The Exiled Monk (The World Song Book 1)

by James T Wood

  “Smoke rises from fire as music from the inflamed soul.” Iphis of Ard

  P

  eek woke with a start. Shouting and noise came from outside the hut. He rolled to his feet and fastened his sandals in the dark. Outside night still reigned. Peek stumbled on the unfamiliar ground. In the distance came the sound of horns rudely blatting. They sounded like a call to hunt.

  Patries, the lady from the garden, came running around the corner with fear in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Peek shouted.

  “That is not the song of monks. It…” she looked behind her with fear.

  “What? If it’s not monks then who could it be?” Peek didn’t understand how the music of the monks worked.

  “There are no others. I don’t… We must find Locambius.”

  Patries ran toward the main cluster of huts, but Peek saw immediately that the older woman’s limbs could not keep pace with the urgency she felt.

  “I’ll go ahead and tell Locambius,” Peek trotted a few paces up the trail before turning back, “What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him the raiders have found us. Run. RUN!”

  Peek broke into a sprint back to the huts. The panic in Patries’ voice propelled him. All the soreness from the paddling and climbing of the previous day evaporated in the heat of fear. As Peek entered the clearing between the huts other monks were rousing and wandering about the tasks of their days. Peek skidded to a halt in front of a couple of women.

  “Where’s Locambius?” Peek gasped.

  “He’s over—” The first pointed to the left before being interrupted.

  “No he’s not he’s in the—” The second women put her hands on her hips and wagged a finger in the face of the first.

  “You just think that because he—” The first turned to lean into the argument.

  Before they could interrupt each other again, Peek interjected, “NOW! Raiders are coming!”

  The women stared at him in silence. Fear dawned and then broke across their faces. The shorter one immediately began to cry. The taller woman put an arm around her friend’s shoulders. Peek wanted to demand Locambius’ location from them, but the terror that gripped them stopped Peek’s words.

  “He’s on the cliff, the listening place,” Rudi said from behind Peek.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Follow me.”

  The thick man moved with speed that surprised Peek. He struggled to keep up with Rudi as they ascended a path to a cliff edge. There Locambius sat in meditation looking out over the sea.

  “Brother,” Rudi interrupted, “There’s a report of raiders.”

  Locambius’ head snapped around, “What?”

  Rudi pointed to Peek.

  “Patries told me. I woke to the sound of horns. I asked if it was monks and she said that it couldn’t be that it had to be raiders. She sent me to tell you.” Peek panted out the words.

  Rudi looked at Locambius with an inscrutable expression. Locambius gravely rose and turned to Rudi, ignoring Peek for the moment.

  “Gather the brothers and sisters around the huts. Divide into teams of four by elements. Set Bracius in charge of the teams. We must repel them,” then he turned to Peek. “Where are they coming from? Where did you hear the horns?”

  “They sounded like they were coming from the path beyond the garden. The path where you found me.”

  “Rudi, I want you to lead a picked team to the garden. Take three with you who can play through any distraction. Remind Bracius to defend the back stairs as well. I will join you presently.”

  Rudi ran back down the path to the huts. Locambius turned to Peek and gripped him by the shoulders. It hurt.

  “This is important, Peek. Did you play any music as you paddled out to this island?”

  “No…”

  “Don’t lie to me now. Any music at all?”

  “No… I… I just heard the music of the sea.”

  “What does that mean?” Locambius squeezed tighter, then loosened his grip as if he realized what he was doing. He dropped his arms and squatted so that he looked up at Peek instead of down at him. Locambius forced himself to calmness and the urgency left his face. “I’m sorry. Young sir, I need to know. What do you mean that you heard the music of the sea?”

