A Brief Blessing

Context: Earlier this month, I officiated my best friend’s wedding. This is an excerpt from my officiant speech, posted with full permission from bride and groom, scrubbed of all identifiable information. Feel free to use parts of this speech in whatever ceremony you feel would benefit from their inclusion.

Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed guests, welcome, and thank you all so much for being here today. This is an important day, a day of joy, and I know our beloved bride and groom are overjoyed themselves to see each and every one of your faces here.

Briefly, while we're all feeling it, all sitting together in this shared emotion, let's talk about joy. How it works, where it comes from. In life, and especially in marriage, joy is one of those things for which a deeper understanding pays dividends. So when it comes along, like right now, let's ask a few questions of it. Not to lean on it - this isn't an interrogation, we don't want to chase it away - but to learn from it.

Where does joy come from? Where is it born? We all likely have different answers to that question. But it's my personal belief that, when you get right down to the core of it, joy is born from itself. It's a recursive function of the human heart. A messenger on a round trip. When we send joy out into the world, when we tie a little message to its leg and lift it to the sky, when it goes flapping off towards our friends, our families, our fellow human beings, we know that, like all good messengers, it will return to us. Sometimes bearing a gift, a response, sometimes entirely unburdened. But always, it will return, stronger for the exercise than it was before it left.

It's important, I think, in marriage, to remember that. Because sometimes, when we're in a dark place, we go looking for joy. As though it's something that we can just find, as a matter of course, because we seek it. But joy isn't a treasure we can hunt for. It doesn't lie, glittering, in a pile on the floor of some old ruin. We forget, so easily, where it comes from, because we're not in the habit of asking. Don't go looking for joy. You won't find it that way. We get it when we give it. So go seeking to give it out, and ready to welcome it heartily upon its return, and it will find you.

On a Mien Most Saintly

A knight I am not, child, but a priest. I am one who travels wherever he is needed, and I am much-needed, and by many, of late.

Last month, I was needed by the folk of the villages surrounding Oxenford - I received no missive, nor was my name called by the masses, but I felt their need nonetheless. And so thence did I ride, swathed in no armour save that of my faith in our Lord, to render what aid I could.

Upon my arrival, I found the land much blighted by sickness and devilry. Highwaymen stalked the common roads, and traffic on the little horse-paths and woodsmen's trails had been much reduced, for the Blue Sickness had swept through the land already. Forsooth, with few left to walk them, those paths had been all but obliterated by the selfsame wind and rain which did lash me mightily as I rode.

Anon, through the downpour, I espied a little plume of hearth-smoke rising from somewhere in the distance, though I could not tell how far, and 'twas a mighty forest stood betwixt it and myself. Thus, having no recourse, I resolved to wander out into the wilderness, where no path had e'er been cut. My steed would not follow - I took what I could from his saddlebags, and trusting in God to keep me, I struck out on foot.

The way was much convoluted, I tell you, and made all the more treacherous by the weather. The muck did grasp at my boots, and more than once did I slip and fall into a patch of thorns, wounding myself. Yet I did not curse God, though I was half-tempted at times - rather, I thanked Him, for I knew that these tribulations were His way of measuring my faith. The heat of the forge (and the plunge into cool water) doth make metal strong, and so it is, too, with the spirit. And so, seeking strength, I pressed on, my eyes turned towards the heavens such that I might catch another glimpse of that blessed smoke-plume.

Yea, at length, my travails were rewarded. The rain did break, and the light did shine down from Heaven upon me once more, and the going was easy. I lunged through the forest like a wild beast, all bruised skin and tattered garb, until I found the source of that hearth-smoke: a little walled priory built of stone, set all alone in the wood. I blinked, and did glance about to see if there were some well-disguised road or footpath that led into the place - and yet, I found none. Was it a dream? A vision from the Lord? With these questions in mind - and still quite wary of the entire affair - I stepped up to the gates and cried my "hello."

