The Art of Illumination

By A.M. Hamilton

The Art Of Illumination is a spellbinding book that transports one into a world of wonder, mystery, and divine empowerment. It weaves a tale of long lost wisdom and sprinkles it at the feet of the reader like gorgeous pearls. I cannot recommend it highly enough. A fantastic read.

Sonia Choquette, NYTimes best-selling author of The Answer Is Simple. Love Yourself. live Your Spirit

The Art of Illumination is the stunning tale of one mans journey into the deepest realm of the soul. A compelling mystery propels this luminous exploration of the human experience of the divine. A wise and beautiful book, it grabbed my heart from the first chapter and never let go. Its a remarkable story, written with startling vision and grace by a promising new author. It will leave you awed, moved and hungering for more.

Maureen Boyd Biro, author of Walking With Maga and Voices of the Valley, First Press.

This book is amazing - I picked it up just to check a few lines and couldnt stop reading. I felt as though it was educating me, and I could imagine everything as if I was watching a movie. There wasnt one part of the book which did not make me want to quickly turn to another page.

June Dally Watkins, Education and Training | Business Finishing College.

The year is 1097. Britain has been politically unstable for an age, and it doesnt seem as though things will be settling down any time soon. It isnt just political issues that threaten the population, however. Without an understanding of the nature of pestilence or the knowledge of how to treat it, disease runs rampant through the population, affecting everyone in its path.

While tragedy rampages unchallenged, one place stands apart from the events afflicting the world at large. Hidden away in a corner of the land stands the large, stone monastery that serves as a shelter from the terrifying world. It is here that one man finds himself on a journey he never expected he would take. He discovers the art of illumination, not only in the creation of beautiful manuscripts, but in illumination of the soul. In the process, he also uncovers a secret that will propel him into a world he never expected to find.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Oct 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452507361

A.M. Hamilton

A. M. HAMILTON is a registered aged care nurse. She lives with her husband, son, and their dog in a quiet country town on a beautiful bush property in New South Wales, Australia.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Desert Flower

The summer stretched well into autumn, and my brother, Wilfred, and I were determined to take advantage of it. So in mid-November of 1097, which felt more like June, Wilfred and I were in the fields with the sheep.

I was never one for shallow daydreams and idle hands, but the sun that day momentarily changed all that. Wilfred and I stopped to eat on a sunny hilltop, allowing the sheep one more good feed on the lush summer grasses. We lay on the warm bed of grass, totally seduced by the noon sun.

We had smelt winter coming only the day before and decided this particular day would be autumn’s last explosion of delight before the first snows suffocated the lush mountain grasses and wildflowers. The sun’s warmth tried to fool me into thinking Wilfred and I could stay out there forever, but I knew we had to move back before the afternoon grew too cold. We needed to let the winter have its way with the land. But first, it was time to rest and enjoy the sun. So, with a full belly and a nap, daydreams filled my head.

I couldn’t help but see her when I closed my eyes. I had missed her for the past two weeks while Wilfred and I were out with the sheep. I felt my wife, Helena, calling to me, as she would be waiting for me to return. Wilfred and I weren’t that far from home—just a couple hours more, and we would be with the women we loved.

Wilfred, too, was eager to return. His wife was due to give birth soon. After five failed pregnancies in the four years since they had married, Wilfred wanted to be there to see the miracle of creation and hold his child after so many disappointments.

Wilfred and his wife, Olwyn, loved each other very much. I wouldn’t call her a beauty, but she was kind. She had suffered terribly after each of her unborn children went to God, and Wilfred was worried about her. Her ailing spirit and state of mind took its toll on both of them. I understood the pain, as it was a common pain for us in those times. My wife and I, too, had suffered the deaths of two children, leaving only one other to live. I think Wilfred silently resented that.

For the past few days, I noticed restlessness in him that he happily denied whenever I asked about it. He couldn’t fool me; I had known him too long and too well for him to be able to hide so much from me. I knew because this had been building up in him for the past few years since his first child had died just three days after she was born.

I prayed that this time the child would be fine, but I couldn’t know what would happen. I just prayed the child would live; I prayed that this time God would show Wilfred and Olwyn some mercy and allow them their gift of life.

Helena and I had been married for five years, and I adored her. She warmed my body and heart each night with her presence and love, and during the day, she was the sun. Her hair was dark and long, flowing gently about her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was pure and white with a soft, silky glow that highlighted the dark, deep eyes that were the gateway to a thousand mysteries. Her lips were flawless, as only kindness ever passed between them. I was somewhat reckless, and Helena was good for me—too good—always patient and understanding.

