Burning : A Tale of the Dark Apostle (9780698144743) by E.c. Ambrose Page A

me, so I found my voice, trying to talk calm so Owain would hear me. “We’ve done the best we could, Father, Owain, but it’s been weeks now, and he’s still not settled. The abbey is the best thing for him. It could be this was God’s way to call him to prayer.”
    Elisha’s jaw set with anger. I gave him my stare, scolding without saying a word, and he ducked my gaze, knowing there’d be worse to follow if he made it any harder. It’s not as if I wanted him to go . . . although it’s a worthy thing, having a monk in the family.
    â€œWe need him, Father,” Owain snapped. “I can’t manage the farm on my own.”
    As if I hadn’t been speaking—as if I didn’t do no work at all. My jaw clenched, and I tried to relax. Owain and the priest had never got on well, and this madness of Elisha’s affected him. Man couldn’t see his first-born touched by the Devil without some kind of pain in himself.
    â€œYou have another son, Owain, and that new colt of yours.” The priest smiled again, more broadly, and tipped his head to me. “And neither of you is so old that more children are out of the question.”
    My cheeks warmed at that, and I wished Owain felt the heat as well—Lord knows I’ve prayed for more children—but he pushed himself to his feet, as if he didn’t hear.
    â€œThank you, Father. We’ll speak on it. And I’m sorry about his outburst. If it happens again, I’ll beat him ’til he can’t talk at all.” Owain used to be such a soft hand with the boys, which maybe played a part in Elisha’s madness as well. It was my husband I started to worry over, more even than the boy: at least the church could help him.
    â€œDo speak on it.” Father John rose up, brushing down his woolen robe. “More than that, Owain, pray on it. You will do that, won’t you?”
    I bobbed him a courtesy, trying to make amends for Owain’s rudeness. “Of course, Father.”
    Father John gazed on me with a measure of pride as he said, “Listen to your wife, Owain. She is wise beyond her stature.” Then Owain held the door for him, summoning a spate of barking from the sheepdogs.
    Owain stared into the twilight after him, then shoved the door closed, his fist still pushing against it. He swung away from it at last and shouted, “Elisha!”
    The boy leapt up, his head tilted all angry-like. “Yes, Da.”
    â€œDon’t you ever mention angels again, you hear? Not angels, not visions, not prophets, not witches, not Moses—not anything near magic nor miracles, you hear me?”
    Elisha’s Adam’s apple bobbed, then he said, soft but clear, “How can I not speak of prophets when I’m named for one?”
    I downright gawked at my own son. I hated seeing him bruised and all, but I hated more this madness that turned him astray, taking his heart from God and making his father turn against him. His defiance would be the death of him, even if they didn’t toss him in a pond.
    Owain snarled, grabbing Elisha’s shirt so that the linen—worn from too many washings—tore at his shoulder, exposing his bruised back. For a moment I feared Owain would take the boy’s head right off, but his lips twisted like he was the one in pain. I never seen anything like that face: as dread as a painting of Hell.
    â€œAnother beating won’t help, Owain.” I put a trembling hand on my husband’s arm, but he felt hard as oak. I wished I could make him tender again, the way he used to be. “He’s tainted. Somehow, that witch ruined him. Let Father John take him to the abbey. It’s the best thing for him, and for all of us. If the villagers are talking—”
    â€œI’ll move to London before I let Father John take any son of mine.”
    Just for a moment, Owain’s eyes gleamed as if he might weep—but what