"Hail, men of God!" did I cry, and waited a minute or so, yet only silence greeted me. Belike 'twas abandoned, I thought at once, but no! The face of the building was clean, scrubbed clean, in fact, and here and there were footprints in the fresh mud. All was quite real, as I confirmed with a careful finger touched to the walls. With a measure more confidence, I pounded upon the door.

"Be there any man within, I beseech thee: let me in!" I shouted. "My travels hath beaten me bloody, and I must have shelter for the night." My voice caught in my throat as I noticed the sun sinking in the sky: was I to have journeyed all this way, only to die shivering in the cold, right outside the walls of this nameless house of God?

The time comes, young one, when a man must throw propriety to the wind in order to see a greater mission to its terminus. Such an occasion, as you will certes learn some day, doth engender a queer feeling in one's body: a stirring, a fluttering in the lungs, a great energy in the limbs and the brain. 'Tis the Lord's way of calling the righteous to action, and that day, it called me back into the woods nearby. There, I cast about for several lengths of ivy, which I then braided together into a strong length of rope. At one end, I fixed a little dagger I kept on my person for carving meat and cheese. I confess, by the end of the process, I had made myself a grappling-iron fit for a master burglar. Perhaps in another life!

By this time, the sun was nearly sunk below the horizon. Grapnel in hand, I stepped towards the walls, and began to spin the ivy-rope round and round. With a final twist, I launched it up into the darkening sky, where it caught - God be praised! - on a crenellation. I did not much fancy the climb to come, but 'twas only twenty feet or so, and I knew the Lord would fain abandon me now, after all this ardour. I set my jaw, tied my gloves at the wrist, and began to ascend. A minute or so later, I sat, sore and heaving, at the top of the wall.

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No sooner did I catch my breath and ope my eyes than I did espy a man, tonsured and ruddy-faced, gazing over me.

"Thou hast done well!" said he, smiling wide and proffering a hand. "Few are they who can figure a way in, and fewer still can carry their various plans to fruition." I confess to you, child, pious though I may be, I did linger for more than a moment on the prospect of pulling the cheery young monk down to the ground and wrenching that friendly arm out of socket. To gaze upon the little garden below, 'twas plain to see that the priory had plenty to share: bushels of oats stood crowded 'round the larder, and the apples in the orchard had been left to fall to the ground, where they did sit rotting. To test a man so, when the stakes of his failure be survival itself! Yet knew I that the Lord doth work his ways as He will, and it is our lot to puzzle at his impossible machinations til to dust we return. I took his hand and stood.

"And lo, the second test hath ye passed!" he laughed, punctuating himself with a hearty clap on my shoulder. "Many are they who, once over the wall, would lash out in violence at our inaction. I thank thee, that thou didst not force me to my defense."

"And what is this inaction?" I asked, retrieving my knife and gesturing to the grounds below. "What end doth it serve to leave a man starving at the very base of thy walls, wherein 'tis plain to see thou hast plenty?"

The monk held up a finger. "Be thee a man of God, thou shalt know: 'a slow man will, and will not; but the soul of them that work shall be made fat.'" At these words, he did smack his ample belly and laugh once more. "Thou hast worked much to-day. Therefore, come, and we shall make thee fat."

I followed the monk, whose name I learned was Brother Almund, and on our way to the misericord, we gathered a little train of followers. All of them were tonsured young men like Almund, and all hung on my words as I told them of the world outside their walls - 'twas writ plain on their faces, as I spoke, that they'd seen precious little of it in the years since the Sickness struck. The horror that crossed it when I mentioned the Fall of Sussex, or the Culling of Cornwall, was something that could not be rehearsed. In so talking to them, I did begin to feel a kinship, and a sadness. For if the Sickness were to visit that little priory, 'twas plain to see that they would be overtaken with little resistance. To know the Sickness, child, to see it again and again, is the only way to survive its touch. We walked on.

