The Last Refuge
The Tomewright Compendium: Book 1
By L.A. Blackburn
Copyright © 2017 L.A. Blackburn
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of James H. Parnell and Rev. Robert F. Mayfield. The time and friendship they poured into me will never be forgotten.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
1
By Its Cover…
1
2
An Important Title…
24
3
A Strong Spine…
42
4
Heavy Bond…
58
5
Round and Back…
77
6
Saw the Back…
95
7
The Press…
116
8
A Whipstitch…
135
9
On The Fold…
153
10
The Lock-stitch…
177
11
Straightening the Boards…
194
12
Fraying out the Cords…
216
13
Tearing Down…
247
14
The Knocking Down Block…
264
15
Cutting with the Grain…
282
16
Marking the Back…
301
17
Applying the Paste…
327
18
Knocking Down the Swell…
347
19
Trimming the Book…
364
20
Squaring the Book…
384
21
Setting the Glue…
403
22
Casing In…
427
23
Laying the Cover…
448
24
The Binding…
468
25
Jagged Tears…
487
26
Worn Corners…
506
27
Dirty Covers…
525
28
Cleaning Pages…
541
29
Torn Hinges…
568
30
Torn at the Fold…
602
EPILOGUE
625
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the God of Abraham and his Son, Yeshua
And to Shawna, Alex and Easton
Without any of the above, this book would not have been possible.
One
“By Its Cover…”
The young man lifted a sleepy head from the table, peering through bloodshot eyes into the scowling face of the old monk tapping him on the shoulder.
"Nathan. You're on fire, again," said Brother Blyke.
Nathan jumped to his feet but caught his foot on his chair and stumbled. Tumbling to the floor, he patted out the small flame crawling across his tunic as the room exploded in a round of laughter. Returning to his seat, he ran a nervous hand through his curly red hair as his gaze held the rapidly reddening face of the grizzled old monk.
“I’ve had it with your foolishness,” shouted Brother Blyke.
“These witless idiots set me on fire,” said Nathan.
“Am I right in assuming that doesn’t happen when you’re awake?” hissed Blyke as Nathan looked away awkwardly. “So, if you don’t wish these things to happen when I leave the room, then stop falling asleep. For pity’s sake, Nathan, your only job is to make candles and keep this room in light. Is that so difficult?”
Nathan glared at the thin-cheeked, hooked-nose monk and knew the cranky old codger was an important key to staying at the monastery. So, in spite of anger churning in his gut, he managed to whisper an apology, "I'm sorry, Sir."
"Be sorry somewhere else, and while your at it, take these copies for the abbot’s approval," said Blyke, jabbing a bundle of papers toward Nathan.
“Why?” Said Nathan.
Blyke answered with a stare as cold as steel and still as death. Nathan understood the hint and took the papers. When he passed to the door, a nearby scribe caught Nathan’s foot sending him stumbling to the floor and sending papers flying in all directions. Nathan turned in time to see Brother Dolward look away in an attempt to conceal his laughter. Dolward took great pride in being a constant problem to Nathan whenever the moment allowed. So he climbed to his feet with murder on his mind and moved toward the chuckling monk with fists clinched tight, but was quickly intercepted by Brother Damon, the Senior Scribe.
“Leave it,” demanded Damon, stopping Nathan’s forward advance with a hand to the chest.
Damon looked fiercely at Nathan through hazel eyes that peered though the stark ebony hair draping about his face. Like many monasteries, the monks at St. Brendan’s copy texts both sacred and secular. It is noble work. But as Senior Scribe, Damon demanded respect whether he earned it or not. Nathan swallowed hard, staring at the hand on his chest with raging eyes, but quickly followed Damon’s warning and backed away. Sometimes, his temper got the better of him and some of the monks prodded him purposefully to get him thrown out. Trying to better compose himself, Nathan glanced out an open window toward the tumbling sea outside.
It felt like an eternity since he arrived at St. Brendan’s. The humble monastery stood atop a small grassy island off the southern tip of Wales, connected to the mainland by a long narrow sandbar that pushed it into the sea a respectable distance. It didn’t have the grandeur of the cathedral churches on the mainland, but none competed with St. Brendan’s beauty, its wind-swept cliffs and sea-soaked beaches. Nathan cherished the sound of the sea waves crashing against the rocks outside and the gulls calling overhead. He’d been a candlemaker at the monastery longer than he could remember, and from all indications - he’d stay that way. Yet these were dangerous times and oddities didn’t foster favor among the people, it was a miracle he was allowed in St. Brendan’s at all. It wasn’t just their attitude toward his half-Jewish heritage that brought him trouble, but also his unnaturally pointed right ear that stirred the superstitious fear in them. He lied and told them it happened in an accident, but that only made things worse. For the most part, the majority of the brothers took little notice of him but a few of the monks saw the ear as a bad omen and try to get him expelled from the monastery. Sometimes, he heard them whispering “Christ-killer” and “devil-ear” as he passed in the hallway. On these occasions, Nathan bit his lip till the blood flowed to keep from saying his mind and being expelled. Due to this hostility, he took to growing his hair over his ears and helping the nearby villagers whenever he could to get away from the monastery for a bit. But it was more than that, and in truth, he was a bit of an oddity as well. Raw sunlight turned his skin a horrible red hue that was painful to the touch, and common farming tools gave him rashes on his hands if he held the metal too long. Due to this, his duties were usually inside most of the time adding fuel to the fire of resentment with the monks. Sometimes, when it grew late, he would steal close to a cottage to eavesdrop on their stories of the old myths. They would share the old tales of mythical creatures and disappearances from days gone by. He sat and listened with a rare intensity until someone came too close and he had too leave.
