Anselm coughed discreetly, and Cuillin remembered why he was in the Scriptorium. “Brother, glorifying our Lord is our chief task, as you know. And it is in this, particularly, that I need your expert advice. Ten years, forty seasons, will shortly have passed since the raiders burned this island, though Christ’s mercy has kept us safe in the time since the comet. Having prayed on the matter most earnestly, I seek your guidance as to how best to mark this anniversary.”
Brother Anselm bowed his head reverently. This was an important matter, and St. Luke must wait. “A great honor it is, Abbot Cuillin, to be consulted by you in this way. Have you considered a cross for the church, perhaps? A large and noble one, graced by a likeness of the body of our Lord? Or, perhaps, a Christ in Glory could be created on the wall behind the altar? In Rome, I have heard that holy pictures—very large ones—are made by cutting up myriad tiny pieces of stone, of different colors. Perhaps we might attempt something in that manner? It would certainly be novel.”
On such confidential business the men were speaking softly, but Signy had excellent hearing, and the pair were no farther away than the length of her arm. She knew she could be punished for listening to a private conversation, and so, clutching Bear’s crucifix, she closed her eyes and began to pray, petitioning God’s mother to prevent the words from reaching her ears.
“My thoughts have been similar, Brother. Prayer has told me that such, or similar things, would be acceptable to our Savior, but I am troubled. Who among us has the skill to create such works?”
Signy opened her eyes. Prayer, today, was ineffective. To distract herself, she put her most recent writings in the little lead box and slipped it into a drawstring bag. She looped it to her belt and tried to concentrate on mixing more ink.
Anselm looked grave. He fiddled with the ratty end of the beard that rested on his belly—that was a habit in times of worry and explained why the hair was matted and yet wispy. He worried a lot.
“Our brothers labor diligently; however, their skills are . . .” He said no more as the monks contemplated each of the men in the Scriptorium.
The Abbot ventured a name. “Brother Nicodemus?” Anselm gazed with dispassion on his brother—a ratlike man with a red nose that dripped miserably, even in summer. The Scriptorium Master strove hard to remove unsafe, uncharitable, and possibly personal feelings from the faculties of rational judgment. He shook his head, regretfully. “Brother Nicodemus works hard, it is true. Perhaps, one day, the Lord will place His gracious hand upon our brother’s head and vest in him the abilities required for such a project. But until that time . . .”
Cuillin nodded. “Until that time, indeed . . .” With a shared conspiratorial glance, both acknowledged that their brother, though solid, was also stolid. This was a task that required actual talent.
“Brother Paul?” Anselm shook his head.
“Brother Jude?” Again, the veto.
“Brother Martin?” A vigorous and decisive shake this time. Brother Martin, incontestably, was clumsy, and oxlike good nature was not enough. That left only the harried novice who had taken over some of Signy’s duties as she was given more responsibility. Peter was just a child, however, and could not be considered.
Cuillin closed his eyes, fingering the beads that hung at his waist. He had hoped God would show him the correct way forward, but that was not to be today. “We shall speak of this more, Brother. I have much to do.” Sketching a cross in the cool air, a general-purpose blessing, Cuillin strode away.
Anselm could only bow; there was not time for more.
“Father, may I speak?” A soft voice came from behind the screen. Signy never spoke unbidden—it was as if a spirit had whispered in his ear.
Anselm said, severely, “You have broken a condition of your work, Sister.”
Signy murmured, “I know, Brother.” Her tone was utterly humble. If Anselm privately reflected that he was far too lenient with this girl, he still sighed. “Very well. In the name of God, Sister, I give you permission.”
Signy cleared her throat. “Brother Anselm, I most humbly apologize, but I heard your conversation with Abbot Cuillin. Perhaps I should have told you—”
“Brothers, continue with your work.” Anselm knew the monks would listen to this exchange with keen attention. In the distance the mist was breaking up, and he saw a sail on the water. A large ship was beating toward Findnar—the Pagan visitor was near; he had been talked of last night during the personal hour, and there had been a great deal of speculation. Anselm crossed himself. Lord, defend your flock from evil. “You may speak, Sister. Quietly and quickly. I am very busy.”