  “It… I don’t know…” Peek trailed off as he searched for the words to describe what had happened. The instant of fear when Locambius grabbed him had taken Peek back to Vlek’s house, but Vlek had never restrained himself, never apologized. Peek gathered his scattered thoughts and forced them into words. “It means that I heard the waves, the birds and the rhythm of my paddle. I imagined the music of it all and I dreamed of… dancing. When I was done, when I opened my eyes I was at the island. What does that—”

  Locambius’ eyes grew wide and his mouth hardened into a flat line, “You did what?” He shouted, then in the barest whisper, “You’ve killed us!”

  Locambius nearly knocked Peek to the ground as he rushed down the path. Before he turned the corner out of sight he shouted back up the hill.

  “Come along. We’ll fix it, but you must stay with me.”

  Peek recovered from his shock and ran after Locambius. They arrived at the huts in time to see Rudi taking his squad away from the circle. Bracius had the rest grouped together in fours. Each group had one monk with a whistle, one with a horn, one with a drum, and one with a harp. Rudi had three people with him, two women that Peek didn’t know and Patries. Locambius ran after them.

  Peek stood alone in the center of the huts with no instrument, no group, and no purpose. Terrified.

  In the distance he heard the sounds of music. Whistles and harps sang fluidly against the harsh, grating horns. Other horns played melodically as a counterpoint. Drums throbbed and thundered. The harsh horns always played the same notes. The other instruments played a variety of songs with no apparent end.

  The sudden scream cut through everything else.

  Bracius paled and called out to one of his squads. They ran toward the garden. More screams echoed off the stones. Bracius led another squad himself. They were probably only gone for a few minutes, but Peek imagined all the things that must be happening and went through ages of thoughts before monks ran back into the clearing. Rudi led them with a limping Locambius by his side.

  “Fall back to the scriptorium,” Locambius gasped, “defend it from the raiders.”

  Peek didn’t know where the scriptorium was, but he followed the groups toward a larger hut at the back of the circle.

  “What’s in there?” he asked a nearby monk.

  She turned to him and looked for a moment without comprehending and then, slowly she responded, “Our sacred texts. The books and scrolls that teach us about The Melody.”

  Bracius was the last back into the circle of huts with Adrocus just in front of him. Peek looked around for Patries but didn’t see her.

  “Wind to the front,” Bracius barked out the order, “Water behind them. Fire and stone, move to the rear. Prepare to tear down the north steps. If we can’t push them back we’ll retreat down the steps and tear them out behind us. They won’t be able to follow us.”

  The monks moved at his command. The whistle-monks moved forward with the harp-monks behind them. The horns and drums moved back toward the northern path. Peek stood near the rear guard monks. His mouth felt dry and he realized it was because it had been hanging open this entire time.

  “Ready wind,” Bracius called out. The whistle-monks put their instruments to their lips.

  From over the rise came bears with antlers. At least that’s what it looked like at first. The shock resolved into men in bear-skins with antler-adorned helms charging up the hill. Half of them held axes or spears, and the other half had dented brass horns. The disparity between the monk’s horns and the raiders’ was that of a child’s whittled stick to a master carpenter’s artistry.

  The ones with weapons unslung wooden shields from their backs and surrounded the horn corps. The
horns played the same tune, flat and blaring. Fire formed in the air and moved toward the gathered monks.

  Bracius signaled the whistle-monks and they played their tune in unison. A great wind whipped past Peek and pushed the fire toward the massed raiders. At a guttural command the raiders stopped playing and ducked. The wind-propelled fire shot over their heads. They rose again and pushed into the wind edging closer to the monks.

  “Water!” shouted Bracius.

  The harp-monks started playing and the whistle-monks stopped. The flowing song of the sea conjured images of crashing waves in Peek’s mind. Sheets of rain materialized from nothing and pelted the oncoming raiders. They slowed, but did not stop their advance.

  “Switch!” Bracius ordered.

  The harps fell silent and the whistles took up the strain again. This time the raiders struggled to resist the pushing force of the wind on the sodden, muddy ground. They slid and fell as they tried to advance against the gale. Peek dared to hope they’d won.

