by BJ Hanlon
The temperature warmed.
Just off to the right of the path was a wagon that was probably the perfect size for a single donkey.
The highest window was probably three hundred feet above them and dark. There were no lights from any of the windows and despite the enormity of the place, the outside was nothing but stone walls with nothing adorning them. No gargoyles or carvings of the gods. None of the windows were stained glass and even the large front doors, easily twice his size, were nothing but a good, solid wood. Oak he guessed.
The only imagery he saw was ahead. On each door he noticed the relief of a head. One looked like a bearded old man, balding at the top with blank open eyes while the other was something different. Something more demonic.
The eyes were raindrops pointed toward a hook nose that stood over a clenched jaw. Edin imagined razor sharp teeth in there.
This gave him shivers despite the warmth and the smell of fruit and honeysuckle and flowers. He looked away and spotted squirrels chasing each other, robins and blue jays were swooping in and dancing around the limbs. Rather large hummingbirds were buzzing next to a large flower with great yellow leaves and a bright red center.
The man climbed the few steps to the doors and gripped a giant metal knocker, about a foot in diameter and pulled. Despite being barefoot and seemingly too old for the job, the huge door that should have weighed at least a thousand pounds, opened silently.
Lights came out. Bright fire light that caught him by surprise. After a moment, the entrance, the grandness of the place struck him like the outer landscape.
They went inside to a long stone foyer with vaulted ceilings and flying buttresses that were simple stone arches. There were columns and doorways on the sides and the room was lit by three wooden chandeliers down the center and two pairs of giant hearths between their gaps. The floor was covered in multicolored rugs and the walls had tapestries of shapes and geometric symbols but no faces. There were tables, chairs, and desks lining the room and in its center. It felt grand but cozy, a very odd juxtaposition.
The man grabbed an oil lantern from a column and turned right. He led them down a smaller, dark hallway with no exterior windows. Like Arianne’s keep, the brick stonework was perfectly formed, though there were no paintings on the walls or statues anywhere. Edin glanced back at Berka who was looking nearly as confused as he was hungry.
Edin cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Where are we?”
The hermit didn’t answer. He stopped at a door and pulled on the handle. Slowly, it opened and light began to flood the corridor.
Then he heard the sound of pens being scribbled on paper.
Many pens, all of them ceased as the door was opened. The man stepped to the side and offered a hand for them to step forward.
“The Monks of Vestor,” he said, then added. “I hate that name.” Then he turned away from them. Edin and Berka stepped inside as ten sets of eyes fell upon them. There were nine people sitting on the ground before short easels. They all held pens in one hand and an inkwell near the other. They were facing the right wall and the tenth man in front. He was cross-legged and holding out a scroll.
No one moved or said a word. They all had great looks of shock on their faces like Edin and Berka were intruders in their home and hadn’t been brought before them by one of their own.
Edin looked back toward the one who’d brought them, but he was gone.
“Where’d…” Edin started and the looked at the people. “Greetings kind sirs.”
Edin locked eyes with the one at the front. The leader or teacher or something. He was older with a ring of white hair around the back of his head with nothing on top. Despite that, the side and back-of-head hair drooped long and was tied back in a ponytail. In fact, all of them wore one, some were brown, others blond, black, or gray.
All but the man that had led him there.
The man at the front slowly began to roll the scroll with one hand toward the other in a show of finger dexterity that Edin didn’t think possible in a man of his age.
Then he stood, bowed to the rest of them, and walked toward Edin and Berka. The man paused, looked them up and then down extremely curiously, and then stepped past them back into the corridor they’d come through.
He waived for them to follow picking up an oil lantern that was on the ground.
Back in the main hall, he led them across the grand entrance and through a corridor on the other side.
He knocked on and opened a door. This was a smaller room than the previous, what was it, a scribe room? There was another man, older and he sat behind a giant wooden desk that made him look small. It was covered in scrolls and tomes. The walls, floors, and even the three chairs before the desk were similarly covered in such things. It was a library that should’ve been located in some larger room, perhaps three times the size.
There were no words between the men and no movements. Edin had seen deaf people communicate with gestures and symbols. He’d even heard in some cities such as Calerrat that people had their own language of signs. But there was none of that.
He knew they were talking without any sort of communication. Then the man they were with turned to Edin and Berka, bowed his head and slipped around the two of them before disappearing out the door, which was abruptly shut when he left.
Edin turned back to the man behind the desk who had resumed perusing whatever manuscript he had before him.
Edin saw the room was lit by candles, many of them with large globs of dripping wax. “This is a death trap.” He whispered to Berka who nodded.
They waited; the old man ran a wrinkled finger across a line on the parchment. The words were upside down and written lengthwise on the paper. It was a long paper too—three feet—and the ends were held down with what could’ve been the tops of banisters from a middle-class inn.
Awkwardly they stood. There was no speaking for a few minutes, and those minutes just continued on and on. The room grew stuffy as if there were more than just the three of them in there. No wind moved; no lights flickered.
Finally, he was coming toward the end of the manuscript. Edin saw his finger on the last line.