But then the misericord itself, child - Lord, such sweet delicacies had scarce crossed my lips before or since! Honeyed bread of fine wheat, roast meats of every variety, fruit jams and cordials, and though I can nowise imagine how they came about it so deep in this trackless wood, wine aplenty! Forsooth, 'twas far from the oat-bread and murky water oft doled out to an itenerant like myself. Such a shame came over me, thinking on my momentary drive to visit harm upon these gentle souls, that I did weep into my plate apiece. Belike my dining-companions thought I was merely overcome by the bounty before me, and they did fawn over me with great sympathy, and bring me more, which did only make me bawl all the harder. Such kindness! Such grace! My tears did salt the food, and yet we ate and ate 'til our bellies could hold no more.

Night fell in earnest, and anon did Almund, redder now in the face than the apples that did dot the ground outside, help me to my chambers. Indeed, the great and gracious monks did set aside one of their own chambers to serve as my hospital for the eve - 'twas a sensical thing, now I think on it, for how many visitors were they like to have at once? I reclined upon a bed more plush than a lord's, and as Almund lit the brazier by the door, a new thought began to eat away at my marvel, turning it once more to caution.

"Prithee, Almund," I said, "tell me: whence didst thou and thy brethren come upon such wealth? Or, rather, whence did it come upon thee? By thy environ, a traveller would count himself lucky to receive more than a scrap of bread and a pile of hay to lie in, yet this place doth flourish with life and finery, even in this dead winter. And let us not mention the Sickness! To be altogether untouched by it, why, it beggars belief."

Almund nodded. "What is thy thinking, then?"

"Mine thinking?" I sat forward in bed. "Forsooth, man, I have seen no vineyard here, and yet thou hast good wine! No cattle, yet cheese! No wheat, yet the finest bread I have ever tasted! It cannot come from within these walls, for thou hast not the means. Yet certes it cannot come from without, for the whole of Oxenfordshire doth lie in the grip of the Blue Sickness, its fields fallow, its livestock dead in those fallow fields. If it cometh not from within, and not from without, in faith, I must conclude that it doth come from somewhere else entirely. Art thou so favored by the Lord that He doth multiply thy loaves and fishes as He did at Bethsaida?"

Almund stood at an easy posture within the doorway, chuckling to himself. After a moment, he spake: "Thou hast the right of it, friend."

At such a casual admission, I did bristle once more, and stand to confront him. "Faith! Wherefore could thou make such light of the Gospel? I caution thee, thou art a good man, and of righteous folk, yet thou art not incapable of blasphemy. Wherefore should this place be spared all the barbarities of this age?"

At my approach, Almund did raise his hands plaintively before himself. "Peace, friend, and patience. I tell thee this for thou art plainly a man of virtue and faith. I fear that thou must exercise that faith for the time being, and take me at my word: we are watched over by God, who doth fill our larders to bursting every morn, so long as we spend our hours on worthy endeavours. When first I happened upon this place, I was like unto thee: bust at the seams with questions, shot through with doubt, but grateful for the grace of those who did harbour me. Thou art grateful yet, I hope?"

"Aye, of course. Who would not be so?"

"'Tis good to hear it said, though we of this order expect no meed for our works. 'Tis not an inn we keep, but a house of God, and our Father doth house the worthy for naught in return. I prithee, Nathaniel, think no more on't tonight. Do but rest thy head, for thou art surely tired, and we shall speak again on the morrow, in the refectory - yes, the refectory, for thou art as much a monk as any of mine brethren. God keep ye."

And with that, before I could protest his departure or question his readiness to include me among his brothers, Almund did disappear into the hall, closing the door to my chamber behind him. As he departed, I thought I glimpsed him fishing something from down the neck of his robes - and that thought was confirmed when the door locked fast in his wake! A key round his neck, I thought, ready all this time to lock me away in this lavish little gaol. I tell you, child, my itenerant spirit did quail at the prospect, and my mind raced with suspicions. Yet he was a man of God, was Almund, and he did seem most sincere in his affinity for me. And so I wrapped myself in the fine bed-clothes left to me, and slipped readily into sleep.

