the one who’d raised the mace to murder him.

  The bandit recoiled in surprise. “You, boy? I thought I killed you!”

  This was definitely that bandit. The last time he’d seen him, the man had chased him relentlessly into the woodland. Surely the bandit would try to finish the job now at any cost.

  Xan turned and fled.

  By running away, he might actually save Father Paul’s life. That bandit’s face had been filled with rage, like the beast from his dream with eyes of speckled red and a hideous, malformed snout. The man would pursue him and leave the priest on the stone floor.

  But how would Xan escape? His head throbbed; his legs ached; his heart thumped.

  He needed to hide.

  “Come back here, boy!” the scarred man yelled, rushing from the monks’ dorm after him.

  Fires were springing up all over the abbey grounds. Xan sprinted past a burning shrub and a wooden wagon that had been set aflame on one side.

  That’s it!

  He circled back and dove under the blazing wagon, curling up under the side that was not in flames. The bandit might not suspect that he’d choose such a risky hiding place. The heat would be bearable, at least for a little while.

  Sure enough, the bandit sprinted past the wagon and ran directly into his leader.

  “Rummy, what are you doing?” Carlo shouted, pushing the scarred man away.

  “That boy from the village! He is still alive.”

  Carlo pointed his broad sword in Rummy’s face. “Enough! Sound the retreat.”

  Rummy didn’t move. “I will not let that boy escape again.”

  Carlo glared at him. “Enough, you fool! He is just a boy. We must go.”

  A long moment passed. Finally Rummy obeyed. He whistled with his fingers in the sides of his mouth, piercing the air three times with a signal.

  Then Carlo and Rummy headed up the path.

  Xan crawled from under the wagon, away from the ever-increasing heat.

  First thi
ngs first—he must check on Father Paul. If Rummy had hit him with a mace, the old priest would need serious care from the abbey’s leech, Brother Lucius.

  He rushed to the monks’ dorm. Father Paul was gone. Maybe someone had helped him.

  What next? Lucy and Joshua. Who would protect them?

  “Please, God,” he breathed. “You can do anything. At least keep Lucy safe.”

  He exited the dorm. It would take five minutes to get to the convent running at full pace.

  Another whistle screeched. Two bandits jogged up the path in the direction Carlo had gone.

  They passed Xan without a second look. That probably meant the bandits were gathering to leave.

  He ran.

  There, ahead in the distance, past the granges, someone had just set fire to the hedge near the trail that led to Chadwick. Some of the bandits must have invaded the boys’ dormitory and convent! Perhaps they hadn’t heard Rummy’s whistle at that distance.

  Xan ran faster, out the gate and into the wheat, ignoring the pain in his head. He crossed the granges, climbed the grassy hill, and looked back. Several small fires were lighting up the night around the main abbey structures.

  Just then, voices rose from the bottom of the hill. Two figures stood on the convent path.

  “Why are you wandering out here?” A man’s voice—Brother Andrew. “’Tis not safe.”

  “I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” That was Lucy!

  Xan rushed down the hill.

  Grunts echoed from along the convent path, heading toward them. Two more figures—far too tall to be nuns—were jogging up the trail.

  “I tell ya that I heard Rummy’s signal,” one of them said. “Clear as day.”

  Xan reached the bottom of the hill, stumbling to a stop before Lucy and the monk.

  “Xan!” Lucy said. The dim light from the hedge lit up her eyes.

  “Praise God, you are safe!” Brother Andrew cried. “Where did you go? I have been searching all over for you. Quickly, both of you—get to the boys’ dormitory. Someone is coming.”