Chapter Text
From behind the old iron-cast bars of the grated window, the monk looked down at the garden below, watching as the trees rocked to and fro from the howling of the wind. Although Armitage did not believe himself to be of a superstitious nature, the sinister weather had the effect of stirring fanciful images within his mind. Like the moaning of some great limping beast it appeared to him, making its way along the winding solitary paths which neighbored the abbey, while the branches of the old oak trees hailed it as it passed.
He regarded the will-o-whisps that flickering amid the darkness, wondering at their ability to resist the strong gusts. Armitage’s tired eyes lingered on these faint lights amid the familiar clusters of leaves, his thoughts half upon them and partway along the intertwining figures of the manuscript which lay unfinished on his desk. He had risen from his chair in order to rest his eyes from the meticulous work, disregarding the lateness of the hour. The man was loath to disappoint his ambitions in completing the reproduction of the esoteric manuscript in time for the following day.
The monk’s resolve was to present the illuminated tome to the new Abbot on the day of the ceremonial proceedings formalizing his appointment, and thus he knew that he would be left to labor through the night by candlelight with the hope that the rising sun was still far away. Armitage rubbed his temples, as though to dispel the strange apparition which he sensed between the shadows of the furniture by the flickering of the wax taper; he felt as though there was a presence in the room, and, whether real or imagined, he cared not to dwell upon it – knowing well that any such forces would only gain power by his notice – thereby growing all the more entrenched in a man’s thoughts.
Approaching the hearth, he stirred the embers of the dying fire. This caused the expiring flames to dance once more, casting the monk’s shade upon the wall. It was almost by instinct that he felt drawn to these bright forms, by an ill founded belief that the thing which followed his movements dared not go near the fire nor the cross which hung over it. By the same motive, the monk whispered a prayer for the protection of his person and his spirit, leading him to start at a rattling creaking sound at the window. He could not keep his heart from palpitating and with a furrowed brow he sought to dismiss fantastical interpretations by way of his reason; the owl, the neighboring willow, the weatherworn building were the words which he chanted.
Yet his pulse could not be soothed.
From a large urn, he proceeded to pour some water into a kettle and set it over the hearth to boil, methodically arranging the implements to drink tea at midnight. The assortment of leaves which he brewed were gathered by his own hands; mint, chamomile, lavender, and rosemary grown from seedlings and allowed to dry, wrapped in cloth upon his work desk. These long nights which belonged to Armitage were a frowned upon habit, yet the man hand found it a struggle to part with the peculiar peace which he found in being alone and awake while the kindly brothers slept. Obedient in all other respects to the necessities of ritual and routine, this transgression, however, the monk willfully maintained.
The patter of the rain continued outside, a sound that often had a soothing effect upon him, by way of the contrast it created between of the warmth within and the gloom without, kept back by the ancient consecrated walls of the monastery. Yet the night described was imbued with something he had not the words for, only perceiving that his spirit was less at ease than it had been for many years. Neither the murmuring of prayers nor the labors of the monk had the effect of dispelling the gloom and foreboding which had set over his conscience.
As he waited for the water to heat, Armitage returned to the window and took in every detail of the garden of roses and herbs that was discernable by moonlight, each bud, stem, leaf and tendril the objects of his dutiful care. It pained him therefore to see them subjected to the wiles of the thrashing storm which continued late into night, the unruly weather threatening to disturb them to their very the roots. For the young monk, there was an endearing transitory beauty in the vulnerability of his dependents and he knew that on the proceeding day he would take the first opportunity of leisure to address their wounds. Yet as for obtaining such a chance, the man had much doubt that it would be within his grasp, given the ostentatious preparations which had been made for the banquet and ceremonies that were soon to take place.
The young man thought of the intricate designs which had taken years to master and refine to the great esteem of the abbey. To toil away perfecting his art had given him solace and soothed his heart: the heart of one who believed himself to stand upon a less steady foundation than his brothers. When his companions conversed with him and looked into his eyes, he wondered if they saw the emptiness left by wavering faith – a guilt appeased only by the view that if he could not be true in thought, than by word and deed he would seek to make amends. One day, when the monk was free to choose his own path, he prayed it would not be too late to serve a higher master than he to whom he bowed.
In the meanwhile, he would entrench himself in the monastery and its ways—making himself useful, irreplaceable, humble and reverent. His hands clean to the outward eye with its cursory glance. Indeed, Armitage’s most sincere payers were that this would suffice – prayers cast to whichever deity that would listen, whichever had it in its power to turn the scales of fate.
In equal hierarchy to this fear was the dread of expulsion into the unfamiliar world outside, which seemed more stern and fearsome than the discipline and order of the brotherhood that housed him since birth. He believed that an inexperienced and reserved nature as was his own would be ill suited to the harsh blows of a worldly life, his body unfit for hard labor, his mind too introspective, his heart like the surface of a lake which reverberates to the lightest touch, yet by long winters, bearing the semblance of being frozen without.
Armitage’s history beyond the cloister would not take long for one relate, so little of it was known to the man himself save for the following brief account. He had been left on the stone steps of the monastery, swaddled in blankest by a woman whose face was in dread to look up at the man whom she beseeched. In parting with her child, she pressed her cold lips to the pale brow of the wailing creature and proffered the coins which she had been clasping tightly, letting them fall into the wizen hands of the Abbot. He had little need to see her face to know that her shame was written upon it.
Such was the memory related unto Armitage, which he had further embellished by his imaginings in order to give character to the indistinct figure that was his mother, a times a fallen woman, at times a sorceress, gypsy or queen. On occasion, in the follies of youth, he had dreamed that she would whisk him away – reaching out to grasp him through the chimney like a great demon of smoke. Yet as the cares and toils of adult life set in, such daydreams became rarer, and what was once tedious and loathsome had grown to be a welcome pastime to occupy the long hours of the day. No longer had he the energy and courage to ramble in the forest or stalk after the creatures of the wilderness. Nevertheless, his ears had remained attuned to the rustling of leaves and the diverse calls of the birds and beasts, giving him pleasure whenever he heard them from behind the abbey walls.