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I tell you, child, though this inn doth have its charms, I shall never sleep as I did at that little priory. With no bells to mark the hour - for there were none there who needed reminding of when to pray - I confess I know not how long I slept. Suffice to say, not even the sound of Almund's key opening the lock, which would normally have roused me in a trice, could shake me from my slumber. Yet when I did finally wake, that door was not only unlocked, but wide open, and the brazier by the door freshly snuffed. I donned my boots, buckled on my dagger-belt (the knife itself, I had misplaced in the misericord the night before), and stepped out.

I stopped in the courtyard to count my blessings apiece. While I slept, a heavy frost had settled over the world, freezing yesterday's rain. Had I not pulled myself over the walls, I would surely have perished, petrified, in the cold shadow of this place. I turned my eyes heavensward. How many had these fair folk let die in such a manner? How many frozen corpses had graced their doorstep over the years, inches away from salvation? The thought chilled me more than the freezing gusts that lanced through my cloak as I picked my way to the refectory.

There, as though he expected me at precisely that moment, Almund met me at the door. "My friend!" he said. "I must apologize for my circumspection last night. Doubtless it gave thee great trouble, though 'twas not my intent."

I did not return his grin. "Wilt thou apologize, also, for imprisoning me?"

"Imprisoning!" Almund looked aghast, though it may have been in jest - I am not altogether skilled in telling the difference. "Doth the noble charger think itself imprisoned in the knight's stable, warm and warded 'gainst the wind? Is the knight a prisoner in his armour? The knight's king, in his castle?"

"I have no stomach for riddles this morn, dearworthy Brother," said I, and we sat ourselves at one of the long benches. "Only tell me plain: be this a common practice amongst thy order? To lock thy visitors away for all the hours of the night, that we might not leave at our leisure?"

"Aye."

"Why?"

"For thine own good fortune, and for the preservation of our own." Almund set to loading his bowl with fruit and cheese, which lay before us fresh and perfect. "But prithee, Nathaniel, empty thy head and fill thy belly - the Prior shall be by anon to set thy heart at ease."

"For all thy apologies, Brother Almund, thou art circumspect as ever," I said, but joined him in falling upon the feast before me, for having tasted once the fruits of this nameless priory, I could not but crave them all the more. Though they were surely just as wondrous as the night before, my mind was abuzz with marvel at the thought of their origins. The Gospel doth make little mention of the manna that did sustain Moses and his Israelites through their wanderings - was our table dressed as was theirs? The notion did faze me apiece, though it did little to temper my appetite.

We ate in silence - not that there was naught to be said, but rather that we were altogether too busy filling our mouths to make time for speech. And then, anon, from atop a gently sloping staircase at the head of the room, the Prior did make his appearance.

I confess, dear child, I did start somewhat at the sight of his countenance. 'Tis not meet to do so, thou must understand, but from time to time, all the best manners one learns as a full-grown man do leave the body, and one reacts as though one were a child anew. Fie, but I do excuse myself overmuch. I beseech thee, little one, forgive me for the interruption. I see thou art eager to hear more.

Lo, the good Prior's face was like unto a raisin left over-long in the sun - not merely wrinkled, but hollow and pitted, and all purple and bruised. Surely he must have been in some extreme measure of pain, though his face was drawn into a gentle smile. His body, twisted and gnarled like an old oak, moved slowly, and with an unnatural lightness. I did look about with fear for any open windows, for surely this wisp of a man would be dashed against the wall by the barest breeze! I tell you, child, never have I seen a man as wizened as this. In wonder and concern, I turned to Almund.

"Brother, what ailment hath stricken your prior? I have never seen its like."