At one time, he thought to
enter the priesthood, but came to understand advancement was impossible. He comforted himself in the fact that, at least, they let him study, make candles and earn his keep in other ways. Nevertheless, trouble seemed to follow him like the stink of old fish. For some reason, he continually startled people causing them to accuse him of sneaking around, leaving his claims of innocence to fall on deaf ears. Also, he began having nightmares that made it hard to sleep at night keeping him so exhausted he fell asleep during the day. More than once, he fell asleep during morning prayers, earning him the resentment of the abbot. This sentiment he gladly returned in the form of clever pranks like gluing pen-quills to the table with egg-whites, cracking chair-legs so they appear to break on their own and, his personal favorite, greasing the floors of the toilet. More often than not, no further explanation would be sought other than blaming it on vengeful spirits in the countryside, but there were some in the monastery who had other thoughts.
As they progressed to the abbot’s chamber, Nathan ignored their prying eyes and followed Damon through the stone hallway. Stealing a quick glance through an open window, he watched Brother Delgado tending garden in the distance and his heart picked up a bit. Delgado found him and his parents near some wreckage on that very beach, and Nathan often pressured the old Librarian to tell the story. But each time the tale was told, the facts always changed a bit, making Nathan wonder if he remembered the event at all, but Delgado remembered quite well.
The old librarian often recounted to himself that their boat crashed on the rocks off the coast and made land near the monastery. Brother Delgado was first to find them and discovered a powerfully built Jewish man laying in a collection of wreckage next to a startling beautiful woman. The Star-of-David cloth on his coat lay half-torn from his body and angry black sores showed that the plague had claimed him before the sea could. The librarian thought to cry for help, but knew the sight of a plague victim would certainly doom them all. Even as the ashen arms of death wrapped around him, the man clutched to life long enough to make Delgado swear to take care of his wife and child. Then, with his dying breathe, he whispered, "Hear O’Israel. The Lord is God, The Lord Alone.” Delgado shook his head in frustration at not having been there sooner, but quickly turned his attention to the woman. Pulling the wreckage away from her, he marveled that she had no external wounds that he could find and couldn’t make out what was killing her. She made no sound but simply reached a slender, delicate hand to his cheek and smiled. He moved her flowing fiery tresses away from her face to reveal two perfectly pointed ears. In all his years, he never laid eyes on anyone like her and the sight of her made him think of angels. He had never seen one of the ancient folk, but supposed that the Eldritch people couldn’t look any different than she did. Cautiously feeling for a pulse, he helplessly watched as the life drained from her like water from melting ice until she passed. Though petite and lithe in stature, she possessed a fierce beauty as wild as the driven wind with fiery red hair, almond shaped eyes and lily-white skin as smooth as milk. Even as her hair flowed down around her now still features, she held a savage magnificence that death could not remove. Delgado pondered the circumstances that could bring a Jewish man and this strange woman together as he turned his attention to their son. The boy lay stricken with a fever with multiple bruises and a nasty gash on his head. By his size and teeth, he appeared to be about eight years old, but it was hard to tell due to his half-starved state. He displayed the curly red hair of his mother but his skin held a darker hue more like his father. Delgado turned the child’s head side-to-side checking for plague sores but to his relief, found none. However, what he did find confused him, the boy had a pointed ear like his mother, but only one. After taking the Star-of-David cloth from the man’s coat, the old librarian disposed of the bodies as quickly as he could by taking a small boat and returning them to the sea. When he reported to Father Ian, the abbot at the time, he never mentioned the parents, but handed him the Star-of-David cloth explaining the child must be abandoned. Ian commented on the child’s misshapen ear but Delgado quickly explained this away to injury from the wreck. Something about the lad pulled at Delgado’s heart, so he asked permission to raise him at the monastery. Miraculously, the abbot allowed it, so he named the boy, Nathan, which in Hebrew means – God gave. And through the years, Delgado found a good student in Nathan and poured his considerable knowledge into the lad. He loved that stumpy old librarian like a father and certainly Delgado had always treated him like a son. Delgado had the dark skin of the Moors, wild curly black hair and long curly beard of ebony streaked with gray. His piercing brown eyes glimmered with knowledge that commanded a first-rate mind. Nathan loved to learn, but was slow at it, and appreciated the old monk’s tutoring more than he could ever tell him.