Signy lowered her voice so much Anselm had to bend close to hear her. “Father, I know of a person who has the skill you seek. He is a carver, and his work is very beautiful.”
Anselm’s eyebrows ascended. “I am astonished, Sister. A craftsman, you say?”
The girl swallowed. “Yes, Father. He makes animals, mostly. Seals and birds, horses and dogs too. From whalebone. I have seen them.”
Anselm was shocked. Surely one of his monks would not be so profane? “Dear Sister, think carefully of what you are saying. Animals are God’s creatures, it is true, but they are without souls and not suitable subjects, therefore, for a man of God. The work of our hands is dedicated to our Lord and what He might require of us, not to luxurious or prideful idleness.”
There was silence behind the screen; then a hand appeared, an object hidden in the palm. The fingers uncurled, and there, displayed like a treasure, was a crucifix.
Anselm stared at the object with painful intensity. And then gasped; Christ’s face!
“Who made this . . .” Speech deserted him. He wanted to say abomination. “Speak.” Unwittingly, Anselm raised his voice—and regretted it. Behind him was a sudden perfect silence.
Signy hesitated. She was frightened by the monk’s tone. She said, in a whisper, “He is not a monk, Father.”
Anselm closed his eyes in pain. This was more than serious for the novice. He said, urgently, “For the good of your soul, name this person.”
There was a confused pause. “Bear. It is Bear, Father. He carved the crucifix and gave it to me when I took my first vows.”
Anselm hissed a stricken breath. A heathen. Not only had his sister accepted a personal object before consecration to Christ but she was seriously proposing this Pagan, an animal herder who had already carved a blasphemous likeness of Christ using his own face, as the creator of an image for their church—a thing that would be sanctified.
There must have been illicit contact between the pair. Anselm was aghast at the images that rushed into his mind. His pretty little protégée now seemed a wanton temptress—Satan’s creature—and he had fostered her pride through the vanity of the work he had given her.
Anselm reproached himself bitterly. He must tell the Abbot immediately all that he knew. If Signy’s soul was to be saved, that was his clear duty. Penance must be done, severe penance, by both the miscreants—the heathen for omission, his sister for commission. Anselm pulled the screen aside in one violent movement. “Leave the Scriptorium. Go!”
Signy shrank back against the wall; she was terrified. Her once kindly teacher seemed a man possessed by fury as he thrust his face close and hissed, “Pray. Immediately. You and he and that . . .” With horror, he gestured at the crucifix. He would not touch the blasphemous thing. “This is sin. Meeting in secret. Illicit, criminal conversation between you.” Anselm would not name the boy and, oblivious to the effect he had on Signy, he was shouting at her now.
The world she had worked so hard to belong to collapsed on Signy’s head like an emptied sack of stones. Dazed and shamed, she stood. Every eye in the Scriptorium was on her, and she had the craziest desire to laugh. Shock. The brothers, and she, were stunned by the drama of the moment.
Signy collapsed to her knees; she whispered, “Father, forgive my presumption. I meant no sin against our Lord. I seek to glorify Him as you do and as you have taught
me to.”
Anselm flinched and his face flushed, a sweating red. She had said the wrong thing, Signy saw that. She said, quickly, “Bear has always been a carver. Just little things, but they come from his love of all of God’s creation. I believe his talent is holy, not sinful, and I have not knowingly spoken to him since I was consecrated to our Lord. The crucifix was a gift, that is all, a symbol of holiness, to help guide me on my new path.”
“Sister, how can you not know . . .” Words deserted Anselm. He heard the honesty in Signy’s voice and saw it in her eyes—it was clear the girl had no idea the carving was blasphemous. Once a Pagan . . . But there was nothing to be done. His duty was clear.
He waved toward the Scriptorium door; he would not speak with her. He could not.
