The Bone Quill by Carole E. Barrowman, John Barrowman Page B

Brother Thomas would lead his fellow monks to the water’s edge where he’d lift his patch, turn the cross-stitched hole towards the setting sun and predict the severity of the remaining cold season.
    ‘The eye sees ice forming on the horizon,’ he’d claim with great import before leading the procession back to the great hall for mulled wine.
    Solon was never entirely sure if Brother Thomas’s gift was another special quality of the monks of Era Mina, or simply one monk’s unique way of making sense of the world.
    He took his meal outside to the rocks below the kitchens, willing to tolerate the chill of the night in order to think about all that had happened that day: the eavesdroppers, and the oddly familiar stranger; Brother Renard’s story of the twin stags, and the crack on his head.
    It was too much to make sense of without counsel. Not for the first time, Solon wished that his beloved master were not so hampered with his own trials. Digging into the remains of his rabbit stew, he found the last morsel of meat before licking the bowl clean.
    His head still thumping, he climbed back up to the kitchens: two square brick buildings close to the water and away from the main monastery. Keeping the buildings separate ensured that any stray fires would be doused before they reached the monastery. At the top of the rocks, Solon felt the first drop of rain.
    In matters of the heavenly bodies and his own, Brother Thomas was rarely wrong.

THIRTY-FOUR
     
    W hen the storm hit the islands, it brought winds that bent the tallest trees and rains that lashed down in grey sheets, pushing the sea to the heels of the monastery. That night, the islands were not a safe place for man or beast. The drenched monks settled the horses in the stables, locking the doors and barring the shutters moments before thunder hammered the sky and arrows of light shot across the darkness.
    Watching the storm from the door of the kitchens, Solon remembered Brother Renard. The young man had promised to return, but the blow to his head had made him forget. He had to get back to his old master’s cell right away, but with the water rising so quickly in the courtyard, finding another path around the monastery was prudent.
    He briefly contemplated drawing a way through the ferocious storm. Then he heard Brother Renard’s voice in his head, speaking words from long ago.
    ‘The powers of a monk of Era Mina must be used for the glory of God and the benefit of mankind, and never for selfish gain.’
    Trying to avoid getting drenched or drowned were not worthy reasons to indulge his fledgling abilities.
    The sealed, waterproof catacombs were the only way. Solon shivered. The labyrinth of tunnels snaking under the monastery and its outbuildings held the martyrs of the Order, monks murdered during the early days of the monastery when the surrounding land was a haven for Saxon raiders and Pictish barbarians. Venturing into the catacombs meant passing the chamber of crypts, and passing the chamber of crypts meant passing the mummified bodies of those monks watching over the martyrs as they made their way to Paradise.
    The nearest entrance to the catacombs was in the cellar under the kitchen. Solon pushed through the kitchen doors and down the cobbled steps to the cellar. He had to roll away two full wine barrels to get to the small oak door that was his entrance to the tunnels.
    He lifted an unlit torch from its bracket on the wall, dipped it in the bucket of sheep’s fat kept for this purpose and struck a flint. The flame filled the room with long shadows. Solon shoved open the door and, holding the torch high above his head, climbed down the steep, narrow steps into the catacombs.
    A rough layer of sand whispered beneath his feet. It had seeped into the tunnels from past storms and regular blustery island winds. At the first tunnel, Solon stopped and rolled the collar of his tunic up under his chin. He started forward in the direction of the north tower,