As they approached the abbot’s chambers, the sea air carried through the cracks in the walls, chilling him to the bone. Nathan pulled his robe about him and smiled to himself as he thought of Brother Delgado. This would be the first time he had seen the new abbot since Father Ian was called away on an urgent matter, and left Father Conner in his place. At last, he came to the heavy wooden doorway that signaled the abbot's chambers, wiped the sweat from his palms and gently knocked. A ruffling of papers preceded a deep chesty bellow from within.
"Yes," called the abbot.
He entered a room to find Abbot Conner seated at his worktable, intently writing on some parchment before him. Nathan marveled as the priest’s large, thick fingers gingerly moved the feather quill around the parchment with the fluid motions of a true artist. Books and scrolls stood in towering stacks on the stone floor so high it looked as though a breath would topple them. The simple furnishings included a bed in one corner and a large oaken worktable in the center carved with knot-work patterns of fine workmanship. Nathan's mouth was terribly dry and he wanted desperately to be anywhere else. Rumor had it that some felt Abbot Ian wasted too much of his time and resources on his far flung outreach missions to the outlying villages, but reports also say that his charity and dedication were admired. Ian had always been a man of passion and complete dedication to whatever he put his thought too. However, Father Conner was quite different.
After several painfully silent minutes, Conner ran a stocky hand through his long curly brown beard, leaned back in his chair and eyed Nathan through steel blue eyes.
"Sorry for the wait. Have a sit," said Conner as he leaned back in his seat and motioned Nathan to a chair.
“Brother Blyke sent these papers for your approval,” said Nathan, holding out the bundle with shaking fingers. The abbot took the papers and quickly ran his sharp eyes over each document with a razor-sharp precision that belied his coarse appearance.
"You've been falling asleep again in the Scriptorium, haven’t you,” he said, peeking over the top of the paperwork.
"I'm sorry Father Conner. I just haven't been sleeping well lately," said Nathan.
"You seem to sleep rather well during morning prayers," Connor retorted.
Nathan searched his mind for a good defense, but knew the evidence stacked against him. He looked at the floor. "I work hard, just as hard as anyone else. Just ask Brother Delgado..."
The abbot stood from his chair and held up his hand. "I know you work hard but that’s not what is in question," Conner continued. “Your future here is what we need to talk about. Did you know it was ten years ago today that you came to us?"
“No…” said Nathan. He had forgotten entirely. Had it really been that long?
"Simply put, now that you’ve got some age on you, some of the brothers are putting a bit of pressure on me to send you on your way.”
“And what does that mean?” Nathan blurted.
“Well, you’re a young man with hair on his chest, haven’t you ever wondered about life beyond these walls?”
“I go to the villages with Brother Delgado as often as he allows.”
“That’s not quite what I mean.”
“Then what are you saying? I have to leave
?”
“Nathan, you’ve been at St. Brendan’s for some time now, and both of us know that you will never enter the priesthood. Your heart’s not in it and some feel you lack a measure of dedication,” said Conner.
“That’s crazy,” Nathan insisted.
“Of course it is, but outlandish or not, for now, I keep the peace in this community,” said Conner. “For the moment, I’m able to hold them off with a compromise. Have a look at this.”
Opening a small box on his desk, the abbot takes out an ornate piece of cloth and, unfolding it, lays it before Nathan.
“Do you remember what this is?” asked Conner.
“It’s a hexagram,” answered Nathan.
“It’s the Star-of-David,” said Conner.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” said Nathan anxiously.
“If you could sew this cloth onto your tunic…”
“I’m not wearing that,” Nathan said flatly.
“It will help your position in the monastery.”
“Exactly how am I to improve my position by wearing that?” said Nathan with one finger pointing at the cloth.
“The brothers are pressing me to send you on your way now that you have come of age. This is the only thing I can think of to calm the situation and get them to focus on something else.” Conner said flatly.
Nathan knew what they wanted. His opponents sought to humiliate him and isolate him even more than they already had. In his mind, he’d hoped that only a handful of monks wanted this. But evidently, it was more than that. And that’s what hurt the most. In the past, the Star of David was an honored and ancient Hebrew symbol, but over the years Jewish people were forced to wear it as a mark of disgrace. What should have been a symbol of honor became a blight to single out Jews and give others the impression that they were somehow second-class.
The Last Refuge (The Tomewright Compendium Book 1) Page 1
