Autumn, 1504
San Juan de la Peña, Aragón
Brother Arros
The final days of autumn were upon them. There was so much to do. Yet try as he might, Brother Arros could not keep his thoughts straight today. His mind felt wrapped by moss. A headache plagued him, pounding fiercely in his temples, as if some creature had burrowed into his skull and was now attempting to force its way out with fury.
The end of autumn meant harvesting the last of the vegetables, pressing the olives, drying the beans, stacking the fodder. It meant preparing the winter enclosures for the flocks of sheep that would soon wend their way down from the summer grazing pastures in the high valleys. For Brother Arros, it meant corralling and organizing the monks and the servants to carry out all of their jobs.
Then there were the cycles of prayer, chapter meetings, care for the ill in the infirmary, ministering to the travelers in the guesthouse. Since he was the prior, he was ultimately responsible for all of it.
Brother Arros patted the pocket where a letter lay crinkled between the folds of his brown homespun robe. He tugged the paper out and held it aloft, his back to the sun, squinting at the darkly inked letters, tracing the embossed design of Lord de Vernier’s wax seal with a stubby finger. The letter had languished in his pocket for days. There had not been a moment to spare, let alone the substantial allotment of time writing a letter required. Even if he neglected all his responsibilities and wrote a response today, he had no way to send it. He had got word yesterday that the pass of Somport had been sealed shut by a blizzard.
A strong breeze blew in from the north just then, tugging the letter loose from his grasp.
He bent to pick it up, but a curious thing happened. His fingers would not close around the paper. He tried again. No, his fingers did not heed the call of his mind. They just dangled weakly at the end of his arm. He reached for a stone that lay near the letter. But it was no use. Experimentally, he flexed the fingers of his other hand and was relieved to discover that it worked as it always had. He reached for the letter with that hand, then wished he hadn’t.
His head pounded anew. A wave of bile rose in his throat. Slowly he sank to his knees.
The last thing Brother Arros remembered before losing consciousness was the soft kiss of the north wind on his cheeks, and the sight of the letter skittering away from him in the dust.