In that moment, it felt as if she had been turned to rock. A story she’d heard as a child floated through the roiling chaos; thirteen girls once danced in the light spring air, flouting their parents and the Gods. Unless it was midsummer, nothing danced but the waves or fire. The Sky God and the Sea God punished the blasphemous friends, and they were turned to stone. It was they who stood, black and rigid—God stones now—on the highest part of Findnar. Would she join them today, another outcast who had offended the Gods?
A hardly voiced titter swelled behind Signy as she stumbled from the Scriptorium, swallowed words breathed out in half-whispers. She heard a smothered laugh, and turning, Signy saw her brothers stare, hands over their mouths, yet their eyes were bright. They were enjoying her abject fall from favor.
Strength flowed back, and Signy raised her head, dropping the leather thong over it. The Christ with Bear’s face hung once more between her breasts. She was white as the limed walls, but fury kept her strong as she walked away.
CHAPTER 25
THE EVENING had stretched and mellowed beside the fire in the big room. After dinner—fettuccine with leftover sausage, chili, garlic, and tomatoes, plus the last of the beer—Katherine retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk. “More translation,” she said. “Shall I read it?”
Freya poked the fire energetically. Staring into the flames, she nodded.
Katherine settled into Michael’s chair. She’d carried it from the kitchen into the big room.
Dan glanced from one blank face to the other. Where had the tension come from?
Katherine cleared her throat. “So, as before, I’ve arranged the statements according to the feast days the writer mentions. The Annunciation of the Virgin falls at the end of March, and this is what the writer says.
“ ‘My sisters are jealous. Except for Mother Gunnhilde, none speak to me now, even in the personal hour. I am lonely, but I assist with materials for the new manuscript that is being prepared, the Book of Revelation, or the Apocalypse, which tells of the end-times.’
“The next is about a month later. ‘Mark the Evangelist’; the entries become quite short now. ‘I saw my friend in the field after Tierce. He was with the sheep. He waved, but I did not wave back. He looks so unhappy.’ ”
Dan flashed a dry glance at Freya. “A nun, you say?” She shrugged uneasily.
Katherine looked over her glasses. “And this is the last for today, only a few lines. St. Breaca; that falls at the beginning of June. ‘I showed my teacher the crucifix. I will be.’ The next word is obscured. Punished, perhaps?” Katherine hoped the word was punished, and not something worse. “It continues: ‘The Abbot has ordered it.’ “
Dan might have made a joke, but he did not.
“The vellum is damaged here, but then the text continues: ‘Why is this God so cruel?’” In the uncertain light, Katherine’s eyes were dark. “I think there must have been a tragedy.”
Dan glanced at Freya. “And we’ll never know what happened.” She nodded absently, sipping the last of her beer. Dan said, lightly, “What did they do to naughty nuns in those days?”
Freya shivered. Katherine looked at her sharply. “Are you cold?”
Dan stood. “Take my chair. You’ll be warmer by the fire.”
Freya clamped both arms to her sides, but that did not stop the tremors. “I’m okay. Truly.”
Katherine paused, then said, “Time for bed, I think. I’ll leave you both to the fire.”
Freya forced a yawn. “I’d forgotten about digging muscles.” She got up, gathered plates and glasses. “Night, Dan. Hope you sleep better tonight.”
He half-rose. “I could give you a hand with the washing up.”
Freya hesitated. Would it help to tell him? But Dan was eyeing the couch. She twitched a smile. “No need. Won’t take a minute in the morning. Good night, and thanks for your help today—we accomplished a lot.”
Dan stretched. “Surprisingly, I enjoyed the digging, I really did. But after that I won’t move, trust me. Nice to sleep by the fire.”
Light seeped through the uncurtained window, and Freya woke with a start. Lying in the narrow bed, heart running like a stag, she listened to the voices in her head.
You hardly know this man or her. Katherine. Be careful—there’s much of value on Findnar. She will know about the treasures; maybe he does too.