Helena had an intimate knowledge of horses, which was unusual to say the least, especially for a woman. She understood them, how they thought and how they behaved, and she was wild like them. Horses were very much a part of our daily lives; working with them was usual practice, and to be honest, I didn’t think much of them. But Helena was different. She saw that we had the same relationship with them that God might have with us. This was how she could understand God, how he thought. I must admit I failed to see the connections. I think I loved that sense of mystery within her, as if her beauty wasn’t enough.

As I lay there on the grass, I could see Helena clearly. Standing in the glorious sunshine with her hand on our mare’s face, gently touching her forehead, Helena’s eyes closed as she breathed in deeply the mare’s essence. The breeze caught her hair and swept it across her flawless face. I could tell her soul was swept along with it. The mare lowered her head to return the affection and understanding. The wild in her eyes was contented, yet she remained free in spirit. Helena turned her head slowly toward me and smiled while allowing the breeze its freedom on her face.

It is the same with God, she said. He will show you something that is not familiar to you, something that will challenge how you think, challenge what you know to be true and real, challenge what you know to be safe. Then he will ask you to trust it even though it doesn’t make any sense to you, just as I have done here. I have asked her to accept something different from what she perceives as being normal, and I have asked her to trust it, and with that, she trusts without wanting to know how it will all turn out. She simply trusts it will, and she will be safe.

With that, Helena looked back at the horse and ran her hand down the horse’s nose to her muscle and allowed the mare to lick her palm. It doesn’t matter what I ask of her; she is willing to accept simply because she trusts me. So, too, should we find the courage to trust God when he shows us something that makes no sense to us, trusting it without expectations about how it should turn out.

I had no idea how much these words would resonate deep within in me later in my life.

I looked deep into Helena’s eyes. She was a better Christian than I could be, much to Wilfred’s disgust. Wilfred was a good Christian, too, attentive to the words of our father, Edwin. I was attentive, but I asked far too many questions, which bothered Wilfred at times. He could never work out why I just couldn’t accept what we were told instead of finding an argument with everything. I couldn’t think like that, though; it wasn’t that simple in my mind. There were questions to be answered, and there were, at times, flaws in the thinking. It wasn’t that clear-cut for me.

The daydream vanished into the sunshine when Wilfred became unsettled next to me. It forced me to open my eyes and look at him.

I had a dream last night, Wilfred said, still lying on the grass with his hands under his head, one knee cocked up and gently swaying to and fro, making its shadow move across his body.

I felt myself grow impatient at the thought of Wilfred telling me his dream, so I sat up to look out over the valley, being sure to keep my eyes away from my brother’s. Wilfred liked to share his dreams. We were always encouraged to do so, but I couldn’t. It was, well, many years earlier, and I don’t think I can tell that story just yet. Wilfred always found a safe haven in his dreams. I didn’t want to discourage that, but somehow I had to find the patience to listen to his dreams, and the valley seemed to provide it.

Oh? I said, trying to hide any discord. Wilfred knew how I would feel, but he ignored it.

I dreamed that I was standing in the middle of a sandy desert. There was a gentle breeze blowing sand across the desert and in soft clouds about my feet. There was nothing else around, not a thing. No grass or trees, not even a small animal. I was alone—completely and utterly alone—and I think a little frightened. I didn’t know which direction to turn or where to go. I was lost.

He paused to remember the rest. Then, in the distance, I thought I saw something. It was small, and I walked toward it. The breeze caused it to waver. As I approached it, I saw it was a flower—a single, little, yellow flower. It was crying, or at least that was the feeling I had from it. Then I saw Olwyn standing before me. The breeze gently pushed her hair about her face. She smiled, looking more peaceful and beautiful than I had ever seen her. She picked the flower, handed it to me, and disappeared.

The silence that came from him once he finished was almost deafening. I turned back to look at him lying there staring at the sky with a faraway look on his face.

Are you concerned about it? I asked, but he didn’t answer right away.

I’m not sure. I don’t think so, maybe, I don’t know.

Wilfred, I said flatly. I didn’t want to continue the conversation for longer than was necessary. I got to my knees and turned to look down on him. I wouldn’t spend too much time on it if I were you. Come on, we had better get moving if we are to be back by nightfall, I said as I picked up the few belongings that lay quietly near me in the sun. Wilfred sat up to look at me.

Even a dream that feels bad isn’t necessarily bad. You know that; you know that dreams are the opportunity to learn more about ourselves, an opportunity to explore the depths of the soul, he said almost sarcastically. He knew I would likely bite at his torment. He knew I hated to be lectured to.

How can you say that when… I didn’t continue. I bundled the last of the food back in the bag. He rose to his feet and looked down at me, forcing me to gaze up at him with the sun in my eyes, allowing me to see only his silhouette against the sun. Come, we had better go. I don’t want to be away from Olwyn any longer; it could be her time.

