The strange man had created a minor sensation, both in town and among members of the three orders in the abbey. Medicants regarded him as a patient. To theophists, he was one of God’s children to minister to, assuming he wasn’t a demon. And to scholastics, he was a puzzle, and what was more fun than a puzzle?
Diera touched the stubble on the sleeping man’s chin. He had been clean-shaven when found. Whatever happened must have occurred recently, because the stubble couldn’t be more than two or three days old. Who was he? A slave escaped from the Narthani? The Narthani slaves were beardless, though she hadn’t heard of a Narthani slave without bruises or scars. He obviously wasn’t a eunuch. Rumors were that some Narthani male slaves were castrated as children to make them more docile. So, was this mysterious guest a demon? Sent by the Evil One to tempt them, or an agent of God sent to test them?
Diera returned to her duties, musing on how the daily routine had changed this day and wondering whether there was any higher meaning to it. She and Sistian would have an interesting conversation over the evening meal.
The next morning the stranger was still asleep when Diera visited him.
“He did wake several times during the night,” the night attendant told Diera, “and then drifted back to sleep. At mid-morning he awoke again.”
They tried feeding him broth, but he turned away when the spoon came under his nose. By afternoon, he’d swallowed a small cup of phila juice. While it was too sweet for Diera’s taste, and she didn’t care for the musty flavor, it was heavy in sugar and other nutrients. By the third day, he kept down a small portion of barley and beef soup. By the fifth day, he consumed large helpings, and on the eighth day, the stranger sat up and ate solid foods by himself.
He was still weak, but the change astounded the medicants. The pallor that had made them afraid he was near death had transformed into a healthy complexion, though lighter in tone than most Caedelli.
They also confirmed he didn’t speak any of the languages known to them—Caedelli or any of the major mainland dialects of the same language group, several dialects of Collardium of the Iraquinik continent, Frangelese, or High Landolin, the learned language of the Landolin continent and the accepted scholastic language of most of Anyar.
Diera felt trepidations when they brought in an escaped Narthani slave working on a farm near Abersford to try the Narthani language, fearing the stranger was either a Narthani or one of their agents. She was relieved when he was as oblivious to the Narthani language as any of the others they tried.
Five days later, an impromptu staff gathering was called to discuss the next step for the stranger.
A senior theophist, Callwin Wye, sat hunched over, lines of discontent scoring his dour face. “Where is he from, then?”
Diera sighed. Wye was a difficult, conservative man. “We have no idea, Brother Callwin. I sense he hasn’t been deceptive, at least as far as language is concerned. Although he might be suffering from a mental impairment, my instinct tells me he’s from a distant part of Anyar, where the language is completely unknown to us.”
Brother Bolwyn nodded. “That’s possible. It’s not as if Caedellium is on the main travel routes or widely known on Anyar. He could be from an island population even smaller than ours or some geographically isolated language enclave. All we know about him is his name. Yozef Kolsko, if we are pronouncing it correctly.”
“Yozef Kolsko,” Diera drew out the sounds. “I don’t recall ever hearing either name.”
“Me, neither,” Bolwyn said. “Which gives more credence to his origin being somewhere unknown to us here on Caedellium.”
“We should have serious reservations about leaving him unguarded,” groused Wye. “The speed of his recovery should be a warning that he could be an agent of the Evil One.”
The others looked at Wye with resignation. The stubby brother never faltered in his search for signs of demons and malefactors. While they usually tolerated his fixation, it was tiring.
Bolwyn waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s get back to the purpose of this meeting and our next step with the stranger. For the last few days, he’s visited the relief room in the ward and sponged himself off.” He smiled. “I didn’t think he was up to it, but I suspect having people help him with voiding and washing his body makes him uncomfortable. His people may have stronger privacy customs than us. Since he is able to care for himself, I recommend he be moved to a room in the visitor’s building. He needs fresh air and sunshine.”
“And you think he . . . ,” Diera paused. “I suppose we should quit calling him ‘he’ or ‘the stranger’ and use his name.” She glanced at Bolwyn. “You think this Yozef Kolsko is ready to be moved?”
Bolwyn shrugged. “I see no reason not to.”
That afternoon, two brothers helped Joe to quarters in a nearby building. The simple room contained a narrow bed and bedding, a plain chest with three drawers, a small mirror on the wall, and a window looking out at a garden and the abbey’s main wall. There was one painting in the room, one that Joe suspected was a depiction of God bringing the first man to life. A flask of water sat on the table, along with a drying cloth, a sphere of soap, a comb, and a tooth cleaner, all of which the staff hoped he knew how to use.
Because he had no clothes when found and had worn nothing but a patient’s gown during his recovery, they had laid out two sets of clothing on the narrow bed: a pair of sandals, a pair of sturdy shoes, two trousers, two pull-over shirts of the same brown cloth he’d seen worn by the people caring for him, and a brimmed straw hat. Joe had been nervous when two men walked him to a different building, wondering what was in store. When he saw the clothing, he took it as a sign they expected him to stay for a time.
Well, at least they aren’t turning me out on my own, imprisoning me for being an illegal alien, or burning me at the stake. Yet, anyway.
They left him, after pantomiming he should rest. At evening mealtime, an elderly brother, Fitham by name, if Joe understood, came to Joe’s room and guided him to a large dining hall with about forty tables made from light, grainy wood, some with four chairs and others with eight. The floors were foot-wide planks worn smooth. A variety of tapestries, patterned cloths, and paintings hung on the stone walls, among them, a larger version of the painting in his room.
He later learned the permanent staff lived in their own quarters, which had meal-preparation facilities. The abbey also operated the central dining hall for ambulatory patients, patients’ family members, visitors to the abbey, and any abbey staff who either preferred not to prepare their own meals or wanted to join the others on occasion.
When Fitham led Joe into the hall, the buzz of conversation died. Talk picked up again as the brother sat Joe at a table. He ignored the covert glances from the diners. The move to new quarters and the walk to the hall were the most exertion and excitement he’d had since his arrival. He focused on eating hunks of meat in thick gravy over starchy chunks of greenish vegetables and generous slices of heavy, dark bread. Thankfully, the bread was familiar enough, although the starch and the vegetables were too much in the “some kind of” category for him to be comfortable. It didn’t matter. His appetite had blossomed. He ate the portion Fitham brought to him in a round wooden bowl, and after he’d devoured the contents, Fitham, without hesitation, took the bowl back and returned with an even larger portion. Joe ate it, slower this time. He thought his stomach might have room for even more food, but by now he was aware of the other diners’ attention.