“I think I need to meditate now,” Stephen said through gritted teeth. The shaded stream looked a paradise.
“Oh, it’s not so much further,” Brother Pell assured him. “Look, we’re coming up on the orchard.”
Stephen was beginning another treatise.
My Travels with the Damned, Part the Second: The odd affair of the monk with the brain of a cow.
If at first this human-seeming creature appears intelligent, the illusion quickly vanishes when it attempts conversation …
As Stephen composed, he staggered through long, beautiful rows of sweet spring apple blossoms, a kingdom of butterflies and bees. His legs begged him for rest, for just a moment leaned back against one of those perfumed trunks. He thought of apples, of crunching into one, and the juice flowing down his chin. Of cold cider wetting his parchment-dry throat.
The language of his treatise became harsher.
“See here, how much further is it, Brother?”
“No distance to speak of. Tell me, Master Stephen. How is it you know such lore about the names of saints?”
“I went to the college at Ralegh. I’ve come here to fill the novice position in the scriftorium.”
“Saint Lujé! You’re the lad who was coming from Virgenya! We had lost hope! Three searches went out and found no sign of you.”
“I was kidnapped,” Stephen said, between deep gasps. “Holter saved me. Took me … Tor Scath.”
“Your patron must have been watching you. But—why did you tell me you were come here to buy cheese?”
Stephen managed to lift his eye enough to stare at the monk.
… any thought that enters its head flits about within the hollow like an aimless insect, causing endless perplexion …
“I didn’t,” Stephen said, exasperated. “I—”
“There, there. I’m sure your adventures have made you cautious. But you’re safe now—you’re with us. And see, that’s where we live.”
He pointed, but all Stephen could see was the ground. Until he raised his head, further, further. The path wound up the steep flanks of a conical hill, and there, perched on the very top of it, stood the walls and towers of the monastery d’Ef.
“Come on!” Brother Pell said. “Step lively, and we may be in time for the praicersnu. I think it’s ham and cherries, today.”
Stephen had reached the end of his strength, however.
“I’ll rest before climbing that,” he said, perhaps a little sharply.
“Oh, lad—no! You can’t do that. You’ve set your foot on holy soil. Remember your Saint Decmanus! The burden is a blessing, on the road of the righteous. Do not set it aside until journey’s end, where it will be lifted from you.”
“I’m not certain he meant a literal burden,” Stephen protested.
“By the saints, you aren’t one of those, are you? Endlessly making excuses that the saints never really said what they said, or if they said it, did not mean it? That won’t go well, here. Besides, you’re in full sight of our reverend fratrex, and you should make a good impression on him.”
“You really think the fratrex is watching?”
“No doubt. I wouldn’t chance it if I were you.”
“I would think a fratrex would have better things to do than gaze out a window all day,” Stephen complained.
“Come on, boy-o.”
With yet another sigh of resignation, Stephen started up the path.
He folded at the very gates of d’Ef, to the grins and chuckles of several men in habit coming back from the fields.
“Brother Lewes,” Brother Pell said to a hulking sandy-haired fellow, “could you take our new brother’s burden?”
The monk nodded, came forward, and lifted the bundle as if it was a pile of twigs.
“Come around the side,” Brother Pell said. “I’ve a feeling you can use some water.”
“I’d be very thankful,” Stephen said.
Without the crushing weight of the firewood, Stephen had a better look at the monastery. It was built in the high style of the early de Loy period, when regents from Liery sat upon the throne in Eslen and brought architects from Safnia and Vitellio to marry their talents with the local craftsmen. Here the result was exuberant, strong, and practical, constructed of a pale rose granite. The chapel was marked by a double arched bell tower above a long, narrow, steepled nave. The doors were set in high arches. Two wings extended from the center of the chapel, traveled some thirty yards, then took rightangle turns back toward Stephen, terminating in smaller versions of the chapel doors. In the two three-sided yards thus enclosed were herb gardens, small vineyards, chickens, outdoor hearths, a few lazy dogs, and a number of monks working at various tasks.
Brother Pell led him into the yard on the right, through an open arch in that wing, and Stephen saw that the back of the structure mirrored the front. This yard, however, was more serene, planted with rose gardens and adorned by statues and shrines to various saints. Against the chapel wall was built an arbor, covered in grapevines, and beneath were wooden benches and boards for dining. Brother Pell motioned Stephen to a bench. The board was set with a pitcher, two mazers, and several plates of food.
“Sit, sit,” Brother Pell said. He took up the stoneware pitcher and poured them each a mazer of water. It was cold and clean-tasting, and it felt like the laugh of an angel going down his throat. Stephen finished it greedily, then poured himself another.
Brother Pell had turned his attention to the cloth-covered plates. “What have we?” he wondered, lifting the linen.
The answer set Stephen’s mouth watering. Crusty bread, a round of soft, pungent cheese, slices of brick-red ham so salty he could already taste it on his tongue, and yellow and red speckled cherries.
“May I?” Stephen asked.
“The bread only,” Brother Pell replied. “Novices are not allowed meat, cheese, or fruit their first month here.”
“Not—” He closed his mouth. He had heard about this sort of thing. He should have been prepared for it.
Brother Pell laughed gently and clapped his hands thrice. “My apologies, yes? That was me having fun with you. Please, eat of anything before you. There is no hardship concerning food here, save on fast days or when contemplation is assigned. Eat frugally, but well. That’s our motto, here.”
“Then—”
“Tuck in,” Pell said.
Stephen did. He forced himself to eat slowly, but it was difficult. His stomach wanted it all, immediately.
“What brought you here, Brother Darige?” Brother Pell asked.
“To the church or to d’Ef ?”
“D’Ef. I heard you requested this monastery, specifically.”
“I did indeed. For its scriftorium. There is only one more comprehensive—the one in the sacarasio of the Caillo Vallaimo in z’Irbina.”
“Oh, yes. Your interest in names and such. But why not there, then? Why d’Ef ?”
“The Caillo Vallaimo has more scrifti. D’Ef has better ones, at least by my interests.”
“How so?”
“D’Ef has the best collection of texts from the early days of the Hegemony in this region.”
“And why does that excite you?”
“It’s the chronicle of the spread of the faith, its battles with heresy and black warlockery. I am also much interested in the early languages of these regions, spoken before Vitellian was imposed.”
“I see. Then you are conversant with Allotersian dialects and script?”
Stephen nodded excitedly. “It was my major course of study.”
“And Vadhiian?”
“That’s more difficult. There are only three lines written in that tongue, though it’s much like Old Plath, from what I can see. I—”
“We have ten scrifti in Vadhiian here. None are completely deciphered.”
“What!” In his excitement, Stephen upset his mazer. It flew from the table and broke into pieces at the brother’s feet.
“Oh!” Stephen said, as Brother Pell bent to gather the shards. “Oh, I’m sorry, Brother Pell. I was just so—”