The sun was high in the sky, illuminating the forests in that special shade of green that only it could evoke. In the midst of these great forests, which stretched in each direction further than even the eyes of the hawks could see, there was a mountain.
Though it should be noted it was not really, speaking technically in terms of height, what one would classify as a mountain. It was really more of a large hill. But it was the largest land form in the surrounding forest, so a mountain it was known as.
And upon this mountain there was a monastery, that shone in the sun's rays, it's smooth, white stone walls almost blinding the eyes of the visitors. The mountain had been terra-formed heavily, the trees that had once been on the slope were mostly removed, the grade of the slope was flattened to place buildings. A large central abbey sat squatly on the peak of the hill that had been leveled, leaving the top like a plateau. The abbey held a world renowned archive of texts, both religious and otherwise, and it often received wayward scholars, who tagged along with the steady groups of pilgrims, who brought blank scrolls of paper to copy down the original texts.
The abbey-in-the-woods, as it was popularly know, watched over a collection of small hovels where the monks of the abbey lived. Each building had a tiny fireplace that carried smoke up through a chimney and piped in through nearly every night. There were no doors on the homes, attesting to a rule that the monks were to be available to assist others at any point in their lives. Small bookshelves were also on the inside of each hovel, and the abbot forced his monks to have at least one of the libraries texts in their residences for nightly reading. Concerns of theft obviously didn't allow them to hold the original copies but they were required too understand more than just their religious texts. The tiny table was always set with two places at dinner in case a famished visitor would suddenly arrive at the monastery.
A medium sized field was replete with tea plants that the monks used in their morning tea, which they drank scalding hot even on sweltering days of the year. The heat of the drink supposedly brought them closer in touch with the warmth of the rising sun.
Only the abbot had a special room in the monastery and this was even for special reasons. On many nights he slept outside in the company of the pilgrimages. But on special nights he retreated to his room near the top of the alley. For the abbot their was only one thing that could rival his love for his religious duties: astronomy. It was at his personal request that a observatory with a inexpensive 'sky gazer' that a pilgrim had brought him from the East be set up in a room with a bed and other astrological tools. He watched as month by month the stars danced through the dark endless stage of the heavens and how the moon shifted and swayed, brightened and faded, waxed and waned. On very special nights, only a few times a year, the abbot would stay up all night and stare at the haunting face of the crimson harvest moon that hung low in the sky as though it was being tugged down by it's own size.
It was because of this obsessive trait, that visitors to the abbey often brought him a star map of their homeland, a heavily ornate seasonal chart, a piece of a fallen meteor, or what was claimed to be a piece of a star or the sun. Poorer pilgrims would unfold a cloth containing a stone that they claimed was a moon rock given to an ancestor by a godly premonition. A closer inspection by a monk with a good eye for geography revealed it was in actuality a simple earth rock, probably removed from the path of a dented hoe blade. The abbot made it a point never to call these travelers on their bluffs, instead thanking them and giving them a heartfelt blessing. But he always made sure his parting grace contained a special emphasis on the virtue on honesty. Sometimes he saw a flicker of self incrimination and smiled at their profuse promises to curb their lies. Other times he saw nothing and assumed such people truly believed their falsehoods. He did not hold these people's ignorance against them, for more than one person had had the wool pulled over their eyes by a crafty relative or wandering salesman with a knack for story telling.
When he wasn't stargazing, he wore an interesting pair of glasses, with thin wooden frames and distinct bright red tinted lens. The change it produced in the colors of the world, so the abbot said, placed all things in an equal light. At any rate they helped spread his reputation, and no one ever had to ask who was in charge of the abbey, it was as easy as looking for the man in the ruby spectacles.
The abbot was also peculiar when it was considered that he was certainly younger than the average man in his position, his hair was still orange, though not quite as bright as in his youth, and with rare strands of white here or there. His physique was unknown, hidden under flowing robes, but his fingers were calloused and muscled, his grip was firm.
He still usually worked a daily regimen in the field but he could no longer handle the full load that some of his younger peers worked. When he wasn't in the field he worked in quiet solidarity with his fellow monks at other tasks in and around the monastery.