Indeed, you are right, I said. I stood up to see Wilfred moving his way down the hill. Wilfred! I called out. I waited while Wilfred stopped and looked at me. I could see his face clearly as the sun shone on it, highlighting a suntanned face with two weeks of growth that made him look ruggedly handsome. His youthful spark was giving way to a more serious constitution. It was clear at that moment our boyhood years were gone. It doesn’t matter, I said, changing my mind about saying anything. He edged slowly down the hill, gathering up the sheep in his reassuring arms. He was always more assured than I was, and I guess part of me resented him for it. I wasn’t going to be the one to admit a weakness and acknowledge his greater strength.

I stood there on the hillside watching him as he rounded up the sheep. Despite how I might have felt at the time, I was glad I knew him, and I loved him despite our differences. Part of me relied on him, but I wouldn’t have admitted that either. He paused a moment and looked to see that I hadn’t moved an inch. Come on, give me a hand! he yelled up the hill.

I smiled at him even though he was no longer looking. I’m coming, Brother, I said quietly.

Wilfred and I were not brothers by blood, more by bond. We grew up together, as we did with everyone in the village. His parents took me in after my parents were killed by the new king’s men in 1073. William the Conqueror came our way yet again to assert his dominance over his new prize, the country that he had won from that battle at Hastings in 1066. He came to remind his people every now and again just who it was that would be in charge. As they went, they hit every town in their path just to force the issue with the people, and along the way, many innocent people were killed. My parents were two of them. I was just a few months old at the time and an only child; I never knew my parents. I grew up as Wilfred’s brother and friend. We were close in age, he just a little younger than I. His sister, Ruth, was younger by about three years. There was another child in between them who was never named, as he died when he was born. Ruth never spent much time with us—she had her own friends—but we loved her even though she was a girl. Wilfred used to tease her a lot, as brothers tend to do. Being raised by Edwin and Hilda, she grew to be a remarkable and insightful woman. She was respectable and extremely wise, not to mention very attractive. She married early and had just one child, a boy, Cedric. He was Edwin’s pride and joy, as was my daughter, Isabelle. Cedric was about five years old and still spending an awful lot of time on his grandfather’s knee, listening to the same stories he told us as children.

Edwin was the patriarch, and he was a good-looking man even in his later years. I could see the resemblance between Edwin and Wilfred, especially in their physical traits. Wilfred was quieter for the most part. He looked up to Edwin, and so did I, but I was notorious for speaking my mind, or more to the point, I questioned a lot more than Wilfred did. This wasn’t to annoy anyone of course, but it did get me into a little trouble with Hilda, who never questioned what Edwin said. I now think that deep down Edwin appreciated the challenge. I have since learned that questioning was never a bad thing. Edwin was the one who encouraged me to challenge what he said; I can see that now, and I appreciate it.

Hilda was a good woman who, like most women of our time, would give you the shirt off her back. She was a woman of average height, but as she got older, she seemed to get shorter and plumper around the middle. She kept her hair swept up off her face that had a darkish, healthy glow plastered over it. Her eyes knew, and she adored Edwin. She knew his ways, his moods, and his thoughts even though Edwin didn’t always voice them. She could sense when to leave him and when to be with him. Such insight was common in our little village; the women were hardy and strong, yet gentle and loving and always knowing.

Edwin was brought up as a monk at the abbey at Durham. He had been taken there early in his life after his mother died. He was well educated and passed much of his learning onto us. He taught us how to read and write, and despite the two missing fingers on his right hand, he had an impressive style of writing. He taught us the teachings of the gospels and of the life of Christ and the saints, and how to be good people. However, he never told us about life within the abbey, why he left there, or how he lost his fingers. His life before Hilda was a complete mystery to us. I loved a good mystery, and seeking out this information became something of a game for us as children. Each of us had a go at trying to trick him into telling us a story from his time in the abbey. Secretly, we had a wager going on. If you managed to get Edwin to talk about his monastic life for a minute, you would get two points; up to five minutes, and you got ten points; and if he mentioned his stubby fingers, you won the game. No one ever won. When I think about it now, he must have known about our little game because he would say the smallest bit to tempt us and then wave his stubby fingers at us, forbidding us entry into that world. Behind, I could see a glint of a smile in his eyes, letting me know that he had control over the conversation all along. What I loved about Edwin most was that he listened to us. He had a light presence about him and loved to play with us. But there was indeed a serious side too, one that wouldn’t always come to light. We could tell when things were on his mind and when he should be left; he went quiet in those times, and we knew he needed his space. He was an ideal father.