"None, gentle friend," Almund whispered back. "Only that he be two hundred and fifty years of age, and the weight of those years hath stooped his back and weathered his skin." My mouth must have fallen agape at this, for he continued, "Be not afraid! I myself am sixty-three - I realize now I must have forgot to mention it, for such long life be passing mundane 'twixt these walls."

Sixty-three! It must needs be said, child, that Almund looked as hale and hearty at sixty-three as I myself did at twenty-nine: my age then, as now. I glanced down at my dish, now empty, and a great, strange sadness entered my heart. We are taught that Adam and his sons, and Noe after them, did live several hundreds of years, though that blessing hath been stripped from their progeny - or else vanished over the years. Had God looked so kindly upon these men in particular, this priory in particular, to restore that great gift to them, and them alone? Two paths of thought did thereby stretch out before me:

The first: that these men, gentle Almund among them, were perhaps the truest Christians now walking God's Earth, and were beloved so in His view that he had transfigured this little priory into an Eden unto itself. 'Twas true they had been unflinchingly kind to the likes of me, a haggard and desperate man who might just as soon have slit their throats and raided their larders for myself, but so too had been the uncountable number of monks with whom I'd sought shelter on previous journeys. Some indelible quality, then, they must have borne among themselves to earn such favour from our Father.

The second: that all I saw before me was a carefully crafted ruse, tuned to part merchants and wayfarers from their belongings, and perhaps even their lives. Mayhap the true residents of this holy place lay buried 'neath its stones, or else burned to ash in the refectory hearth, and these creatures that took their place had looted their mantles and titles along with the fat of their larders and the gold of their coffers. Almund, then, was a mere thirty-or-so, which would make the wizened Prior the gang's old and wily master. Or not wizened at all! Forsooth I have seen wrinkles made upon the face with thin mud, their lines traced by stick or quill in a practiced hand.

Haply a third, more rational line of thinking might have come to me, in the absence of what then came to pass.

For the Prior, not halfway done shivering his way down the steps, did glance up from his feet to lock eyes with me. A wide, queer smile cracked his features then, puckering his ancient eyes into little black beads. He raised both his hands unto Heaven, straightened his back, swung his foot out over the staircase, and let himself fall.

I shall not describe the sound of it, child, save to say 'tis something I pray thou should never experience for thyself. Nor shall I describe the sight of him who, fallen, did lie dead, at pride-of-place in his own refectory. This alone shall I tell thee: that overwide smile did stick to his face through the entire event, and methinks he was buried with it. Belike his spirit doth wear it yet, 'mongst the angels of Heaven.

In an instant, Almund sprang up with the rest of his brothers to attend his broken prior, leaving me to myself. Soothly, I tell you, I could not stir my own body into motion - my flesh, it seemed, was struck altogether numb. I could but bow my head, and upon so doing, I caught sight of my countenance in my ale-cup. And lo, child: though I felt it not upon my face, in that rippling image, I did have for myself the Prior's smile.

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At poor Almund's behest, I did spend the rest of that frightful day in my chamber. Twice, a dour-looking monk came to bring me fine white bread, and cheese, and ale, though he spoke not in response to my questions regarding the prior's fate, or whence had gone Almund, or when I should be free to walk the grounds once more. Alas, I do now regret my impertinence towards that poor bereaved man, but such sympathies were far from my mind then. Evening fell, then night, and I did send up my prayers unto Heaven to bring peace upon my troubled soul, and upon that of the Prior. Anon, and with much trouble, I did sleep.

But just before dawn, a most insistent pounding upon my door did wake me, followed by the turning of a key in my lock. I sat up in bed. Past the half-open door, lit by a lone candle, did stand Almund. Tear-tracks did yet glisten upon his red cheeks, and the smile that ever graced his features was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a strange sort of despair, or perhaps rage? 'Tis hard enough to read the difference upon the face of a normal wight, and harder still to discern between the two on the countenance of a sixty-year-old young man.

