Deep Storm by Lincoln Child
Authors: Lincoln Child
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Atlantis, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Espionage, Body, Mind & Spirit, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Technological, Atlantis (Legendary place), Lost continents, Geographical myths, Fiction - Espionage, Mythical Civilizations
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Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.
Well? What is down there? Crane pressed.
Im sorry, Peter. I cant tell you that.
No? Why not?
Because if I did, Im afraid Spartan would have to kill you.
Hearing this cliche, Crane began to laugh. But then he looked at Asher and his laughter died. Because the chief scientist who always laughed so easily wasnt even smiling.
Chapter 13
At the uttermost frontiers of Scotland beyond Skye, beyond the Hebrides, beyond even the tiny battered chain of islands known as the Seven Sisters lies the archipelago of St. Kilda. It is the remotest part of the British Isles, rough hummocks of brown stone struggling to rise above the foam: a bleak, sea-torn, savage place.
On the westernmost point of Hirta, the main island, a thousand-foot granite promontory rises above the bitter Atlantic. Seated on its crown is the long, gray line of Grimwold Castle, an ancient and rambling abbey, hardened against weather and catapult alike, surrounded by a star curtain of local stone. It was built in the thirteenth century by a cloistered order of monks, seeking freedom from both persecution and the growing secularization of Europe. Over many decades, the order was joined by other monks Carthusians, Benedictines looking for a remote place for worship and spiritual contemplation, fleeing the dissolution of the English monasteries. Enriched by the personal contributions of these new members, the library of Grimwold Castle swelled into one of the greatest monastic collections in Europe.
A small fishing population grew up around the skirts of the monastery, serving the few earthly needs the monks could not fulfill themselves. As its fame spread, the monastery hosted in addition to new initiates the occasional wanderer. At the castles zenith, a Pilgrims Way led from its medieval chapter house, across a grassy close, through a portcullis in the curtain wall, and then down a winding path to the tiny village, where passage to the Hebrides could be found.
Today the Pilgrims Way is gone, visible only as an occasional cairn rising above the bleak stonescape. The tiny supporting village was depopulated centuries ago. Only the abbey remains, its grim and storm-lashed facade staring westward across the cold North Atlantic.
In the main library of Grimwold Castle, a visitor sat at a long wooden table. He wore a pair of white cotton gloves and slowly turned the vellum pages of an ancient folio volume, set on a protective linen cloth. Dust motes hung in the air, and the light was dim: he squinted slightly to make out the words. A pile of other texts stood at his elbow: illuminated manuscripts, incunabula, ancient treatises bound in ribbed leather. Every hour or so, a monk arrived, removed the books the man had finished with, brought another set he had asked to view, exchanged a word or two, and then retired. Now and then, the visitor paused to make a cursory jotting in a notebook, but as the day went on these pauses grew less and less frequent.
At last, in late afternoon, a different monk stepped into the library, carrying yet another set of books. Like the others of his order, he was dressed in a plain cassock bound with a white cord. But he was older than the rest and seemed to walk with a more measured tread.
He proceeded down the center aisle of the library. Approaching the visitors table the only occupied table in the room he laid the ancient texts carefully upon the white linen.
Dominus vobiscum, he said with a smile.
The man rose from the table. Et cum spiritu tuo.
Please remain seated. Here are the additional manuscripts you requested.
You are very kind.
It is our pleasure. Visiting scholars are few and far between these days, alas. It seems creature comforts have become more important than scholarly enlightenment.
The man smiled. Or the pursuit of truth.
Which is frequently the same thing. The man pulled a soft cloth from his
Well? What is down there? Crane pressed.
Im sorry, Peter. I cant tell you that.
No? Why not?
Because if I did, Im afraid Spartan would have to kill you.
Hearing this cliche, Crane began to laugh. But then he looked at Asher and his laughter died. Because the chief scientist who always laughed so easily wasnt even smiling.
Chapter 13
At the uttermost frontiers of Scotland beyond Skye, beyond the Hebrides, beyond even the tiny battered chain of islands known as the Seven Sisters lies the archipelago of St. Kilda. It is the remotest part of the British Isles, rough hummocks of brown stone struggling to rise above the foam: a bleak, sea-torn, savage place.
On the westernmost point of Hirta, the main island, a thousand-foot granite promontory rises above the bitter Atlantic. Seated on its crown is the long, gray line of Grimwold Castle, an ancient and rambling abbey, hardened against weather and catapult alike, surrounded by a star curtain of local stone. It was built in the thirteenth century by a cloistered order of monks, seeking freedom from both persecution and the growing secularization of Europe. Over many decades, the order was joined by other monks Carthusians, Benedictines looking for a remote place for worship and spiritual contemplation, fleeing the dissolution of the English monasteries. Enriched by the personal contributions of these new members, the library of Grimwold Castle swelled into one of the greatest monastic collections in Europe.
A small fishing population grew up around the skirts of the monastery, serving the few earthly needs the monks could not fulfill themselves. As its fame spread, the monastery hosted in addition to new initiates the occasional wanderer. At the castles zenith, a Pilgrims Way led from its medieval chapter house, across a grassy close, through a portcullis in the curtain wall, and then down a winding path to the tiny village, where passage to the Hebrides could be found.
Today the Pilgrims Way is gone, visible only as an occasional cairn rising above the bleak stonescape. The tiny supporting village was depopulated centuries ago. Only the abbey remains, its grim and storm-lashed facade staring westward across the cold North Atlantic.
In the main library of Grimwold Castle, a visitor sat at a long wooden table. He wore a pair of white cotton gloves and slowly turned the vellum pages of an ancient folio volume, set on a protective linen cloth. Dust motes hung in the air, and the light was dim: he squinted slightly to make out the words. A pile of other texts stood at his elbow: illuminated manuscripts, incunabula, ancient treatises bound in ribbed leather. Every hour or so, a monk arrived, removed the books the man had finished with, brought another set he had asked to view, exchanged a word or two, and then retired. Now and then, the visitor paused to make a cursory jotting in a notebook, but as the day went on these pauses grew less and less frequent.
At last, in late afternoon, a different monk stepped into the library, carrying yet another set of books. Like the others of his order, he was dressed in a plain cassock bound with a white cord. But he was older than the rest and seemed to walk with a more measured tread.
He proceeded down the center aisle of the library. Approaching the visitors table the only occupied table in the room he laid the ancient texts carefully upon the white linen.
Dominus vobiscum, he said with a smile.
The man rose from the table. Et cum spiritu tuo.
Please remain seated. Here are the additional manuscripts you requested.
You are very kind.
It is our pleasure. Visiting scholars are few and far between these days, alas. It seems creature comforts have become more important than scholarly enlightenment.
The man smiled. Or the pursuit of truth.
Which is frequently the same thing. The man pulled a soft cloth from his
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