Chapter Two

The Love and the Pain

We made it back just before dusk descended on the tiny village. It was a pretty village of about thirty-eight wattle huts nestled together on the outer bend of a river that wound its way around the valley. Behind our village, the gentle slope up the hill gave us shelter. Helena and I had built our hut up on its lower slopes on the outer rim of the village. Behind us was the forest that graduated on up the hill. From where we were on the hill, we could see out over the village, just over the rooftops, and beyond that to the green valley that lay on the other side of the river. It was a pretty piece of land, lined by trees that melted into warmer shades of reds and oranges at the end of the summer. Whenever I stood there looking out over the river, I could see the ghosts of our past playing games by the river. I could hear the truths that were told and the secrets that were hidden by many a child with a wild imagination. It was a good childhood full of promise. Now we were men, Wilfred and I, and we were married to beautiful women that shared our lives and our childhood secrets. We were watching a new generation of children grow in the same way we had grown, and we were happy.

I stood there on a rise not far from the village, looking on its serenity from a distance. Almost all the huts had fires lit for the night. I looked to find our hut amongst the others on the higher side of the village. The fire was lit. Its warmth was dragging me into it. It was home, and not far away, a beautiful woman was waiting for me. Within a few moments, a delightful young lady by the name of Isabelle, who was the spitting image of her mother, would come flying out the door of our hut and throw herself into my arms and plant kisses all over my face. I could feel her sinking her face deep into the nape of my neck, squeezing me tightly with her tiny arms, vowing to never let me go again. Behind her, standing in the doorway of our hut would be Helena waiting for her chance to hold me. She would be smiling at us, her hair swept back loosely behind her, allowing a few wisps to have their freedom to fall about her face. I could see her drying her hands off on her skirt so she would be ready to welcome me into her arms. I smiled at her in my thoughts, and as I did, Wilfred broke into a run that sent him ploughing down the hill through the sheep, scattering them into the fields surrounding the village. I guess he had been thinking similar thoughts.

I ran into the village behind Wilfred. I saw him run to his door where he was met by Edwin. Thinking nothing of it, I kept going up past his hut to mine till I heard Wilfred howl moments later with total horror. A piercing chill ran up my spine, and I stopped dead in my tracks, a recent shower of rain in the village had made the path slightly muddy and I slipped. I turned about to see Wilfred weakened in his father’s arms, being helped inside by his mother.

The baby! I gasped to myself. Not again—surely no! I ran to the door, bracing my hands on the doorframe. Edwin caught my eye and came to me. Quick, you must go to Helena. She is near her end too.

What! I exclaimed.

Quick! Hurry! he urged. Olwyn is dead; she didn’t make it either.

What are you talking about?

You must go! he stressed. We will look after Wilfred. Your wife needs you.

I turned to see that I had passed many of our villagers on the roadway attending to fires and putting bedding, clothing, and other personal effects into them. It never occurred to me that they would be fires of despair. I walked in the direction of my hut, not comprehending what was going on. My village family cast me desolate and discouraged looks as they wandered aimlessly through their own thoughts.

I found my pace quickening and bolted up the slight slope toward my hut. Before I knew it, I landed at my door, only to fall through it when Winifred’s daughter, Miriam, opened it. Winifred, the older nursemaid of the village, was standing in the back of the room near the bed. She looked at me as I stood in the doorway. I couldn’t see the bed, for Miriam was standing in my line of vision. I knew Helena was there; I felt it. I gently pushed Miriam to the side to see that my instincts were correct. Helena was lying with Isabelle on our bed.

Winifred came to me. She held her arms out to take a hold of me, trying to block my vision again.

She’s gone, son, Winifred cried. She just this moment died. She waited for you as long as she could, but she was weak. She couldn’t hang on any longer. Winifred sniffed away her tears, but still they came She found it hard to cry, but in recent days she had cried many tears, tears that had eroded tracks in her aging face She said to tell you that she loves you and always will. I grabbed her hands and gently moved her to one side. I moved toward the bed and tried to fight back the tears, but it wouldn’t work. They came easily to me in an uncontrollable flow. I sat on the edge of the bed. Helena had died with our daughter in her arms. I couldn’t speak. I ran my fingers first through my daughter’s hair and down her cold, grey face. She had been dead longer. It seemed that Helena wouldn’t leave her. She was like that, so full of love to the very end. I put my hand on Helena’s tear-stained face. She had been crying at the death of our daughter. It was still warm. I wiped away her tears. I’m here, my love. I missed you. Oh, God! I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you! I howled with unbridled sorrow and buried my head on my wife’s chest. I waited for her to stroke my head with her loving hand, but her cooling, lifeless body didn’t respond.

Winifred put her gentle and tired hand on my shoulder and pulled me up. You mustn’t breathe in the sickness, or you too will die. Her words meant very little; at that point, I couldn’t have cared less what happened to me. Nonetheless, she pulled me up, took me to the table, and sat me down by the fire.

Winifred was the village doctor, midwife, medicine woman, whatever the village needed in terms of support. She was a much older woman with long, white, wispy hair that attempted to remain in place behind her but usually failed to do so. It made her aging face somewhat attractive in a wild sort of way. The wrinkles on her face were the tracks made by the difficult journeys she had made in her life. She was tired, not just because the previous week and a half had been gruelling for her, but because it was late in her life.

