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“Momma?” Henry took the phone when Tima handed it to him. “Momma? Is that you?”
“It is,” she said, feeling her heart leap in her chest. Her phone battery had finally charged sufficiently overnight to allow her to call. “How are you doing? Are you being good for Auntie Tima?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry nodded as he spoke. “John Carter is being good too. I kept him safe.”
His little brother held up his toy rocket he had made from LEGOs as if his mother could see it. “I made a wocket!”
“And I’m sure it’s a terrific rocket,” Lauren praised him. She addressed Henry. “Has your father made it back yet?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “He’s still at his dig.”
Lauren sighed. She knew Tomáš was serious about delivering her to her husband, but she wanted to see her boys first. “Well, I’m finished in Prague. I’ll be home soon,” Lauren said.
“Daddy needs to see you,” Henry said. “He has something to show you.”
“He does?” Her brow arched.
“Yes,” Henry said. “You should go see Daddy first. When you come home, we can have a party.”
That made Lauren smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Momma.” John Carter grabbed the phone. “Do you yike figs or waspbewies bestest?”
“Huh?” She puzzled, then realized what he’d said. “Oh, raspberries? Yes, I like figs, but I do like raspberries better.”
“I tole you so,” John Carter said, tormenting his brother. “I tole you she yikes waspbewies.”
“John Carter be nice to your brother. Listen to Auntie Tima and the girls. I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boys chorused.
She hung up the phone as Tomáš and Katia came in together. Katia was carrying a paper shopping bag. Lauren was sitting on the edge of the bed in a blue floral hospital gown.
“Here you go,” Katia handed her the shopping bag. “I hope everything fits.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said. She found a brand-new outfit in it. There was a pair of low-cut jeans with a blue maternity top, undergarments, socks, and a new pair of sneakers. There were some hair clips, too.
“I guess this means I can go home?” Lauren’s brow lifted optimistically.
“You have to promise me you’ll go straight home and go to bed for at least another week. No skipping meals, get plenty of fluids, and I’ll discharge you.”
“Can I make one quick stop to see my husband before I go home?”
Katia looked as if she might protest.
“I did promise I would deliver her to her husband,” Tomáš spoke up for her. “I don’t care where he is, that’s where she’s going.”
“Fine,” she said. “But my conditions remain firm. You rest. No hard work, no stress. You need it. Your baby needs it.”
“I promise.” Lauren crossed her heart with her finger.
* * *
Henry had been reading quietly in the blanket fort he’d made with some of Tima’s linens. While no one was paying attention to him, he slipped off to go see Herman. He found the monk at the work table in the library at the monastery. He was standing on a small step ladder, struggling with the bindings on the massive book he and Henry had finished some nights before.
“You don’t have to tie it so tight,” Henry said, startling the holy man.
“Ah, young Master Pierce,” the monk regained his composure. “I wasn’t expecting you to come back.” He climbed down the ladder, then stepped back and admired the tome. “Isn’t it spectacular? A complete copy of the Vulgate Bible, Josephus’ Antiquities of the Jews ... De bello iudaico, Isidore of Seville’s Encyclopedia Etymologiae, the Chronicle of Cosmas of Prague; medical works, and two books by Constantine the African ... just to name a few.”
“Did you include the section I asked you to put in it?”
“Yes,” he said, finishing the bindings. “Yes, of course” The monk struggled to open the massive book, but he found the page where he’d hidden the boy’s message. In carefully penned Cherokee Syllabary he’d written, Tsi stu wu-li-ga’ na-tu-tu’n une’gu-tsa ge-se’i. “But, what does it mean?”
Henry climbed up on the step ladder and had to stand on his tiptoes to see it. “My mommy tells us a story about how the Rabbit was the leader in all the mischief,” he said. “She’ll recognize it when she sees it. But ... you didn’t write her name ...”
“I thought perhaps you might like to help me with that,” Herman said, giving the boy an encouraging smile.
“Could I?”
“Do you know how to prepare a quill? Mix ink?”
“No sir,” Henry said.
“Let me teach you then,” he said, and helped Henry down, leading him over to his desk. He took out a collection of quills and ink powder, and showed him how to mix the ink first, then, took out his quill knife. “You must be careful with a knife.”
“My dad lets me use his pocket knife sometimes. He taught me how to be careful.”
The priest showed him how to do it. Henry made the cut, carefully. He handed back the knife when he finished. “How’s that?” He held up the quill.
“Nicely done,” Herman said. “The ink is easy to smudge, so as soon as we print the letters, we will dust it with sand and leave it to dry.”
The monk climbed back up on the stepladder as Henry brought over the small pot of ink and the sharpened quill. “Ow!” Henry flinched as he handed over the tools. He held up a thumb where blood dripped from a cut caused by the sharpened tip on the quill. Normally, a quill wouldn’t be strong enough to cut an adult hand, but the skin on the little boy’s finger was much thinner.
“Are you hurt?”
“It’s just a scratch,” he said, embarrassed at having cried out. He climbed up to hand him the pot of ink. The ladder wobbled and he threw out a hand to catch himself, a smear of blood stained the vellum page. The priest inspected it and shook his head. “I will need to bandage that wound,” he said, starting to climb down.
“No,” Henry scrambled down. “Finish writing Mommy’s name. I need to get back to Auntie Tima’s.”
“Dr. Lauren Grayson-Pierce, PhD,” the monk said, planning each letter, and inscribing each with the greatest of care. “There we go.”
Henry climbed back up; his finger wrapped in his t-shirt. “Perfect!” he beamed, happy with the end results.
A rumble of what sounded and felt like thunder resounded around them. Henry jumped down. “Remember the story,” Henry said to the monk.
“What was that?” The monk gazed up, trying to pinpoint the sound and figure out what it was.
“The monastery is under attack,” Henry said. “You have to protect the Codex Gigas.”
“The Codex Gigas?” The monk looked to him blankly.
“Oh, that blank page near the back? You have to draw a big scary devil. You better hurry. You don’t have much time.”
“Wait!” The monk clambered down from the step ladder with ink and dusting-sand still in hand. “You’re leaving?”
“I’ll do everything I can to protect you so you can finish, Brother Herman. You’ve helped me. It’s the least I can do.” He hesitated. "But you have to do what you must to protect the Codex ... and preserve its lore.” He knew the monk’s true fate. He would not be walled up, but the curse of Cassandra was upon him. No one would believe he had completed the book in one night. No one of this era would understand the abilities of a child to pause time — to allow the monk to finish his work — even in Henry’s own time. No one would believe Herman, but it was a secret he could never tell ... and that was okay.