The next morning came too quickly. He’d arrived back after all the boys were sleeping and now woke to the light of dawn peeking through a slit in the dorm window—his first day as a true orphan.
How strange to realize he had no family to search for today, no reason to jump off the straw mattress in anticipation of all the day might bring. He already knew what to expect: chores and bullying and playing games he’d forgotten.
Perhaps it was better to have no memory. That way he couldn’t remember all he’d lost.
Brother Leo opened the door to the upper room and rang an obnoxious bell to wake them. There would be morning prayers and then chore assignments and then breakfast in the refectory and then work and then play time. This was to be his life now.
Morning prayers passed—had he even heard the words?—and then they gathered in front of the dorm to receive their daily work. Brother Leo made the assignments, giving Xan the job to scrub the stones on the fountain in the circle. Some of the boys groaned at the long list of chores.
“Today is the final day of my week with you,” Brother Leo announced.
That was the only bit of good news Xan had received in this new life of his.
“Brother Oscar will be here at days’ end to start his week of supervision,” the monk said. “As you can see, I have assigned you extra work to keep you busy in my absence today.”
“Where are you going?” Joshua asked.
“I must tend to my duties as a cellarer.”
Being a cellarer was an important job. Brother Andrew had explained the other day that cellarers made sure the abbey had all the food and other items it needed to function.
“And did you not hear,” Brother Leo continued, “the abbot recently appointed me to manage Penwood Manor? I must travel there today to ensure they are fulfilling their harvest goals.”
Penwood was the manor that Lord Godfrey had got so upset about yesterday.
After Brother Leo left, Xan took a small metal pail and a wire brush to the ring of bushes on the meadow with the fountain at its center. The striped fish swam in circles under the murky water. To those fish, every day was exactly the same, just like Xan’s life would be now.
He scrubbed at the lowest, flattest stone on the outside of the fountain. Bits of green moss gave way beneath the strength of the wire brush that he’d dunked into the pail of water.
If only the great weight upon his soul could be so easily chipped away.
His parents had been murdered at the hands of bandits. He himself had been left for dead by that brutal scarred man. Maybe they were all cursed, just as Old Tom had said.
“You’re still here.” A soft voice approached from behind. It was Lucy.
He spun around. There she was, walking with Sister Regina, who was dressed in black cloth from the tip of her head to the heel of her boots. The nun wore a large crucifix; a wisp of golden hair stuck out from the edge of her habit, brushing against the dimple on her rosy cheek.
“Good dawning,” she said. “I am Sister Regina. Lucy has told me all about you.”
Xan stood and gave a half-wave. “Good morn.”
“Sister and I were enjoying some fresh air and decided to visit the fish,” Lucy said, her hair gleaming in the morning light even blacker than the nun’s habit. “The monks always draw a few from the fishpond and place them in the fountain ’til winter comes.”
“They’re swimming around in there, same as always,” he said.
The three of them sat on the ledge and stared into the water.
“I thought you’d be in Chadwick with your family by now,” Lucy said.
Xan gave a deep sigh and told them about yesterday’s events. When he’d finished, Lucy’s brown eyes were glistening, and even the nun was pressing her sleeve to her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Xan,” Lucy said. “I’ll say all my prayers today for you and your family.”
That was a sweet offer. His prayers for his parents had not brought them back to him, yet maybe Lucy’s prayers would combine with Brother Andrew’s to let his family rest in peace.
“I understand how alone you must feel right now,” Sister Regina said.
He peered into her eyes—green and sorrowful. She seemed moved by his story, but no one could truly understand how he felt. How could they?
“I too lost my family when I was young,” the nun said, her voice trembling. “A plague swept through my village. I will not speak of it, except to say that in one week I lost my mother, my father, and even my little sister, Eva.”
Pressure grew within Xan’s chest. “How old were you?” he asked.
“Fourteen.”
He nodded. Maybe this woman could understand. She too had lost everything, and she had felt her loss in full. Xan was spared at least that—knowing he was alone but not remembering how much he’d loved his parents or all the things he must live without now that they were gone.
“How did you carry on without them?” he asked.
The nun grasped the wooden crucifix on her robe. She pointed at it: Jesus nailed to a cross, an anguished expression on his face.
“I saw how our Lord Jesus suffered for me. Then I knew I was not alone; that God understood my pain. Now, I have God as my father, Jesus as my brother, and Mary as my mother.”
Xan gazed at the crucifix. The crown of thorns encircled the crucified man’s head like a monk’s tonsure. Truly the man lay in misery upon it.