She sat opposite me and rested her tired head in her tired hands and wiped away her tears once again. That day seemed to have taken its toll on her. For the first time, I saw in her a resignation I never imagined existed. She looked at me with eyes red and swollen, still glistening with tears.

The sickness came quick here, she said. "A man came through about ten days ago just after you and Wilfred left. He was sick when he came into the village, and he stayed in Edwin’s house. He died there the next day.

Of course, Edwin sent for me when the man came in ill. I must have passed the illness on to others outside the house—I don’t know. It could have taken Edwin and Hilda, but it didn’t. I don’t know why. I don’t know why some died and others didn’t. She wailed before me, Oh, God, it’s my fault! I took her thin, bony hands and held them tight. She pulled them away, out of fear of me catching the sickness, out of embarrassment for her weakness and sorrow. She took a breath and continued. Others got sick then, and one by one, they died. Young Cedric is sick too. I am worried he too… We have lost twenty-two now, Helena being the most recent.

Olwyn is dead too. Edwin just told me, I said as I cried into my hands, suddenly realizing the significance of the previous few minutes. "Oh, God!" I howled into my hands. The reality of the situation was far too much to believe.

That would make twenty-three, Winifred calculated sadly. Isabelle died just a few hours ago. Helena wouldn’t leave her side. Helena had been nursing some of the others in their illness. She was brave and tireless, but her efforts, like mine, were in vain. I fear I too shall die. She cried again, and her daughter came to her and hugged her, Winifred grabbing hold of Miriam’s much younger arms and hanging onto them for strength.

Miriam, like her mother, was small and thin, but she wasn’t strong and confident like Winifred. Miriam was in her early thirties and unmarried. She was considered to be past childbearing age and not a viable catch for a man. She was not what I would call beautiful, but she had a rough attractiveness about her that mirrored her mother. She kept her blonde hair tied tightly behind her, chastising the occasional wisps that dared to fall about her face. She didn’t allow herself the freedom of spirit that Helena allowed herself; Miriam was much too shy and awkward for that. She never seemed to have the courage to look people in the eye. I felt she was worried what people thought of her. She had no need to be; she would have been a wonderful wife and mother, if only she had allowed herself to think so. What would become of her? What would become of all of us?

I dragged the straw bedding out of the hut. Like all the others before me, I found myself burning almost everything I owned, which wasn’t much. My wife and daughter had been taken from our hut to the outer aspect of the village with all the other bodies to wait for burial. Edwin had sent to Durham for a priest to attend to the Christian burial of our people, but he had not yet arrived. The thought of my wife and daughter lying out in the cold while they waited for burial sent a shudder through my body. I felt cold and ill.

I stood by the fire, gazing into its merciless flames as it consumed almost all that I possessed. I looked up through the haze of the smoke to see Wilfred coming toward me through the darkness. He stood before me looking for the words to say.

He came to me and cried into my neck, I never saw my baby, I never saw my baby. His uncontrollable sobs caused me to hold on tightly to him, but I couldn’t help myself, and once again, my eyes flooded with tears.

What will become of us now? he cried. Where do we go from here? I had to admit it was a good question that I had been asking myself a short time before. He stood back from me, trying to gather his composure.

I don’t know, I answered as I bundled up Helena’s shawl in my hands, caressing its softness, wanting to snuggle into it. I knew it would make no difference that it wouldn’t bring her back to me, and I knew I would probably die too. I didn’t care; life seemed pretty much over. There didn’t seem to be much beyond tomorrow, and the thought made me angry that our lives could be so easily devastated and so quickly. I threw the shawl on the fire and planted my hands on my hips, angry that I didn’t have an answer to the question that everyone seemed to be asking. I don’t know, I said again dryly. I grabbed Wilfred by the shoulder, putting my arm about him. Come, I can’t stand about here. It is too full of sorrow.

Edwin was the person that we turned to in the village, the wise man, the one who had the answers. He was my other father, and I needed him now.

Hilda opened the door just as we were approaching the step. She threw out a pot of old water onto the path, causing us to have to step back to miss its spray. Oh, forgive me, my sons. Come in, I have some hot broth for you. I entered the familiar, tiny hut to have Hilda grab me as I passed. She looked at me with all the love and compassion that could possibly ooze out of her. Her deep, dark eyes glistening with old tears, she tried not to cry. I’m sorry you should return to such horror, son.

None of us should have had to have dealt with this cruel blow, Hilda.

She pulled my head down to connect with her strong shoulders and gave me a hug. I hugged her back and began once again to weep, but just a little. I had cried so many tears it seemed there was nothing left to cry.

