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ABBOTT SEAN AMBLED along the path towards the River Bóinne, a welcome part of his afternoon respite from the church.
Praying silently as he walked, Sean enjoyed the sounds of the river. He liked to believe that God talked to him there.
He paused at the fallen log to relax and reflect for a moment. A sudden sound splashing ahead of him broke Sean’s peaceful mediation.
Just up the river a few feet, Sean heard an unfamiliar voice yell, “You’re mine now!”
He crept along silently and stooped behind the tall grass, out of sight, until he knew what was happening.
Sean overheard a voice shout, “Come back here!” A man with blonde hair, his bare back to Sean, stood in the river with a sharpened spear in his hand.
Sean kept silent to observe the stranger, then flinched in surprise when the man suddenly stabbed below the water and brought up a trout pierced through its middle.
Sean stood up and said, “Good catch.” He watched the man turn his head and smile, then thread the fish through the middle, like the other three, on a length of rope that trailed from his waist.
“I’ve never seen someone catch a fish like that before,” Sean declared. He watched the blonde man move towards the riverbank while removing the rope from his waist. He wore only leggings and a pair of leather shoes, but a shirt sat on shore a few feet away. Suddenly, the rope of fish was thrust to Sean.
“Tell me how you catch them,” the man inquired.
“Before I became a monk,” Sean replied while he fumbled to keep the fish away from his robes, “my own father took me fishing with a line and a hook made of iron.”
“You hook them then.”
After the man put on the shirt and shoes, Sean handed back the rope of fish, watched him walk to the river’s edge, and pull one fish from the rope.
“Yes, I baited the hook with worms mostly, then tossed it into the water and waited.” Sean tensed as the man removed a knife from his belt.
“Waiting is for those who have nothing better to do.”
Swallowing hard, Sean watched him jab the knife into the belly of the dead fish and slice the knife towards its gills. Sean paled, watching the fish guts spill out, be quickly removed with a flick of the stranger’s thumb, and finally rinsed clean. Then the man repeated his actions with the other fish.
“Well,” Sean finally spoke, “sometimes it would take all day to catch a fish.”
The man pointed at the fish with his knife. “I got these beauties in just a short time.”
“But they have holes in them,” Sean continued.
“I still can eat them.”
“True.” Abbott Sean gazed at the man. He remembered something in the way the man handled his knife. A glimpse of a past memory emerged, then quickly faded.
“Have we met before?” Sean asked while the man rinsed his hands and knife in the water, then stood and faced him.
“I haven’t seen you before today.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lothar.”
“Unusual name. I am Abbott Sean of Kells Monastery.”
“Kells is a full day’s walk from here.”
“I’m here visiting the Brothers at St. Feckin’s Church. Are you new here?”
“Perhaps.”
“You look different from other men in the area.”
“Not everyone looks the same.”
“True, except for the very old, men are to remove their facial hair daily.”
“Fine,” Lothar groaned.
Abbott Sean stared while Lothar glided the knife’s edge along the surface of his jaw line, and farther. He flinched as an ooze of blood sprang up from a cut on Lothar’s face.
“Done,” Lothar proclaimed.
“You haven’t done that very often, have you.”
“Enough times.”
“Where will you be eating tonight, Lothar?”
“I have a place I’m visiting.” Lothar gathered the fish and spear.
“Enjoy your dinner. I should be getting back. Good evening.” Sean strolled ahead on the trail but turned to find Lothar walking up behind him. Sean stopped and asked, “Are you staying far from here?”
“Just up the trail a little bit, to the left of the fork in the path.”
“In the haunted area of the forest?”
“I don’t believe it’s haunted,” Lothar said and strode passed Sean.
“I have heard people in the town speak of mysterious things that happen there.” Sean followed behind.
“I have not witnessed any such magic,” Lothar stated, continuing his trek.
Sean walked faster to keep up with Lothar’s stride. “I have seen women, dancing among the rocks during last harvest.” He huffed, almost out of breath.
“Dancing is hardly magical.”
“I witnessed the spectacle myself. The aroma of herbs filled the air.”
“It was probably harvest season; they must have been burning the chaff from the harvest.”
“Maybe you are right.”
“I invite you to see the grounds yourself sometime, to prove it not haunted.”
“How about now?” Sean asked.
“It is time for the evening meal, and I’m bringing dinner.”
“Have you ever had battered fish?”
“Explain why you beat fish.”
“It’s fish that have been cooked with a breaded coating.”
A puzzled look crossed Lothar’s face.
“How about I show you how to cook battered fish tonight for you and the friend you’re visiting,” Sean offered.
“I’m not sure she would like anyone else visiting, although cooking fish has not been one of her best meals.”
As they came to the fork in the road, Sean crossed himself before entering the forest. The trail twisted here and there while he followed Lothar.
“You are not a good hunter,” Lothar stated.
“No, why?”
“I sensed you were there, even before I heard you speak.”
“How is that possible?”
“I was downwind from you, and noticed a change in the air.”
“You can do that?”
“Most good hunters can.”
“Baaa.”
Sean jumped. “What was that?”
“The sheep in the corral there,” Lothar pointed.
Sean looked around nervously while they headed toward the hut.