The Bone Quill (11 page)

‘The bone quill is ours to defend, like the island itself. It must remain here at all costs. Let me repeat with no lesser emphasis: the bone quill and
The Book of Beasts
must be protected
at all costs
.’

Sitting at his desk, reflecting on the evening’s draining events, the Abbot knew that he hadn’t quelled the brothers’ fears and dissatisfaction. Who knew what might happen during the next Viking invasion, or attack from the powerful northern clans, or the Sassenach tribes further south?

These were desperate, dangerous times.

‘A
long time ago, when the world believed monsters roamed the earth,’ said Brother Renard, his eyes holding his apprentice’s gaze with such intensity that Solon’s toes curled against the soles of his sealskin boots, ‘a young boy had a strange and beautiful dream.’

Solon had come to Brother Renard’s cell first thing that morning to let him know he had returned from his quest unharmed, although with a new-found respect for the monster that lurked in the bog. Brother Cornelius had taken a weakened Carik under his wing, locking her for safety in Brother Renard’s old cell with promises to tend to her.

Solon had also told Brother Renard about their terrible confrontation with the Grendel and the peryton’s role in their escape. The effect on the old monk was like lightning. He had launched into this tale with more vigour than he had shown since the Viking attack.

‘Hush, Brother,’ said Solon, worried. ‘You are tiring yourself.’

‘You must hear this, Solon, my boy. You must. I cannot leave this life until
The Book of Beasts
is finished. The Grendel is the last beast to be locked into that book before I depart this earthly world. Heed this story before my strength fails completely.

‘The boy dreamed that two giant stags, one black as the coal deep inside the earth and one as white as the snow that capped its peaks, shattered through a mountain top on the wild Scottish coast,’ the old Animare continued. ‘First their colossal antlers cracked open the summit, tearing up the very core of the hillside.’

Brother Renard jumped from his chair and raised his hands above his head, mimicking the massive antlers of the stags. Solon’s eyes widened, afraid that a pair of antlers would burst through the wrinkled skin of the old monk’s head. To his great relief, they did not.

The old monk dropped back to his seat, gripping his hands together once again on his lap.

‘The presence of two giant stags on the mountain sent a great avalanche of rock thundering down into the sea. Standing on the craggy summit, the giant stags sloughed off the mountain’s debris, stamping their hooves with such might that the mountain cracked in two.’

The shutters on the only window of the tower room clapped noisily. The wind howled through the slits. Solon braced himself, preparing for sharp rocks to slide in through the rattling window. Thunder erupted above his head, resounding across the thick wooden beams. Solon put his hands over his head as splinters showered down from the ceiling. He shook a splinter of wood from his shaggy blond hair. ‘Please, master, go on.’

‘When the mountain split its core, it separated into two islands – one large and one small. The force of the rupture also separated the stags, leaving the white one on the bigger island staring longingly at the black stag on the smaller one, across a great and treacherous divide.

‘With their antlers shining like polished gems, the two beasts stood at the summit of each island and wept at their division. Their tears became a tidal wave that crashed on to the land, filling the crevices and rocky fissures with water, creating bays and channels and secret coves.’

Brother Renard moved his hands restlessly. Solon knew that he was picturing the unfinished
Book of Beasts
lying in his lap.

‘According to our sacred teachings, the white stag could stand its loneliness no longer. It wanted to reunite with its twin. Unfolding a pair of great silver wings, it rose close to the heavens and swooped across the divide.’

‘The peryton?’ asked Solon.

The old monk nodded. ‘Unfortunately, the black stag had grown bitter that it had landed on the smaller island. It did not want to share, especially with such a powerful beast as its twin. When the silver-winged stag landed, the black stag charged.

‘The battle raged for an age. Finally, exhausted and with its strength dwindling, the white stag did the one thing it had dared not do before. Under cover of the darkest night, the white stag lifted itself above the black stag, smashing the black stag’s antlers and splintering the pieces across the world. Then it lifted its twin into the air and carried both of them far away from the two islands.

‘The white stag carried the black one deep into the cold lands of the north, flying until webs of ice laced across its wings. When the ice thickened like leather, it could no longer hold on to its twin. The massive bulk of the black stag fell from the sky to the land of frozen mountains and ice castles.’

S
olon
reached for the jug of warm perry by the fire, made with pears from the monastery orchard. Carefully, he poured two cups: one for the old monk and one for himself.

‘Did the boy understand what his dream meant?’ he asked, passing Brother Renard his cup.