Edwin sat by the fire staring into its flames. Wilfred and I sat at the table opposite him where Hilda came and placed two hot bowels of broth. Now eat something, you two. You will do yourselves no favours if you don’t. She was always the mother, always doing the caring, and always right. I loved her for that. She looked at Edwin with concern in her eyes. She wouldn’t be the one to interfere with his thoughts; he would come to a decision, and she would support it no matter what. She knew the village would be relying on him to guide them appropriately and that he would ultimately do what was best for the village. I too knew, as did Wilfred, that we shouldn’t interfere either; we learned from past experiences to bide our time and wait for Edwin to speak.

I sipped on my broth. It was good, even though the last thing I wanted to do was eat. A little dribbled down my chin. I wiped it away with my hand, keeping my eyes on my bowl, staring into its silence. Every now and again, I found myself remembering the horror we were facing, and it sent a bolt of emptiness and despair racing through me. I felt like I could never be happy again. I took a deep sigh as I placed my bowl back on the table and leaned back in my chair. Wilfred looked at me, glad for the disturbance in the silence.

Just then, the door to the tiny hut was hurled open, and through it came Miriam. Come quickly! she urged. We all got up. She ran across the roadway with Edwin hot on her heels to a hut down a bit where people had gathered outside, chatting excitedly. Edwin pushed his way through the small cluster of bystanders clearing a way for me, Wilfred, and Hilda. Edwin was ushered into the hut with Hilda. Wilfred and I stopped at the door. Winifred was sitting on Ruth’s bed, and Ruth’s son, Cedric, lay in the bed. Winifred rose from the bed, wiping her brow with her sleeve.

He is going to be all right, she said. The words were all we needed to hear.

Praise God! exclaimed Edwin as he finally took a breath of air. He moved over to his grandson and placed his hand over his forehead. The small boy opened his eyes and looked at the old man, his brow wet with fever and eyes red and tired. How do you feel, son?

I’m hungry, said the little boy with the pallid face and red eyes.

Rest! You have been very sick. You must get better now.

He is weak, but he has been improving the past two hours. I have a light broth warming for him now, said Winifred as Edwin stood up to look at her.

Thank you. Do you have any idea how he was spared from the fever?

No, I don’t, sorry. He is a lucky boy, Edwin. We should be glad he is alive.

Edwin nodded. And the others?

I am keeping an eye on them. There is hope there too. I have kept them away from everyone else, and no one else has fallen ill.

Very good, thank you. He kept his head lowered, and then finally looking at her, he put his hand on her tired shoulder. You are a good woman, Winifred. Thank you. Winifred’s old eyes glistened in the firelight. She was much older than Edwin, and I used to think as a child that she was born old. I can never remember a husband either. The story was that he too was killed by the king’s raids in earlier years. Keep me informed, said Edwin, and Winifred nodded and smiled. He smiled back at her and left, casting one last look at his sleeping grandson. Hilda remained with her grandson while the rest of us were ushered from the house by Miriam.

Nobody else died from that fever. Why no one else died was a mystery, one that would never be explained.

The following day, I woke alone and wandered aimlessly out of the hut to see a monk coming into the village with the young man who had gone to get him. Our deceased friends and family were finally going to be put to rest. Numb of any feeling, I lowered my head and moved back inside, alone.

Later that day, the clouds began to gather as we made our way to the edge of the village, to a funeral that none of us wanted to attend. I joined Wilfred and his mother and father at the gravesite. There were several graves, as family members were to be buried together. Wilfred placed his arm about my shoulders and cried as the monk spoke in Latin the prayers that would bond our loved ones’ spirits with God, and their bodies to the cool and patiently waiting earth. I don’t remember the prayers; I remember the sun setting behind the tall monastic figure, glowing a brilliant red and orange amongst the looming clouds. The monk was clean-shaven with a joyful but still presence. He reminded me of what I thought Edwin would have been like when he was in the monastery.

Whimpers came from Wilfred and many others from the village, and my throat was clogged with the thought that life had just taken a very hard turn without consultation from any of us.

Brother Symeon closed his little book and came toward us to speak with Edwin. He had a nice face, warm and welcoming. He didn’t strike me as a man who would try to sugar-coat anything, but I sensed he would be a gentle man nonetheless.

Thank you, Brother. I appreciate you making the journey for us. I know it is a long way for you, said Edwin as he took the monk’s hand in gratitude.

Not at all, Edwin, it is of no consequence. It is always a pleasure to do God’s work, yet always a shame under such circumstances. Edwin and Hilda nodded in agreement.

Be sure we will provide you with all you need while you are with us, Brother, continued Edwin.