  From the rear of the raider’s party two men with bows rose up and began firing. The strong wind deflected the arrows, but distracted the monks. Even the most disciplined musicians have a hard time concentrating when arrows are flying at their faces. The song faltered and the wind flagged. An arrow struck home. Through the fading music a scream echoed. The wind died.

  Bracius played the tune himself and a great gust of wind pummeled the raiders. Peek felt the skies singing along with Bracius he sensed that they wanted to do more. The song felt incomplete, muted, and weak.

  “Water!” Bracius shouted.

  When the harpists played again, deluging the raiders with torrents, Bracius ran over to the whistlers and pulled them away from the dead body. Peek struggled to hear his words over the pouring rain, but more than that, he struggled to hear anything except for the music. It didn’t seem to come from the harps, but from the ocean and the sky. The harps sounded like echoes of a song that was far greater.

  Raiders rose and advanced. Inch by inch they took ground and came closer to the monks. Bracius finished shouting at the whistlers and they turned to face the raiders with renewed determination. The harpists stopped and the whistles sang out. A hurricane swept the top of the island. Peek fell on his face before struggling to his knees. The raiders slid and fell on the slippery ground. When their archers fired again, Bracius played a short burst of the wind-song and pushed the arrows away. The raiders retreated toward the garden. Unbidden the whistlers followed them, pushing the enemy away, step by step.

  When the raiders had retreated a dozen yards they stopped and dug their shields into the ground. Peek noticed that the ground was dry. The harpists had only poured out their song on a tiny patch of earth. Something seemed wrong. Peek looked at the harpists for a moment before he realized that the whistlers were getting close to the soaked, slippery ground. He tried to shout out a warning, but the tearing wind stole his voice.

  First one of the whistle players slipped and then another. The hurricane became a storm, then a breeze. Arrows rained down on the sliding monks and they couldn’t even run to safety. Peek looked to Bracius for an order, but he just stood there stunned. The songs that weren’t being played by the instruments grew louder and more insistent to Peek. He felt them welling up, growing, begging him for something. When he was on the water paddling he felt the songs of the ocean and birds calling to him. Again Peek thought of dancing with Dray and the song. He began to sing it.

  Peek imagined their dance, furiously beautiful. They twirled and spun, this time around the monks on the island. Peek led Dray and they danced around the injured and dying whistle monks. He imagined a barrier between them and the raiders. They danced protection and safety. They danced peace.

  Peek opened his eyes and found himself standing where he had danced in his mind. Dray wasn’t with him, but there was a wall around the whistle-monks. It was like the stone huts, made with course upon course of flat stones. He turned to see the raiders. They raised their horns to play fire and death. Peek panicked and dove into the songs. He heard the fire-song building and he called in water to join it and oppose it. This dance was one of terror.

  In Peek’s fear he groped for the song of the ocean that lay behind the song of the harpists. He pulled at it and urged it to protect the wounded and dying monks lying on the ground. He danced into the growing wall of fire that the raiders played. They touched. The fire did not burn, but sizzled and steamed where the water intersected it. Peek grew as large as he could, pulling in all the water possible, and embraced the fire.

  All the songs stopped. Peek felt like he was falling off the stairs again, but this time in a dream. He kept falling into the black, tuneless nothing for what seemed like forever. Then he hit the ground. Light came back for an instant in stars that flashed before his eyes, then the darkness shrouded him and silence fell.

  When Peek opened his eyes again he was back by the scriptorium. The raiders lay in heaps groaning. Peek had stopped them.

  Then he turned to look at the monks he’d tried to save. The wall around the wind-monks had collapsed. There were no sounds of life. Poking out through the piled rubble Peek could see hands or feet. They did not move.

  Tears clouded his vision. Peek started to rise, to go forward and pull the rocks off of the crushed monks. He needed to save them. He needed to undo what had been done. But Rudi grabbed him. In the distance more horns called the raiders’ song of fire. This was merely the first wave of attackers.