“The Lord helped me bear my burdens,” Sister Regina said. “And over time, true faith and joy were born in my heart, but only after a great labor of confusion and doubt.”
Xan bowed his head low but said nothing. Was the path the nun took to find happiness the only way? It sounded much too painful.
A long moment passed as all three of them watched the striped fish in the hazy pool.
“When Father left me here at the convent, I felt so miserable,” Lucy said. “Then one day I asked Sister Cecilia to teach me to play the harp and I started to feel better. Do you see?”
The girl’s sad expression had been replaced by a peaceful look.
“You think I should learn to play the harp to make me feel better?” Xan said.
Lucy shook her head. “That’s not what I meant at all.” The little mole on her cheek turned down with her lips. “Find something to learn; some purpose here. That’s what I mean.”
Sister Regina nodded. “Lucy has a point. If you find your purpose—where you fit into this new life of yours—then you will find your joy again. And perhaps your memory too.”
“Have you found your purpose here?” Xan asked Brother Andrew later that day, after he’d finished his chores and the sun had begun to set below the woodland.
They walked together in the granges, talking about what had happened yesterday.
“I believe so,” the monk said. “At least I am on my way to fulfilling my purpose. ’Tis my life’s desire to become a priest one day.”
Brother Andrew had explained that priests were monks who could do special jobs, such as leading the Mass and even forgiving sins through a Sacrament called Confession.
“Do all monks become priests?”
“Nay. Look at Brother Leo. He has lived at this abbey most of his adult years and has thrice refused the chance to become a priest. He sees a different purpose for his life.”
Xan stared at his callused hands again. As a peasant from Hardonbury, his purpose might be to labor in the granges like the abbey’s servants and lay brothers. Yet Brother Andrew seemed to think differently.
“What do you think is my purpose here?” he asked.
The monk stopped walking and turned to face him. “I have been praying about that very thing, and I have a question to ask. You have traveled to Hardonbury and Chadwick. How many of those peasants do you think are lettered?”
The old woman and Old Tom hadn’t seemed educated. Nor had the guards and many of the others he’d seen as they’d journeyed. “I don’t know, Brother. Not many, I suppose.”
“Maybe none. Nobles teach their children, and we monks must be lettered, of course. If not for us, the ancient works from Greece and Rome would be lost to the world, along with the Holy Scriptures. We read them; interpret them; recopy them. Perhaps you too could be lettered.”
“But I’m just a peasant from Hardonbury. Look at my hands.” He raised them high.
The monk pushed Xan’s hands down. “Some of our novices also come from peasant families. I have observed you these past few days. God has given you a mind for learning. Your questions are thoughtful and curious. Your insight is as good as any pupil I have taught.”
“You think I should become a novice monk?”
“That is for God to say, not me. Our abbot would make you wait at least a year ere allowing it, anyhow. But if you wish, I could take you as my own pupil. Would you like that?”
“Aye, Brother.”
This might be what Lucy meant. If he learned to read and write, as she’d learned the harp, maybe he could tolerate this life. But could he ever understand his pain, like Sister Regina understood hers?
“There’s something I don’t understand, Brother.” He told the monk about the nun’s story.
Brother Andrew nodded as though he knew its meaning. “Sister tells of the great sorrows Jesus bore for us all. The Lord can take our pain and use it for a good purpose—even to heal.”
“To heal what?”
“To heal the damage caused by sin. God can work inside our hearts and—”
A low rumble vibrated the granges. The tremor started as a tickle in Xan’s shoes but soon grew stronger. A thundering sound echoed from the edge of the woodland.
“What’s that?” Xan said.
Brother Andrew paused to listen. “’Tis the galloping of many horses. And the clamor draws nearer.”
The sun had already set, and twilight had begun to cover the land. Why would the abbey get a host of visitors at this hour?
Just then, a light flashed in Xan’s mind: a vision of a man rising in dim light from a mattress, his hair in shambles, his face lined with worry, a woman by his side. Somehow, Xan knew the man was Father and the woman was Mother.
This was another memory: the moment disaster had come to Hardonbury Manor.
“Could it be bandits?” Xan said.
The monk jumped to his feet. “Whose horses would come in the night like this?”
One of the sheepdogs barked in the distance, soon joined by the howling of others.
“Jude’s folly!” Brother Andrew shouted. “You could be right. Stay here.”
With that, the monk raced toward the abbey shouting, “Toll the bells!”