Today though, he worked in the fields not at all, for he was preparing for an important dignitary from the North, in fact, the most important visitor in his term as abbot. The tea crop was important, but not this important. The climate was going to be much warmer than the visitors were used to, so he had been taking steps to cool the monastery. This included removing the elaborate rose colored, blown glass windows in order to allow more of the breeze to enter, and using half the amount of tinder as normal for all fires not being used by the sick or elderly. All soups, vegetables, fruits, and meats were to be chilled before they were served to the dignitaries, for the duration of their stay. Beverages too, were cooled and the abbot heard more than one monk turn his nose up at the idea of 'iced tea'.
He walked past a monk who was taking a scroll off of the highest level of a hallway shelf. He was struggling to reach even with the aid of the longest ladder he could utilize indoors and his grabs and grasps were causing the ladder to tilt and wobble precariously with one of the feet of the ladder actually rising off of the ground.. The abbot rushed to steady the ladder for the oblivious monk, and with a final, great leap that would've surely sent the ladder tumbling had it not been for the abbot's assistance, pulled the scroll from its stronghold.
He descended down the ladder breathing a little heavy, smiling pleasantly at the abbot when he reached the ground, “Good day abbot Calum! Of course they make me get the scroll off of the highest shelf, why couldn't have Brother Rourke have gotten it? He is at least two hands taller than I am!”
The abbot had a stern look on his face and responded,”You need to be more careful Brother. You can't be setting a place at the table with a splint on your hand.” The abbot's disappointment battled with his sense of relief and forgiving nature.
A wave of realization washed over the disciple's face and his smile disappeared. He looked back at the ladder and faced the abbot with a sense of embarrassment. “I apologize for my thoughtlessness Abbot. I should have asked for another pair of hands to help steady the ladder.”
“I would agree with that. And perhaps it wouldn't hurt for you to add another brain to help you think properly.” Calum was joking, but he kept his stern visage to keep the young man dancing on the fire a little longer.
“I have erred brother. What shall I do for my penance? I will clean the entirety of the feast's dishes or memorize passages for the Recitation if it would please you and the rest of the abbey. My fate is at your mercy abbot.”
“No Brother Mason,” The Abbot said with a sigh and a chuckle that revealed his inner feelings, “Preform whatever task that was worth the risking of your life over to the fullest extent of your abilities and please, be a little more careful in the future.”
Mason met his red tinted eyes with a joyous gaze of a child getting off the hook and grabbed the Abbot's hands in his own, formerly touching his forehead to the abbot's heart, and giving a blessing to the Gods. He noted that the scroll the young man held was entitled, “The preparation of rabbits, snakes, foxes, and other beasties of the oracle.” The monk flipped the scroll and hurried off without a backwards glance.
The abbot shook his head and stepped through a nearby archway out into one of the abbey's courtyards. The rapid change in the amount of sunlight, which would've blinded most people, looked a merry pink through his lens. He instinctively swatted and ducked away from an errant bumblebee attack. He felt his hand physically capture the bee and he tried to scoop it away. If the bee had no malicious intent at first this certainly gave it motivation. It buzzed around his head angrily for another minute before flying off.
He spotted the abby's gardener, Brother Gregory, squatting down over a clump of ferns with a pair of tweezers, inspecting the underside of each leaf, occasionally darting his hand in to pick something or other off the plant and tossing it behind him to the ground. Dirt messed up the fringe's of his robes and sunspots were large and visible on the monk's neck and were pocketed in his receding hair. His off hand clenched and handful of dark soil and he sprinkled it evenly over the ground, before grabbing another handful. The habit left Gregory's hand almost perpetually brown. Other monk's secretly jockeyed to avoid being seated on his left side during the joining of hands before the meal.
He watched the gardener work for a short while, before the man noticed his shadow falling on him. The elder monk turned languidly, and his face lit up at the sight of the Abbot. Without reserve, he clenched the abbot's hands in his and the Abbot could feel the dirt get pressed against his palms. He didn't flinch away as some of his contemporaries would've done. When Gregory drew away Calum noticed the smudges that had been left on his hands.
“ Brother Calum! What brings you out to the gardens on this fine day?” Gregory was one of very few monks who referred to him as 'brother' rather than 'abbot'. He guessed that the gardener's excessive age granted or at least validated, that right. He wasn't sure if any of them knew how old Brother Gregory really was, and he wasn't about to ask. He did notice the islands of baldness that dotted a sea of gray, and the flecks of spit that landed on his hands whenever he spoke through his nearly toothless mouth.