Brother Renard smiled in appreciation, reminding Solon of the man he had first known: a grumpy yet generous monk with a quick intelligence. But his hands shook as he took the cup, and he seemed more frail than ever. He took a long draught before continuing.

‘The dream invaded the boy’s sleep more than once. He told his father about it. He hoped his father would understand what it meant, because what occurs when a person is asleep means as much as what happens when he is awake.’

The world Solon lived in believed that ideas came in dreams, or were sent by witches or wizards, angels or demons, even gods or monsters. The origin of any idea or dream was important, making ideas either especially dangerous or incredibly brilliant. As he learned more about the world, Solon had begun to wonder: who decided which ideas were good and which were bad? Which held truths and which lies?

‘But although the boy’s father was a clever man, he was a poor, uneducated miller, and his son’s dream terrified him,’ Brother Renard continued, gulping the last of his perry. ‘At first, he ignored his son’s restless nights. But word began to spread that the miller’s son was having visions. The lack of sleep was making the boy weak. He was no longer any help to his father in the mill.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Then it rained for weeks,’ said the old monk, exhaustion hunching his shoulders and weakening his voice. ‘The turnips, leeks and cabbages rotted in the fields. The villagers started to get hungry, and when a wolf carried off the village’s last healthy goat, anger set in like the chill in winter.’

‘They blamed the boy and his dreams,’ said Solon.

‘Of course they did. And they gathered at the well, deciding that something had to be done about the boy. The angry villagers marched on the miller’s cottage, wielding pickaxes and fiery torches, leaving the miller with no choice. He exiled his only son to the wilds of the Scottish forest.

‘The boy journeyed across the Highlands until one day he stopped to fill his water pouch at a rocky shore. There in front of him was the recognizable outline of an island. The island of the silver-winged stag. He was able to fend for himself there, for the island was rich in fruits and the soil moist and fertile. Over time, the boy became a man. And when he did, he built a fortress, establishing the monastery on the island of Auchinmurn: a safe haven for those who dream and the things they dream about.’

Solon gaped. This was the story of the first monk of the Order of Era Mina.

The old monk paused, staring distractedly at the fire blazing in the hearth.

‘What happened to the white peryton in the boy’s dream?’ asked Solon at last.

The old monk leaned towards the boy. The fire spat and crackled between them.

‘It returned to its island and looked across the divide. It watched in grief as what remained of its twin’s shadow crawled into a hollow in the earth at the centre of the smaller island ... and disappeared.’

Outside Brother Renard’s tiny cell, Solon heard the screech of gulls. He thought of the winged stag’s mournful cries. His peryton.

‘The white stag ached with loss,’ the old monk whispered. ‘So one night it flew high into the heavens above its twin’s island, Era Mina, beating its silver wings so fast that it sounded like swarms of bees.

‘And across the water in a thatched hut, the sleeping boy heard it call to him in his dream.’

T
here
was a loud rustling in the trees outside the old monk’s window. A snapping of branches, then mumbled voices and running footsteps.

‘Someone’s been listening to us!’ exclaimed the old monk. His panic played like the tight strings of a lute in Solon’s head. ‘See who is lurking out there. This story is not for everyone’s ears. Even among my brothers, there is a small number who would do their worst to get their hands on this manuscript. Especially before it is completed.’

‘Why do they want it before it’s completed?’ asked Solon, confused.

‘This book and Era Mina hold the keys to everything I’ve been telling you!’ Brother Renard’s voice rose an octave with agitation. ‘Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been saying, my boy? The darkness! The black peryton’s shadow! It is seeping towards us!’

Solon unlocked the shutters and flung them open. A rush of sea air whooshed into the room as he squinted against the late afternoon sun, searching for the eavesdroppers, looking first in the trees beneath the window and then farther in the distance to the water’s edge.

He thought he saw two hooded figures hurrying away.

He dropped down from the stone sill and pulled out the key hanging around his neck on a ribbon of leather. ‘I must go,’ he said as he prepared to unlock the door. ‘But I’ll return soon.’

‘But the rest of what I must tell you cannot wait,’ said the old monk fretfully. ‘I may not have much time left.’

‘What I have to do cannot wait either. I’ll return as soon as I can.’

Solon pulled the heavy door shut and turned the key, dropping it back underneath his tunic. He leaped down the stairs, careening clumsily off the walls in his rush to get outside and down to the cove after the disappearing figures. At the door, he unlatched the hook and charged out into the fading daylight and the thick canopy of the forest.