We had left the monastery at Jarrow several decades before. Old Paul had grown old, and retired from his post. He had made enough money—we knew not how—to buy a small farm on what we called Cockett Island, just off the coast.

In those days, monasteries—or at least some monasteries—were incredibly rich. Some of that money ended up being used to buy land and houses for retiring monks.

Paul asked Mam and me to join him, she as his housekeeper and me as his scribe: someone who would write for him, as his eyesight was becoming very poor. He was also fond of Biffa, probably the world’s only Neverdead cat. He promised her an endless supply of the island’s plentiful crabs. He would mash them up for her, because already her teeth were getting worn like mine and Mam’s, and she found it difficult to bite through crab shells like she used to.

Mam and I had now been living for more than a hundred years. Throughout that time Mam had kept with her the single remaining life-pearl.

It was—is—stored in a small clay box, about the size of a modern cigarette package, surrounded with sheep’s wool and fine sand for extra protection. The box bore no marking. The lid fitted closely, and was sealed with a mixture of tallow, beeswax, and pine resin.

That box lived with us, almost as if it were another member of our little family. Mam always knew where it was. We seldom traveled, but if we did, Mam would carefully unpick the seal and lift the tiny sphere out and swallow it for safekeeping. It would reappear about a day or so later, expelled in the manner dictated by nature.

Glass—in case you did not know—is extremely resistant to almost all forms of chemical reaction, so the little ball was completely undamaged by stomach acids and other internal processes. At the end of the journey, the glass ball would be cleaned, replaced in the box with some sand, resealed, and buried in a place that only Mam and I knew.

Thus did the clay box containing the life-pearl come with us to Old Paul’s farmstead on Cockett Island.

The choice of burial spot for the box was always crucial. The ground should not be too damp. Nor should the box be buried too deeply: we had to be able to get at it quickly in an emergency. If we could not for any reason, if we had to leave in a hurry, then it would need to remain undisturbed and undiscovered for as long as it took to come back and retrieve it.

It was Old Paul who suggested the cave on the eastern side of the island: one of two caves high up the beach that were dry year-round. He knew about the pearl, and he knew we needed to keep it safe from those who might want it. The cave was deep and dark. There was a crevice behind a large boulder at the back that I could squeeze my arm into. Inside the crevice, out of sight, was a sandy ledge. It had been used in the past to conceal treasures from the Vikings, its location passed from one prior to the next.

It was perfect. Anything put there would be safe: completely hidden forever from anyone who did not know of it. The only people who did know were me, Mam, and Old Paul.

We had encased the clay box in more tallow and resin and beeswax for extra protection. When it hardened, it was wrapped in rough cloth, and this is the package that Mam extracted from her shawl as we stood in the cave at twilight.

The wind howled around us and the island’s puffins—the squat black birds with the comical beaks—skidded and swooped in the sky above us. Old Paul, almost blind by now, intoned a prayer that he had made up for the occasion.

“Lord, through whom we may all find eternal life…,” it began. His voice was quavery, and the prayer droned on. Finally, as we were starting to shiver in the cold breeze, he said something that I noticed—through my half-closed eyes—caused Mam to look up. She caught me peeking.

“Lord,” Old Paul was saying, “be merciful to those who choose to take the mighty power of life and death into their own hands. If it be a sin to prolong a life beyond its allotted span, look not with anger upon those who do.”

Do you understand? Old Paul was asking God not to punish Mam and me for being Neverdeads.

Mam gave me the cloth-wrapped package and I shoved it in the space between the boulder and the cave wall.

It was safe forever.

“How long have you thought that? How long have you thought that the Lord may punish us for…for being what we are?” Mam asked Paul as we walked into the wind back to the farmhouse, with Paul holding my hand for guidance.

“It has troubled me for some time,” he said. “I sought clarification from the bishop, who guided me in his wisdom.”

There was a pause as Mam stopped walking and the wind howled.

“You told the bishop?” Mam was horrified that Paul had broken our pact of secrecy.

“Do not worry,” Paul said, trying to reassure her. “I said nothing about you or Alve. Our discussion was restricted to what might happen if someone had such a power.”

“But still,” I said, “he might have thought it was a strange question. He might have wondered…”

“Fear not, young Alve,” said Old Paul firmly. “The bishop had no suspicions. Your secret remains a secret. And the Lord will love those who love Him.”

I was not so sure.