I didn’t know where I was going. The abbot didn’t ask much of me, so I wanted to find Brother Norton for him. If I was him, where would I go? I heard a strange sound coming from the trees and stopped. What was that? A flute? It sounded weird and unfamiliar. I found a deer path and took it into the woods.
It was darker, cooler here. The May breeze didn’t stir. It smelled like moss, and the earth was moist beneath my feet. I could still hear the flute, lilting, but it was faint. My heart beat into my ears like a Druidic drum.
A young girl, perhaps thirteen, stepped out from the brambles and startled me. She was very pale and thin, wearing nothing but a filthy shift. Her feet were bare, and her arms were scratched. Her matted and tangled hair kept tiny blossoms and blooms as if they had grown there. She was eating something, looked like a ripe sort of fruit that I had never seen around here. It was too early for fruit. She wiped her mouth with her dirty hand and smiled. She offered me the half eaten thing that she held out to me.
I shook my head. “No thank you. Have you seen my brother? He’s dressed like me.” I plucked at the skirt of my cassock.
She tossed the fruit into a thicket, waking little buntings who rose up like spirits and vanished into the morning shadows. She walked towards me. I noticed her left eye was a bit lazy. As she approached the hair rose up on the back of my neck, and I shivered. Then she laughed and ran off like a doe. “Hey!” She was gone as was the eerie flute. I rubbed my head. What was that? Birds? Insects? I don’t remember hearing it before. Then something stirred in the leaves to my left. I looked back. It was Brother Norton. Thank God.
“I don’t know.” I looked to Brother William. If anybody knew where Norton had gotten to it would be him. Brother William Blundeston was the newcomer, only joining us last year. He was young and goodlooking. He had lost his entire family to the Pestilence. He was Norton’s best friend. Brother Norton felt sorry for him and took him in under his wing. William did not meet my eye. I felt uncomfortable and clammy. What was going on?
“You are excused.” The monks got up at once and cleared their places. There was no chatter. They all went about their work.
The abbey had bee hives for honey, apple, plum, and pear trees for preserves and cider, and a vineyard for wine. We traded with the townsfolk very little and kept to ourselves. We were mostly self-sustainable. Brother Henry fished the brooks for trout, and Brother George set rabbit traps. Brother Gregory kept the chickens, and Brother Michael tended the goats. Tommy helped Brother Mark with the sheep. In all there were only nineteen monks left. The Pestilence had cut our numbers in half, taking young and old alike.
I moved through the Great Gate. St Edmunds dated back to 1020 when the original stone Saxon church was built to house the relics of Saint Edmund, the martyr. He had been king of East Anglia when the Viking hoard invaded. He gifted them a set of fine horses in attempt to spare the land from rape and pillage. They took the horses and hunted him down. When they found him they shot him full of arrows so that he bristled like a hedgehog. Then they cut off his head and threw it into the briars of the oak wood. His ravaged body is the foundation of our original church constructed of blue stone and river rock. The hexagonal Norman tower and limestone hall, the Black Hostry, came later. Abbot Samson had done much to improve the place a couple hundred years ago. That was back when we were still loved and respected. So much had changed.
Ding dong, the dreaming’s back! The dreaming, dreaming, dreaming’s back! Ding dong, the dreaming’s back again! I think it is because I’m d...
