enveloped them both. “They are both Pagans, Brother. Perhaps it is God’s plan to bring them to Christ together and, before our Lord, I still say the girl has a good heart.”
“If she has such a good heart, where is she now?” Cuillin peered into the shelter—the boy seemed to be sleeping, but the girl had disappeared.
“Thank you, Brother.” Gunnhilde twitched the cloth from Cuillin’s hands and folded it. “I said she might go after helping the boy to drink.” Was there harm in such a small lie? “Do not concern yourself, she’ll return when she’s hungry.”
Laenna’s grave was only a small mound, but through the days since she’d buried her sister, Signy had slowly covered it with a blanket of white pebbles. She’d carried them back from the beach in the skirt of her tunic when the newcomers sent her down to guard the salt-making fire or to gather seaweed. But to mark the grave for all time, she’d rolled a small boulder to the head with much effort. This was her sister’s pillow stone.
In the last of the warm season, the meadow flowers had begun to seed. Each day Signy plucked more of the seed heads and scattered them in a widening circle around where Laenna lay. Motherwort, hound’s-tongue, sweet-smelling melilot, red valerian, and goldenrod. Digging the seeds in with a stick, she would often pray aloud, mostly to Cruach, but she invoked Tarannis, too, and, just to be sure, the Wanderer.
“Do you see us, me and my sister? In your names, I ask these flowers to grow for her, and I ask all that is good in creation to remember Laenna for all time and note well where she lies.”
Had Laenna died, had all these people died because her clan had not known about the Wanderer and therefore not appeased the star? Signy would not make that mistake again; she might not like all of the newcomers, but she did not want anyone else to die, especially not the boy. He was awake much more now, and he’d smiled at her today; he even seemed pleased when she fed him or tended to his body, though they’d both been embarrassed when she’d cleaned him like a baby this morning. Still, Signy hoped he liked her even a little bit, because boys were more fun to play with than girls. Her brothers mostly had been kind, but Laenna often made trouble for Signy and they’d fought a great deal—and now she was gone.
Brother Cuillin shaded his eyes. He could see the native girl in the distance, and beyond her, the Pagan stones; it was a source of irritation, always, that they still stood, but other things were more important now.
“She’s at that mound again.”
He was working with Brother Simon and Brother Anselm. One by one they were collecting the stones of the chapel from where they lay among the grass.
Simon had more natural compassion than Cuillin. “She seems sorrowful each time she returns—perhaps someone she knows lies there. Help me, Brother.”
Cuillin’s back was aching, though it was yet early. Steeling himself, he bent to grasp the lintel stone. For you, Lord. My pain is only a shadow of yours . . .
Brother Anselm staggered past, his shoulders bowed beneath a yoke from which two buckets hung filled with stones. Tipping the load onto a growing pile, he trudged back toward the others.
Cuillin admired his brother’s spirit—Anselm was patient, as stoic as a mule, though once he’d been the most accomplished illuminator in Findnar’s Scriptorium.
“Two won’t shift that”—Anselm gestured to the lintel—“let me help.” He dropped the yoke from his shoulders.
Cuillin knew his brother was right; another back, another pair of arms might make the task possible. What difference did it make if the stones were large or small—this was all God’s work. Gratefully, he intoned the sacred name. “Therefore in the name of Christ our Lord, one, two, heave!”
In a line, the three monks hoisted the stone to their shoulders. Their legs trembled beneath the weight, since all three had led
“If she has such a good heart, where is she now?” Cuillin peered into the shelter—the boy seemed to be sleeping, but the girl had disappeared.
“Thank you, Brother.” Gunnhilde twitched the cloth from Cuillin’s hands and folded it. “I said she might go after helping the boy to drink.” Was there harm in such a small lie? “Do not concern yourself, she’ll return when she’s hungry.”
Laenna’s grave was only a small mound, but through the days since she’d buried her sister, Signy had slowly covered it with a blanket of white pebbles. She’d carried them back from the beach in the skirt of her tunic when the newcomers sent her down to guard the salt-making fire or to gather seaweed. But to mark the grave for all time, she’d rolled a small boulder to the head with much effort. This was her sister’s pillow stone.
In the last of the warm season, the meadow flowers had begun to seed. Each day Signy plucked more of the seed heads and scattered them in a widening circle around where Laenna lay. Motherwort, hound’s-tongue, sweet-smelling melilot, red valerian, and goldenrod. Digging the seeds in with a stick, she would often pray aloud, mostly to Cruach, but she invoked Tarannis, too, and, just to be sure, the Wanderer.
“Do you see us, me and my sister? In your names, I ask these flowers to grow for her, and I ask all that is good in creation to remember Laenna for all time and note well where she lies.”
Had Laenna died, had all these people died because her clan had not known about the Wanderer and therefore not appeased the star? Signy would not make that mistake again; she might not like all of the newcomers, but she did not want anyone else to die, especially not the boy. He was awake much more now, and he’d smiled at her today; he even seemed pleased when she fed him or tended to his body, though they’d both been embarrassed when she’d cleaned him like a baby this morning. Still, Signy hoped he liked her even a little bit, because boys were more fun to play with than girls. Her brothers mostly had been kind, but Laenna often made trouble for Signy and they’d fought a great deal—and now she was gone.
Brother Cuillin shaded his eyes. He could see the native girl in the distance, and beyond her, the Pagan stones; it was a source of irritation, always, that they still stood, but other things were more important now.
“She’s at that mound again.”
He was working with Brother Simon and Brother Anselm. One by one they were collecting the stones of the chapel from where they lay among the grass.
Simon had more natural compassion than Cuillin. “She seems sorrowful each time she returns—perhaps someone she knows lies there. Help me, Brother.”
Cuillin’s back was aching, though it was yet early. Steeling himself, he bent to grasp the lintel stone. For you, Lord. My pain is only a shadow of yours . . .
Brother Anselm staggered past, his shoulders bowed beneath a yoke from which two buckets hung filled with stones. Tipping the load onto a growing pile, he trudged back toward the others.
Cuillin admired his brother’s spirit—Anselm was patient, as stoic as a mule, though once he’d been the most accomplished illuminator in Findnar’s Scriptorium.
“Two won’t shift that”—Anselm gestured to the lintel—“let me help.” He dropped the yoke from his shoulders.
Cuillin knew his brother was right; another back, another pair of arms might make the task possible. What difference did it make if the stones were large or small—this was all God’s work. Gratefully, he intoned the sacred name. “Therefore in the name of Christ our Lord, one, two, heave!”
In a line, the three monks hoisted the stone to their shoulders. Their legs trembled beneath the weight, since all three had led
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