Only this did he say: "Come. Thou needst not dress thyself." And then he did turn about and start back down the hall. 'Twas an air of full import in his voice and his gait, and so I did as I was told. My night-clothes swished about my legs as I followed him down the hall and out into the courtyard. Not a word did he speak on our walk, though I did once or twice note a hitch in his breath, as though he were just about to address me. Before we continued on into the refectory, I could not help but cast an eye towards the larder, which stood with its doors flung open. A few brothers darted in and out, carrying baskets of bread and fruit in their arms.

Through the refectory, then, where a solemn fog hung over all the monks who sat eating. A bundle of rose and rosemary lay at the foot of the stairs therein, bound together with a little silver rosary. This, too, we passed, and ascended the stairs. Passing through one final doorway, we reached our destination: the Prior's chambers. There, Almund did gaze pointedly into my eyes for a moment. "God keep us all," he said, and left me, locking the door behind him.

Rolls of vellum lined the walls there, and a few heavy tomes sat piled upon a fine table by the far window. Next to these tomes sat a long box of simple pine, perhaps the length of a sword. At this table sat a group of monks, their hoods drawn low o'er their faces - and at the head stood another. Bare-headed, gaunt, and nearly as weathered as the late Prior himself, the head-monk did strike a figure most disconcerting. With a gesture, he bade me sit, and sit I did.

"Brothers," said he, "we have here our answer." A little "amen" went up all about me, emanating from the hooded monks, but I did not react. He next addressed me directly. "Nathaniel Smythe, know thou aught of why we hath called thee here?"

I shook my head. "'Tis as much a mystery as any other aspect of this place, I confess."

"Ere thou arrived here yesterday, didst thou know our honored Prior?"

"Nay."

The head-monk raised an eyebrow and passed his gaze slowly over his brethren. "Art thou certain?"

I could not but crack the barest smile. "Aye, certes, good Brother. Whence could one let slip from his mind the image of so unique a figure?"

Then spake one of the cloaked monks, "Told you I, did I not? 'Tis an impossible thing!" But the head-monk did cast a withering gaze towards his brother, who did then fall most silent. A heavy peace lay over the chamber for a moment, and all present seemed hard at work on some great puzzle of the mind. At length, then, the head-monk addressed me once more:

"Tell us once more, child, as told thou Brother Almund, of this Sickness that doth blight the land outside our walls. Be it grave?"

And though my mind did spin up once more at the sudden turning of the subject, I did speak for a while of the Blue Sickness. I told all present of the crops that lay withering in the fields, of the cattle that littered the countryside with mouthfuls of meat torn from their bones. I spoke as best I could of the lands south of London, where no man may now tread lest he wish certain death for himself by Sickness or the Sick. I spoke of the Church, which hath declared the End Times, and of the poor men and half-priests who do seek absolution for themselves in the Sickness, for they believe the Sick do march toward Christ. I spoke and spoke, and every word was like unto a hammer-blow upon the gathered monks. And when I was done, forsooth, all were pale and shaking, and the head-monk had seated himself aside his brethren.

"'Tis clear," he said, when at length he was able to speak once more, "we have been remiss. I shall acquaint thee, goodman Nathaniel, with the reason we hath summoned thee here this morn. For the Prior lieth dead, and we hath opened his Will, and there - " he paused for a moment, like so " - there was writ your own name, plain as day, in ink that hath lain dry for an hundred years."

Now stay thy questions, child, for this particular mystery must remain a mystery now as it did then, for there can be no knowing of the methods and machinations of the dead. I did tell thee true, as I told the monks that day, when I said that I knew not he who wrote my name into his will. Mayhap he heard my name upon the lips of his attendants the day before, and wrote me in thereafter - there are ways to age ink and vellum, to be sure, but nevermind. Let me have the head-monk continue.