His hand fell off the edge and Edin opened his mouth. “E—”
The man held out a finger before Edin even got the start of ‘Excuse us’ out. He moved to the other side and started on again reading the manuscript from left to right.
Berka made a face that said what the heck and shrugged.
Finally, the man looked up. He pulled a pair of spectacles that had been on a rope around his neck up onto his nose and looked at the two of them.
The man wore the same ponytail, though his gray one was at least full on the crown of the head. His eyes looked like large walnuts behind the spectacles. The man’s face was thin and sagged with age. He pushed back from the desk, rolled up the manuscript and turned and stuffed it into a cubby behind his desk that was already jammed with at least ten others.
He turned back, smacked his lips and cleared his throat.
“Well—” he screeched and stopped himself. He coughed and cleared his throat again. He spotted a mug, took a drink, and made a dour looking face. A moment later he said, “welcome,” in a normal voice. “Apologies, it has been a long time since I’ve spoken.”
Edin guessed the man to be in his seventies, maybe even his eighties. An age not often reached in the mundane world.
Then he thought of the elemental and guessed they were not mundane.
“Unfortunately, we are,” the old man said looking at Edin. “We are not magi just ordinary men. And no, these candles will not start the place on fire.”
Edin gaped. Did he hear him? Was he reading his mind?
Then the man turned to Berka. “Why do you believe we do not look ordinary?”
Berka coughed. “You’re reading my thoughts?”
“Well, yes.”
“That is,” Berka started. “It’s unsettling.”
“Apologies. We are so used to communicat
ing with the wave that—”
“I’m sorry, the wave?” Edin said.
The old man looked back to him and tilted his head. He sighed and then nodded. “I forgot how much people interrupt each other during normal conversation.” He paused. “You’d think humanity would’ve learned to let a person finish before throwing their own voice around like a so-called expert does his knowledge. Alas, it seems that people still simply wish to be heard without ever listening.”
Edin didn’t say anything. His mouth was poised to speak but thought it not too bright to actually do so, especially with the old man making that exact point.
Then Berka spoke. “I’m sorry, are you done?” He looked nervously at Edin and then back at the old man. “I do not want to interrupt.”
The old man sighed and then nodded.
“Okay,” Berka said then looked to Edin who suddenly understood what Berka wanted. He wanted Edin to be the contact, Edin to be the one who asks questions.
“Um, where are we?” Edin said “and who are you?”
“The Monasterion de Vestorion, or Monastery of Vestor in common tongue. We are the—”
“Monks of Vestor, yes the man who brought us here told us,” Edin said quickly. He didn’t want to take any more time talking. Berka elbowed him and Edin saw the old man staring at them with a quite annoyed smile. Right, don’t interrupt, Edin thought. “Apologies father.”
“I’m not a father, I’m an abbot. I’ve been abbot for a long time. You found us, that is in itself a feat worthy of our time and our patience. It must’ve been Vestor that guided you.”
“It wasn’t—”
The abbot held up his hand. “I do not discuss business on empty stomachs in the monastery and you two have emptier stomachs than any man I’ve met in a very long time. So, if you would like, please follow me to the dining hall where we can satiate our appetites.”
Edin’s stomach growled at the thought. Yes, that would be preferable. A part of Edin nagged at him, a part that wondered still if Arianne was part of those visions. He had to ask, “Sir, one thing. A woman, blonde with gray-green eyes, thin and a bit haughty…”
The abbot didn’t say anything.
“Have you seen her? Her name is Arianne Bestavienne.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We have not seen anyone by that description, nor any female in a very long time.” He began moving around the large desk. The man looked old but he moved with a grace that made him seem much younger.
Edin snatched his arm. “Sir, are you certain—”
A pounding, ringing bell sounded in his head. It was almost as if he was in the bowl of the bell as it was being beaten by a pair of burly and very enthusiastic bell ringers.
Edin’s mind went blank as he collapsed and then everything went blank.
“Don’t touch the abbot.” A voice said tickling his brain and nearly waking him from the cold dreamless sleep he’d been enjoying. Or at least his body had. “The man is brilliant but odd. He hates human contact. A quirk from his younger days.”
Edin opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a small room with a single candle. There was a man standing two yards from him with his arms crossed and his mouth clamped shut, but when he spoke a moment ago it felt like they were right next to each other.
“I’m sorry,” Edin said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’ll be fine, just keep away from him for a while, like a hundred years or so.” The man’s mouth did not move but he heard him perfectly.
“A hundred years? I don’t think he’ll be alive in five.”
“He will most certainly.” Still no words came from his mouth but then the man’s face made an inscrutable expression as if he weren’t truly certain.
Edin spoke. “Right. Is this the wave? I had a vision once where a man, he looked like he could’ve been an elf, found me and fought me in a basement. He said the wave as well.” There was no reply. “So,” he continued, “are you elves? Or elf related?”