By the time all twenty-three bodies had been committed to the ground, the sun was gone. It wouldn’t return for about three weeks. The clouds came over our tiny village moving at a gentle pace across the star-studded sky, breaking for just a moment every now and then to allow the stars to shine through. I stood there alone for quite some time at the edge of the village, watching, waiting to see the stars again through the clouds, but they never seemed to want to come. Somewhere behind the clouds, the stars were glistening brightly where only angels could see.

There will be no moon tonight, which will make the night darker, and the stars will therefore shine more brightly, said a gentle voice from behind me. I turned to see Brother Symeon standing behind me, admiring the same sight that I was admiring. He moved closer to stand at my side overlooking the valley. He was older than I, but not by many years, though he was certainly more serene than I could have ever been.

Why? I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes and smile soft. It’s a question we ask of God many times, but sadly the answer is never going to be what you are expecting. If you are going to ask such questions, by all means do so, but be sure you are ready to hear the answer. He turned back up the hill leaving me to face the darkness.

Finally, the clouds consumed the stars studded on the blanket of dark sky forbidding their beauty to shine through. I sighed and turned toward Edwin’s hut where several people had gathered after the funeral. A fire had been lit inside and the smoke fell down about the hut weighted heavily under the threat of rain. I walked toward the hut stopping just before I could enter. Just then four people came from inside bidding a quiet and subdued goodnight to all within. It was Winifred and Miriam, and Winifred’s two younger cousins, Judith and Bee. Miriam cast me a hopeful smile.

‘Good night.’ She said. The fatigue in her eyes was showing, so too was the loneliness.

‘Good night Miriam, and thank you for all you have done for us.’ She nodded and smiled.

‘You’re welcome. I am sorry we couldn’t have saved more.’ She put her hand on my shoulder. I grabbed her hand and held it tight.

‘I know Miriam, I know.’ She smiled and left with her companions.

I turned to go inside but stopped short of the door. I looked around to the side of the hut to the small stable that Edwin kept his horse in. There was a light coming from inside. I wandered over to the stable welcomed by candle light burning within. As I approached I could hear a gentle singing coming from inside. A chanting that sounded so restful and quiet. I found myself gravitating toward the sound. I had heard it a many times before. We had monks coming to the village from time to time to baptize the babies, to marry the lovers, and of course, to bury the dead. When monks came to the village they usually stayed in Edwin’s stable over night to ensure their privacy, and because it would be too long a day to walk back to Durham again after their job was done.

Edwin forbad us from disturbing the monks at night. Harsh penalties were in place for such offenders, so, naturally, spying on the monastic figure hiding in Edwin’s stable became the new game. We were always caught because Edwin always seemed to be nearby keeping an eye, and more to the point, an ear, on what was going on. I think now he was quietly sitting in the shadows, enjoying the sound of the chant. I sensed that he enjoyed remembering his monastic life, that this was his time to be a part of that. This whole adventure went toward deepening the monastic mystery for me. We all tried many times to catch a glimpse of what was going on behind the stable door, but only once did I get close enough.

It was one night on a warm summer evening, and we were all out playing after dark. I was about nine at the time. The thought of ending our day’s play was simply out of the question despite the lateness of the day and the many frustrated calls from mothers about the village. I stopped near the stable in mid-flight as Wilfred ran past to the river with the other kids. I looked at the stable with the light aglow inside and heard the quiet chanting coming from within. It was a sound that went unnoticed underneath the noise of a village of active children. Wilfred stopped ahead of me and turned, yelling back at me.

Come on, they are waiting for us.

I turned and looked at him panting, and then turned my attention back to the stable door. Coming! I yelled, but I paused a moment longer to wait for one last gentle note that might come my way. I guess I can understand why I was willing to break the rules that night. I had always wanted to peek inside that door, and I knew that I would be deemed a hero for having done so. I turned my head quickly to see that Wilfred had vanished down the hill. With a bit of luck, he would be thinking that I was hot on his heels. I squinted into the darkness about the house to make sure that Edwin wasn’t going to jump out and scold me for being where I knew I shouldn’t be. I was in the clear, so I headed for the stable.

The door of the stable was slightly ajar, as usual. It didn’t fit properly and therefore never really closed all the way. Edwin usually had a small piece of rope slung across its opening to latch the door to the main part of the stable, holding the door closed. I peered in through the small opening to see the black monk on his knees near the candlelight with his cowl up over his head. In his hand was a small book that he appeared to be reading from as he sang. Edwin’s horse was in the other part of the stable where I wasn’t able to see behind the door, but I heard her reposition herself in the straw for better comfort. I watched for quite a while, fixed on the soft illumination of the tiny stable and the man who occupied it. I didn’t realize it, but I had pushed the door open and found my way just inside the door. The door creaked a little as it opened, and the monk quickly turned to look at me. He held his breath for a moment, finally releasing it when he realized he wasn’t in any danger.

I’m sorry, Brother. I shouldn’t have disturbed you, I said. He rose to his feet.

