The Oblate's Confession by William Peak Read Free Book Online

I’m tired of your ridiculous language.”
    Father Dagan smiled as if Father Abbot had said something amusing. He turned, looked out the window, eyes losing their color to the light. “What I’m going to tell you about took place a long time ago. Before you were born, before this building was built, before Father Abbot even came to Redestone....” Father stopped, looked back at me—eyes brown again, bright, commanding. “You must understand, this was a different place then. Different. It was Father Abbot who built the Redestone we know—the terrace, the refectory, the dortoir. But there was a time before you were born, before Father Abbot, when these things weren’t here. In those days there was only the church and even it was smaller. Of course it looked big. I mean from down in the fields it looked big. Because of the ridge. In those days a ridge extended out from the base of the mountain a little way into the fields and our church sat up on its lower end. So it could look big. From down in the village it looked quite large. But it wasn’t. Not really. Just a simple structure built of sticks and mud. We monks lived in a cave at the base of the ridge.”
    Father looked back out the window as if expecting to see the cave, that long-ago time. “Of course it’s gone now, the ridge I mean, buried, like Oslac and Cuthwine, beneath our garth. Seven times we climbed that ridge, seven times we climbed back down; every day: year-in, year-out. No dortoir, no refectory, no necessarium.... It’s hard to believe now. But we weren't barbarians .” He looked at me. “You mustn’t think we were barbarians.”
    I didn’t.
    “We were monks. Monks. Life was hard but we kept our rule: we worked, we prayed. Every day. And on the sabbath we received our Lord. Those were good men back then, good men. We just didn’t have Father Agatho yet, that’s all.”
    I nodded and Father Abbot nodded with me. I had no idea what Father Dagan was talking about.
    “Then Penda came.” Father’s voice grew soft. “Have you heard of Penda? Did your mother frighten you with tales of Penda?”
    The suggestion of a fragrance, like flowers, and a face, like the Virgin’s. I shook my head. No, no I couldn’t remember any stories.
    “Well she should have. Penda was a Mercian and a pagan, the cruelest, most wicked pagan of them all, and he joined forces with the Cumbrogi—not much better—to destroy our land. Many a morning we awakened to smoke on the horizon and, once, women and children spilling from the South Wood like frightened deer. Folian was abbot in those days, and Folian was afraid of Penda. He asked one of his monks, a man called Gwynedd, to climb Modra nect, keep watch from Dacca’s crag. You know the crag?”
    I nodded, amazed to discover there had been an abbot before Father Abbot.
    “Yes, good. But it’s different now. In those days it was an evil place, covered with runes and depictions of vile practices. Father Gwynedd was afraid of it. But he was a good monk. He climbed to Dacca’s crag because his abbot told him to; but he was afraid.” Father looked at me. “You know, when you leave the cloister you are entirely on your own. No one keeps you safe; no one cares about you; you have no friends. The monks here at Redestone are more than teachers and masters, Winwæd, we are your family. But out there....” Father’s eyes grew pale again as he looked toward the window. “Well.... And of course it was worse in those days, pagans everywhere, fighting, killing. Not that it’s much better now. Father’s right to send out his priests; the hill people remain a proud and stubborn race. But in those days they were also bold; we sometimes found dogs hanging from the rafters in our church, mare’s blood upon the door. Gwynedd’s fear was justified. Not only had the abbot sent him to live by himself in a forest full of heathen, but he had sent him to live upon one of their holiest sites, to sleep, eat, and relieve himself upon