“Oh, just my wanderings. It is a beautiful day though isn't it?” He said as though noticing it for the first time. Perhaps he just had, a lot was on his mind today. “You will have the snowbulbs ready for the dignitaries I hope?”
“Absolutely brother, I just got done shifting the flower's rotation in preparation for their final push.” More spit rained on the front of the young leader's robe.
The abbot excused himself and the elder monk returned to work with a labored groan and muttering about his joints. The abbot had a lot of work to do before the ambassadors arrived in the evening. He weaved his way through the garden and came out the other side into the cool shadows of the abbey hallway. The dining hall was bustling with the activity of monks. Cloths were being draped over the long tables, benches were straightened out.
Water was being poured from one fountain to another on the parallel side of the room to equalize them. As night fell, the torches and candles ringing the walls would be lit and the shadows of the flickering flames would play on everyones faces. The normal rule of silence during dining hall meals would be lifted broken for just tonight and the excitement about this was evident on the faces of even the most somber monks. Popular belief was other rules, particularly of interest to the young male monks the one of chastity, would also be lifted temporarily. He knew a few would inevitably test their freedom. He didn't blame them, he'd been young once. He was young now. A young man shouldn't spend his life reading such old texts, and thinking such deep thoughts, he'd heard people saying about him. He brushed this off as nonsense, he'd had his reasons, he didn't need to validate them to anyone.
He knew his standing among those outside the Forest, it was positive overall, neutral at worst. Charisma was never a problem for him, before he took up his service the women he'd caroused with alongside his friends could attest to that. But his life was different now, better now, cleaner now. Though he did miss the freedom sometimes...
He walked up a wide staircase into the biggest room of the abbey, the library. Rows and rows of bookcases were stuffed with scrolls and tomes. Some of them were older than the biggest trees of the Forest, while others had ink that had just dried. He glided through cases of books pulling out volumes absentmindedly and flipping to a random page, scanning it, and placing the book back in its resting place.
A librarian sat at a large desk carefully transcribing into a fresh scroll a text that had been loaned to the abbey by a neighboring monastery. He had the cleanest handwriting and quickest scribe hand of anyone in the monastery, which was how he'd earned his spot. He could replicate every last detail and do it quickly, even emulate others handwriting if need be.
This was a valuable skill because this particular monk couldn't have listen to the stories he transcribed. He was deaf. Nor could he tell the tale to others. He was also mute. He hadn't always been this way, apparently as a young man, he not only had all his senses but was a wonderful singer. But suddenly, one winter he was stricken with a perilous infection. It attacked his ears and left him bedridden and deaf, but alive. His voice stayed with him for a few days but that also faded.
He know could only talk with sign language and even with only his hands he remained animated. As the abbot walked over and peered over the desk at the toiling monk. The man was so engrossed engrossed in his work he didn't notice him. The abbot was pleased with the level of commitment to hard work he'd seen from his disciples today. He reached out and gently clasped the librarian's shoulder. The quill didn't waver in surprise like it might have been expected to, rather it stopped mid letter and the monk set it down and looked up at his visitor.
His eyes shone with recognition and his hands hastily signed out letters and words, /Hello there abbot. What do you need from me?\
Calum had required that both himself and all those under him learn how to both read and preform the hand talking. This was not necessarily just for the convenience of talking with their librarian but also for the multitudes of deaf and mute people they received at the abbey for their supposed religious cures. Such things did not exist of course, but it was still important to be able to communicate with these people. The deaf monk had over time also become an above average lip-reader, but he preferred to 'speak' with his hands.
/I need you to copy something important for me tonight. Something very important. You've of course heard that the dignitaries from the North are coming?\ He signed.
/Well, I can't say I've heard...\ The man smiled before his brow furrowed, /Ah yes, I was a young man the last time they came. Don't we have the previous transcription somewhere in here.\
/Yes, I believe we do\ The abbot replied.
/Do you need it?\
/No, not right now, thank you. I do need your presence at tonight's dinner. Make sure you bring plenty of parchment, ink and quill.\
The librarian smiled and returned to his work before signing, /Good bye abbot.\
/Good bye brother Marcuse\
Calum exited the archives and found his way up to his quarters that held the observatory. He used his feet to kick a clear path between the clutter that filled his floor, and fingered the eyepiece of his sky-gazer longingly before sitting down at a small table and studying the night's Recitation.