Come, he said, holding out his hand, urging me to join him. I turned and waited for a moment before I made my way over to the light. Somehow I didn’t feel safe with the idea of invading this man’s space.

Sit, he said, doing so himself. I sat in the candlelight and kept my eye on the monk as he reached up to pull his cowl off his head to reveal his dark crown of hair neatly cut and shaved in the back to reveal a tonsure. I wanted to ask all the questions I had about the monastery and what really happened there. That man held the answers to so many secrets, but the fear of Edwin finding out I was there sat hard on the back of my neck, preventing me from doing so.

You look lost, he said with a smile. There was calmness about him that I lacked. I’m sorry, I didn’t… um… I paused for a moment before I had the courage to ask, What was that you were singing? It’s beautiful. He smiled gently and picked up his psalter.

I was saying the evening office, vespers. He held his book out for me to take. I looked at him for confirmation. It’s all right, go ahead. I reached out for the tiny book with its simple and well-worn cover of dark leather, opening it very gently around the middle of the book. It was plain enough, and the writing was similar to the writing that Edwin did. It was neat and artistic with nicely adorned capitals opening each page. It was all in Latin, or so I know now. We didn’t have access to the likes of these kinds of books in our tiny village. In fact, I had never seen one, not like this one; it was beautiful. At that age, we were just beginning to learn basic reading, writing, and Latin, and I wasn’t able to understand most of what was on the pages before me.

It’s very beautiful. What is it? I handed it back to him, and he gladly reassumed custody of his book.

It’s my prayer book, he said joyfully. I wanted to ask—I think I even opened my mouth to do so—but I stopped myself. What is it, my friend?

I was going to ask you about what happens in the monastery, but I…

Are you seeking a vocation within the monastery?

Oh, no, I just want… maybe, one day. I don’t… I cut myself off. I didn’t know why I wanted to know. It’s just that we are always trying to find out but. Edwin never speaks of it. The monk smiled and nodded.

Yes, it does seem like a bit of a mystery, doesn’t it.

Why did you become a monk? I asked, feeling quite brave for having done so.

Well, my parents took me to the monastery when I was young, when I was about fifteen years of age. They wanted me to be educated and to follow the path to Christ. They were good Christians and wanted that for me. In our changing and uncertain world, it is often done to ensure a safer life for children.

Do you like your life there?

Yes, it is a good life—a hard one, but good.

In what way is it hard? I was being bold. I knew the monk should reprimand me for prying into areas that didn’t concern me. I was expecting it, but it never came.

The journey to Christ is never an easy path, son. One must learn to accept many things about one’s self and learn how to accept things that we wouldn’t normally accept. We must learn about the mystery that is God, and that in itself isn’t an easy thing to accept. It’s a journey that takes a lifetime to travel. Monastic life is a way of life for those of us who choose to embark on its journey.

And why is God so difficult to understand? I didn’t think that God was that complicated.

If I could answer that in one evening, I would be a saint. He smiled at me. It isn’t that simple. That is why it is a life commitment to live a life in the abbey, because the journey to know God is a sacred and lifelong journey of understanding and self-discipline.

Edwin says that I would make a good monk. But I have to stop arguing so much first. The monk laughed a little.

Does he now? Well, Edwin is a very wise man. He is well remembered at the abbey.

They remember him?

Oh yes, of course. He was a great scribe in his day. He did some very brilliant work on many of our books.

What kind of books?

Oh, it is difficult to explain. Quick, you best be off before Edwin finds you in here. He rose to his feet and moved toward me where he finally came down to my eye level. But rest assured, Edwin has his reasons for not telling you anything about his past. Now, off with you. I nodded and thanked him. I felt myself backing toward the stable door. Finally I turned and bolted out the door to find that Edwin had just closed the door to the hut behind him and was making his way down toward the river, to fetch us kids no doubt. I sucked myself back into the shadows and held my breath till it was safe for me to leave.

Brother Symeon was a freshly ordained priest that the abbey had sent to us this time. When I peered in through the stable doors, the monk was hidden under his cowl. He was a tall and well-built monk whose hair was starting to grey at the sides, a little earlier than I would have thought it should. It was a detail I had noticed earlier that day as he prepared himself for the funeral. There was a strong gentleness about him that existed in most of the monks that came our way over the years. Symeon, I remember from that first meeting, seemed assured in himself—his gentle hands holding the psalter before him, his long, nimble fingers flipping the pages as he sang. I couldn’t see his face, but the candle that was lit before him flickered its light just within the confines of his cowl, occasionally revealing the tip of his nose.

As I peered in past the stable door to the soft illuminated corner where the black monk knelt, his singing was soft and pure. I dared not enter again, not like I did as a child. I knew better than to disturb him. I stood still and quiet and listened to his voice as it melted its way into my soul.