  “It’s time to leave, young sir,” Rudi said through clenched teeth.

  Peek crumpled and allowed himself to be half-dragged and half-led away.

  “Retreat!” Locambius yelled.

  The monks ran back toward the steps at the north side of the monastery. Bracius stood playing the wind-song and pushing back the raiders until everyone had made it past him, then he turned and fled with his brothers and sisters. Once they were halfway down the stairs, the stone and fire monks stopped and played. First the stone-song lifted the steps and flung them to the left and right. Then, once half of the steps were gone, the fire-song ignited the path. None would follow their retreat.

  Locambius led the diminished group down toward the water. Peek moved through a fog. He heard the commands and questions of the monks around him, but he was apart from them. They knew of the raiders, called them Markay, and they knew to expect attacks. But they hadn’t expected this one. They hadn’t thought the raiders could reach them on the island. They were wrong. Each time a monk mentioned the raiders Peek felt their hot stares pierce him. He stumbled down the stairs as close to the water as possible. But once he got there the song of the ocean breached his fog and reminded him. The monks and raiders had died. Peek wanted to protect them. Somehow he danced or dreamed or sang and magic happened. But it happened all wrong. It brought death.

  Peek sat on the lowest step, his feet touching the quay at the north side of the island, and wept bitter, broken tears.

  Six

  As the city grew so did the influence of Eytskaim. Scholars came from far and wide to learn from him and his wisdom. His disciples sat and listened to his wise pronouncements daily and then discussed their meaning all through the night. He gave no direction other than his presence and his continual offer, “How may I serve?”

  After the first of his disciples had been with him for twenty years, he approached Eytskaim with a question of his own.

  “Wise king. You rule over a greater kingdom than the world has ever known yet you have not lifted a sword. You are more famous than any god, yet you demand no sacrifices. What, great king, is the source of your wisdom and power?”

  Eytskaim tilted his head to the side as he did after every question. During this pause the disciple leaned forward in anticipation of the answer.

  “My friend, I cannot yet tell you the source of my wisdom and power. Ask me again another time.”

  So his disciple went back to his accustomed seat and listened to the wise proclamations of Eytskaim.

&nbs
p; “It matters not to the Melody if you submit or struggle; to you, however, it matters greatly.” Ascanius of Glas Gleann

  T

  hey sat on the cold, wind-ravaged steps for a long time. The fire on the hillside burned out, but no one came down the steep path to attack them. Long after the hill stopped smoking, black billows still rose from beyond. They waited.

  Peek kept replaying Locambius’ words to him: “You’ve killed us.” Then he thought of the cries of the whistle monks as they were crushed by the wall he had built to protect them. How could Peek have caused the raiders to come? How could he — without an instrument — have done the magic of the monks? He couldn’t see the connection, but at the same time he felt the guilt of accusation every time he saw Locambius’ weeping face. Long into the night the old monk sat staring at the rising smoke above them and crying. He made no attempt to hide his grief and so Peek was forced to share in the loss of people he’d never really known. Except for Patries, that is. And that relationship spanned a bowl of water and a few shouted words before dawn.

  When they’d gathered on the steps Locambius asked for a report. The various squads mentioned those they’d lost — most of the whistle-monks were gone. Peek didn’t recognize any of the names except Patries’. When it came up he felt it like a stone dropping onto his heart. The weight stole his breath and dropped him to the ground. The aged monk who’d befriended him and encouraged him just hours ago was dead. And, according to Locambius, it was Peek’s fault. He didn’t know what to do with that thought. Tears came again.

  Peek had never experienced death personally. Sure he’d known of village elders who’d died and not long ago a mother had died in childbirth. He’d wished for Vlek to die, but there was no one that Peek really knew that had died. He didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that all these people were no longer alive, no longer with him. He especially had no way to grapple with the concept that if it wasn’t for his actions, they would still be alive.