“Amen,” he said, stumbling into the response as the congregation raised its voice as one in the final exclamation. “Let us depart in peace, in the Name of Our Lord and Lady. Have mercy upon us.”
“Have mercy upon us,” echoed his father, his voice as soft as the whisper of leaves on the roof.
He put an arm around Alain as they left the church and made their way by torchlight back to the longhouse.
“It is as it must be,” he said, and Alain sensed that this was the last word Henri would ever speak on the matter. The choice had been made long ago, one to the sea, one to the heart of God.
“What was my mother like?” Alain asked suddenly.
“She was beautiful,” said Henri. Alain heard the raw scrape of grief in his father’s voice. He dared not ask more, for fear of breaking the wound wide open.
So they went inside and drank a last cup of warmed mulled wine. At dawn, Alain went down to the strand and saw them off, rolling the boat down the logs and onto the beach, shoving it into the waves. They loaded it with the cargo. Cousin Julien was white with excitement; he had gone once before but only to a nearby Varren port. He had never gone south for an entire season.
“Do honor to your kin,” said Henri to Alain. He kissed Aunt Bel and then got in the boat last of all. The oarsmen began to row, and Julien fussed with the square sail.
Alain stood on the beach long after the others had gone back up the road to the village. He stood until he could no longer see any trace of sail on the gray-blue waters. At last he turned away from the sea, knowing Aunt Bel had work for him to do. With a heavy heart, he walked back to the village.
2
IN the distant haze where the sky met the sea, the islands that dotted Osna Sound rose as dark peaks of earth marking the horizon. When Alain stood, shading his eyes with a hand, and stared out across the bay toward the islands, the water gleamed like metal. It lay still and smooth, and from the height of the Dragonback Ridge the swells were lost under the glare of the sun. Up here, he could not feel a breath of wind. Out beyond the islands he saw a veil of low clouds pushing in toward land. Rain was coming.
For an instant, caught by a trick of the light, a white sheet of sail stood out, the merest speck that vanished into the horizon of cloud and iron-gray water as he watched. Perhaps it was his father, making his way out through the islands.
Alain sighed and turned away from the sea. He tugged on the rope, pulling the donkey away from a tuft of grass. It moved reluctantly, but it did move. Together they walked on, kicking sand up from the path that ran along the spine of the ridge, leading from the town to the monastery. The surf muttered far below.
The path began to slope down toward the Dragon’s Tail, where the monastery lay. Soon Alain caught a glimpse of buildings spaced out around the church with its single tower. He lost sight of them again as the path cut down through tumbled boulders along the landward side of the ridge and, farther down still, turning to loam, wound through quiet forest.
He came out of the forest into cleared fields and soon enough trudged through the open gates and into the monastery that, on St. Euseb?’s Day, would be his home for the rest of his life. Ai, Lord and Lady! Surely his guilt stained him red for all to see: The boy who loved the Father and Mother of Life and who yet rebelled in his heart against entering Their service. Ashamed, he stared at his feet as he skirted the outbuildings and arrived, finally, at the scriptorium.
Brother Gilles was waiting for him, patient as always, leaning on a walking stick.
“You have brought the tithe of candles from the village,” the old monk said approvingly. “Ah, and I see a jar of oil as well.”
Alain carefully unloaded the baskets slung by a rope harness on either side of the donkey. He set the bundle of candles, rolled up in heavy cloth, down on the tile floor of the scriptorium. Brother Gilles propped the door open. The few small windows were open as well, shutters tied back against the wall, but even so at the central lecterns it was dim work for the monks copying missals and lectionaries.
“The catch was poor last week,” Alain said as he lifted out the jar of oil. “Aunt Bel promises that she will send two more jars after Ladysday.”
“She is truly generous. The Lord and Lady will reward her for her service to Them. You may take the oil to the sacristy.”
“Yes, Brother.”
“I will go with you.”
They walked outside, circling the church, passing the walled enclosure of the novitiate where Alain would soon be spending his days and nights.
“You are troubled, child,” said Brother Gilles gently as he hobbled along beside Alain.