“No, it is an old skill. One forgotten through the ages of man.” He sighed. The first sound that actually came from the man’s mouth. “Now please we have prepared a small feast for you and your friend who is quite upset that we are waiting for you.” The man paused, his mouth pursed and Edin heard in his head, “yes, very angry and he really does not like you right now.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Edin said as he stood. A dizziness came over him and he nearly fell over. The monk grabbed him with a strong hand and kept him upright. Whatever the abbot had shouted into his head hadn’t left yet.
Edin followed him out of the room and down a corridor with shut doors. As they walked, he remembered why he grabbed the abbot. “I’m looking for my friend, is she here? I had a vision, I think. I saw that lake.”
They had reached a stairwell and were starting to go up. At the top, they went further down a straight hall lit by sconces.
“There are no women here,” the voice said in his head. “None for a long time.”
After a dizzying array of turns, they came to a single door in a wide wall. “But,” Edin started as the monk pushed the door open and he was met by a brightly lit room, just as silent as the scribe room. A scribery maybe?
The room was filled with long wooden benches, three of them that seemed to have enough seating for at least twenty per side.
But the place was less than an eighth full and everyone was down the center table.
At the front, seated at a perpendicular table was the abbot with the head scribe next to him and another man to the opposite side. The third was thin and young and had a grand mustache that wouldn’t have been out of place in any noble’s court.
All three watched Edin as they entered. The abbot glared and Edin saw him reach for his bicep as if to remember where Edin had dared touch him.
The monk motioned Edin to a spot across from Berka at the head of the central table. To Berka’s left sat a monk with screaming bright red hair pulled back into a ponytail. The man didn’t make any eye contact with Edin. Few did. Would he scream in Edin’s mind if Edin forced the man to look at him?
After a quick glance at the faces, Edin didn’t see the barefoot man who’d brought them there in the first place.
“About time you wake up. I’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes,” Berka hissed.
Then words entered his brain. “It has been long since our hall has greeted visitors. So long in fact, I’m surprised I still know how to talk.” It was the abbot. He remembered the voice from before. “This place, our refuge, our home opens little, but as we are to ourselves and each other, should we be to our visitors. We may not know their names or customs and they may interrupt with their shortness of patience, but remember brothers, we treat them as Vestor would treat them.”
There were nodding heads all around. At the back, Edin noticed a man standing at the edge of the shadows in a partially opened doorway. He wasn’t quite sure but he thought it was the man, not a hermit, who’d saved them. Then the door closed and he was gone.
The abbot must’ve been continuing on while Edin was thinking because he picked up in the middle of a sentence, “know the paradise we enjoy will one day end for that is the way of things.”
Edin looked back at the abbot who looked both solemn and stately.
“So, let us eat, drink, and be merry for none of us know how much time we have in this world.” He looked around the room with a smile that poorly hid sorrow behind it, as if he knew the end were coming soon.
Then the abbot cleared his throat and spoke. “And remember, the gods gave us voice boxes so we can speak with the outsiders and each other. Though Twelve, your voice is one I do not wish to hear again.”
There was a murmuring chuckle in the room and in his head and then it grew more and more around. The group of monks at the far end of the table stood and started toward a door near the back, the one partially open. They disappeared inside and then a few moments later, appeared in a line carrying tray upon tray of food.
A
fter two trips, their table was filled with shining silver trays that ran the length of the table like a spinal column. Food, a lot of it; far too much for this group. He heard lips smacking and saw Berka across ready to dive in like a desert traveler finding an oasis for the first time in days. Maybe not enough for one of the folk.
Then he heard voices, real ones. They cracked and were weak and some sounded surprised.
“So that is what I sound like, couldn’t remember.” The ginger boy said next to Berka. He did have a high-pitched voice that was a bit shrieky.
“You remind me of the rat you keep, even your voice is squeaky,” another said.
Edin looked at Berka who was staring crazily at the platters. There was drool, actual drool coming down his lips.
“Clean yourself, Berka.”
Soon the tops of the trays were removed and they were met with what looked to be an amazing array of foods: pork, chicken, beef, and stews that were tomato based and potato based. He saw bowls overflowing with salads with fruits and nuts and others with tomatoes and cucumbers. Pastas and breads appeared, soft baked and oily and they smelled better than any he’d ever smelled. And there was butter. Large slabs of butter, each the size of his fist, sat in dishes. Edin watched as a monk simply tore into the bread, ripped it apart and slammed it into the butter, rather violently Edin thought.
Edin did the same though with a bit less vigor. He started with the bread, then added the meats, all of them. They served wine then, a deep red wine that was apparently made from grapes on the eastern hills of the valley as opposed to the grapes in the compound.
The meal didn’t take long. He ate while barely breathing and there was no talking, not even via their wave. Edin ate until he could no longer eat. He drank some of the wine and had to adjust his belt. Twice.
He looked at Berka who was still just as ravenous as he’d been before the food was served.
The other monks as well. Their appetites, even the very old guy across the way and down a few, was tearing into a ham hock like he was a dire wolf in a pig pen. It was fascinating.
Then slowly, after the monks somehow put away all of the food and Berka was licking a platter like a dog, they relaxed.