"And his bequest to thee, friend, be the greatest treasure of our order. Know thee this, though: to look upon it directly is to invite the judgment of God upon thy head, and should thou be found wanting of faith, it shall strike thee dead. Thou art to carry this treasure from here, to whichever city hath the widest walls, that its blessings may be imparted upon the good and the holy of that place, and they be guarded from evil. There enshrine it, and there protect it, and there grow fat upon the boons it doth confer. So 'tis written by the Prior, and so we must obey. Stand."

I stood. Of a sudden, I did detect a bristling among the hooded Brothers, but the head-monk did look upon me with resolve. Lifting the box from the table, he solemnly stood and carried it to my side. Then, kneeling, with a posture like unto a knight offering up his sword, he did confer it unto me. No sooner did I reach out to take it, though, than did the hooded brothers (who had just exchanged a pointed glance with one another) throw off their cowls in unison. Springing from their chairs, they did fall upon the head-monk and me, grasping and clawing like beasts! In my night-clothes, and unarmed besides, I could offer little resistance - they grabbed me about the arms and held me fast. As I watched, one drew from his robes the knife I had thought lost in the misericord, and opened the throat of the poor head-monk, and the blood did flow forth. He turned now to me, pale and grim.

Thrashing and shouting, I struggled 'gainst my captors to no avail as the knife approached. I felt sure, child, that this would be my fate - stuck like a pig, bled out onto the floor of a dead man's chambers. Just then, though, my foot found the relic-box, which had fallen at my feet when the head-monk died. With a mighty desperation, I kicked it as mightily as I could, and - God be praised! - the lid slid free of its grooves to reveal what lay within.

Here I must pause, little one, and tell you: though I have illuminated many fine and fantastic items herein, none compare to the finery wrought about this relic. 'Twas a leg-bone, though one must look more than once to discern its shape, for the gilt-silver and enamel, the gems and filigree, shine and glimmer with such lustre that its very form is all light-beams and morning mist. Though I was doubtless in mortal peril, the beauty did so enrapture me that I could not help but gaze upon it, and the sight did fill me with an indelible peace that far eclipsed the thought of my own death. The relic rolled out onto the floor now, where it caught a ray of morning light, and all eyes in the room were drawn to it. Even the knife-monk, so intent upon my demise, could not but stop and gaze upon it for a moment - and forsooth, a moment was all it took.

First fell the knife-monk, whose eyes turned up from the relic to Heaven as he dropped. My knife fell from his hand as his body went limp, though no wound did visit itself upon his flesh. Then, at once, I felt the many hands gripping my arms lose their strength. The monks fell away, and lay arrayed about me like the petals of an open flower, gazing past the ceiling towards their final reward. For a moment, all was silent. My heart, full of fear a moment ago, grew warm as I bent to pick up the relic from the floor, where it lay next to the head-monk's corpse. And though his eyes were unfocused and his body grew colder by the second, there was the most blissful smile upon his face.

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I wrapped the relic in vellum and left that room. The refectory, which had been somewhat lively in spite of the Prior's death when I entered, was dark, dusty, bereft. Only the rose, rosemary, and rosary remained. Yet a man stood solitary at the far end, and he did hesitantly approach when I emerged. Forsooth 'twas Almund, though my short absence had seen him much-changed. Gone was his carefree expression, and a dark and deadly worry now sat heavy upon him.

"What hath thou done?" said he, placing his hands upon my shoulders. "What hath thou wrought?"

"I have done naught, but thy brothers have done much," I responded, brushing away his grip. "Hear me now: I fear thou and thy brethren hath lost the favour you had claimed for your own. Only travel with me, good Brother, and we shall keep safe someplace far from here, where this blessing might grant life and good fortune to many more than they who called this place home."

And so Almund and I left the Priory in the Wood, which lies now hollow and haunted, for Eborienc, to deliver St. Peter's Bone unto its chapel. By the power of this relic, and by our faith in the Lord, we shall guard the whole of Eborienc-shire from the Sickness, and when it doth pass, we shall emerge to build anew the kingdom of God atop the ruins of the world. Amen.