Why is he here, really? Just because you asked him? He wants something, something he’s not telling you. Another kind of time on Findnar? How stupid is that. Hectoring, even vicious.
“But it’s true. Something’s going on here!” Why was she suddenly so frightened? She had thought it would be better with people in the house. Was it the numb anguish of the last diary entry? That hit like a hammer, still.
Freya swung her legs from under the duvet. Something moved behind her; she felt the air displaced. She whipped around. Nothing. Breathe. Just breathe.
She fumbled for clothes in the half-dark. They were on the floor somewhere—she’d been too tired to put them on the chair last night and dropped them where she stood. T-shirt, jeans, hooded top. That was enough.
Monday had become a cold, gray day. Behind the controls of the cruiser as they crossed the strait, Freya could not think and, it seemed, could not feel, but she could sense it: darkness, coming closer, moving faster. And tonight she would be alone, with a whole week to wait before she had company on the island again.
The craft bumped over the bones of the waves. “Sorry!” Freya called over her shoulder.
Katherine and Dan were sitting together in the body of the little vessel, prey to the flying water.
Why hadn’t she talked to Dan about the girl she’d seen? Concentrate.
Freya throttled the engine back, ready to motor past the breakwater. Soon they’d enter the harbor, and the waking world would claim them. Normal life. Hers had been normal once, too, only last week.
She nudged the cruiser toward the quay. This bit, at least, was easy.
“There you are.” Walter was waiting for them. “I was starting to worry.” He was overjovial.
“Catch the rope, Dad.”
With effort, Dan stood up to help Katherine. “Careful, it’s slippery.”
“I can manage, Dan. Thanks very much for inviting me, Freya.” The delivery was light as Katherine clambered from the boat. “I’ll let you know how I get on with the rest of the diary. Looking forward to next weekend already.” A friendly smile, and she strode away.
Dan tried not to look surprised.
Freya said, too quickly, “I was meaning to ask, but forgot. Would you like to come back, too, Dan? I can pick you both up same time, same place next Saturday. I’d really appreciate your help again.”
Dan nodded. “Fine,” he said, with no expression.
Walter looked from face to face. Freya, usually so vivid, seemed drained of life. Dan, of course, was much as he always was. Taciturn. No change there. He smothered a sigh.
As Freya pulled her pack on, Dan gestured. “Like a hand?”
She shook her head. “I can manage. Thanks.” Edging around him, she went to step over the fish guts left by an untidy fisherman on the wharf steps. The stench hit her. Like a corpse. Shocked, she stumbled.
Dan reached to help. “Careful!”
She avoided his hands just as Walter nudged the guts into the water. “Very bad manners—you nearly slipped,” he said.
“But I didn’t.” Freya arranged her face into a smile as she raised a hand. “Thanks, though.”
Father and son watched her stride away among the crowds on the quay. Walter waved, Dan did not.
Walter turned to his silent son. “So, good weekend?”
CHAPTER 26
BROTHER ABBOT?”
Anselm knocked timidly on the door of Cuillin’s cell. It was, he knew, as sparse as his own.
“In the name of God, enter.”
A prie-dieu was set beneath the unshuttered window, for Cuillin was known to spend much of each night in prayer assisted by use of the discipline. Anselm’s back twitched at that thought. A bitter east wind blew most nights in spring; couple that with self-inflicted injury and he could only wonder at his brother’s stoic piety.
“Yes, Brother?” Cuillin suppressed impatience. He did not relish being disturbed, and in the refectory below waited Solwaer, the visitor from the mainland, with a numerous entourage. On his instructions, they had all been provided with mead, barley bread, and cheeses, and told the Abbot would join them shortly. In his very bones, Cuillin suspected the man wanted something he could not, in all conscience, supply. Why else would he have come? Politics did not come naturally to the Abbot of Findnar.
“Brother Cuillin, I would not disturb you except that”—Anselm swallowed—“something most serious has occurred.”
Familiar pain began to throb behind Cuillin’s eyes. Lord, bless me with fortitude. “What concerns you, Brother?”
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