Easten

 

 

His meagre cloak was no defence against the torrential rain which plastered it so tightly to his body that it could have been an extra skin: though even that might have been welcome if it had also provided an extra layer of insulation or weatherproofing. Leaning heavily on his crook, the traveller paused and tried once more to peer further than a stone's cast in any direction.
Below his feet the ground dropped sharply, crumbling in a treacherous manner and spooling away under the relentless pressure of the rain, decanting darkly into the rising waters of the river which formed the northern boundary of Mercia. On a day with better visibility he would have been able to make out the opposite bank of the river, less than a mile away even at this, the widest point of the estuary.
There was a vague suggestion of a defined shape at the corner of his vision - possibly the shelter he sought, sanctuary from the storm. Screwing his eyes tighter against the stair rods which almost blinded him, he staggered a few yards further. There was only one logical place to build a warning tower; it had to be close to the western point of the promontory, guiding shipping looking for anchorage in the Pool. The monastery - and the monks who provided the ferry crossing - must therefore be close at hand.
He found the track by the simple method of stepping from a tussock and finding his foot sunk to the knee in liquid mud. Two parallel ruts stretched left and right before him. Turning left, with the river on his right hand, he slopped slightly uphill towards the barely perceived shadow which he trusted would resolve into a building of some sort.
It could have been his imagination, but he sensed the slightest lessening of power in the driving wind and the rain swept before it. The darkness at the limit of his field of vision grew and solidified into a regular artefact of some sort: as it became a mid-field and finally near-distance object, he identified it as a solid, rough-built wall of dressed stone, evidently a man-made structure. Eventually he was able to lean against it, and the near-absence of the howling gale as he stood in its lea was a relief in itself.
"Now all you have to do" he adjured himself " ... is find a gate, and hope there may be an ostiary who is alert enough to hear you, and sober enough to let you in."
Laying aside his staff, he wrung one-handed what excess water he could from his hair and beard. He replaced his largely ineffective head covering and felt his way along the blank wall to the nearest corner. Despite the difficulty of drying himself one-handed, he seemed unwilling or unable to use both hands for the purpose. His left hand and arm were immobile, at an odd angle, but from the curious way he held the cloak a chance observer would have been unable to decide if this was due to an injury or a burden.
 "Advenio ... advenio!"
The entrance gate faced east, protected from the worst ravages of the gale making its first landfall after several thousand miles across a cruel and frozen sea, but after the brief respite he had experienced in the lea of the southern wall, the supplicant had barely strength to remain upright as he pounded with his staff to beg sanctuary for the night.
A light snick and the briefest of glances through the eye space was followed by the welcome sound of bolts being released and the gate itself opened.
" Deo gratias! "  was all he could manage as he stumbled, almost swooned, across the threshold and leaned heavily, unashamedly, on the doorward of the evening. His benefactor guided him in silence to a stool: a second monk, who had materialised just as silently, turned without prompting and soon returned with warm, dry towels.
As he rubbed a semblance of life and warmth back into his limbs, he wondered if he had chanced to beg succour from an order of Trappists, or perhaps another order who had embraced a vow of silence; neither of those who had received him showed any curiosity or inclination to instigate conversation.
An older, tonsured figure appeared silently. Although neither of the monks present could possibly have seen him approaching from behind where they stood, they seemed to sense his advent and moved simultaneously each to opposite sides of the entry nave to stand in the semi-shadows.
"Thank you, Brother Gwyn, Brother Hywl. You may both retire: I shall observe the remainder of the night watch."
Both the attentive statues inclined their heads briefly and moved off side by side, automatically matching step, still without saying a word. Their leather sandals flapped briefly for a few seconds; after a few seconds the quiet snick of a door latch was sensed rather than heard. When he stopped towelling his frozen ears, the only sound appeared to be his own breathing, which was loud in his ears due to the vigour and energy he had just been applying.
"My thanks, Father, ... " he began to stutter through still-frozen lips. With a light smile and a gentle shake of his head, the cleric silenced him.
"Do not overexert yourself: I can see that you have endured bitter exposure in this late autumn storm! Time for civilities once you are somewhat restored, with dry clothing and what simple food we can provide at this hour!"
"My name is Prior Asaph," he continued.
"Brother Gwyn, the ostiary, and Brother Hywl are young novices from Wales; they have recently joined the monastery. Their command of both Latin and English is still ... somewhat uncertain. I imagine that this is why they have opted to remain silent in your presence, rather than any monastic rule - or any lack of courtesy on their part!"
With a simple hand gesture, Prior Asaph indicated that the unexpected guest should precede him out of the room, along the same passage which Gwyn and Hywl had used. Unseen hands opened a door as they reached the end of the corridor: they entered a kitchen which to his still-chilled body felt as warm as one of the lesser punishment cells of Hell were reputed to be. A selection of clean, dry clothing in varied sizes was laid out for him to change into. Warm bread, some cheese, and a pitcher containing what proved to be a sweet, mulled wine were on a table to one side of the bright fire in the hearth.
An acolyte - presumably the same one who had opened the door on his approach - came to assist the removal of sodden outdoor clothing. As the cloak was taken from his shoulders he tensed instinctively, wrapping his left arm more securely around what he had been carrying, protecting as well as possible from the worst effects of the foul weather he had stoically endured throughout his journey.
The burden was cocooned in layer upon layer of expensive, rare leathers and waterproofing, unmistakeably a lute of rare, exceptional quality. This much was obvious even without closer inspection: it was just as certain that - in the right hands - this instrument would have a clarity and beauty of tone which could easily make legends of both the lute and whoever was privileged to play upon it.
Prior Asaph's eyes were ancient, but missed nothing. He nodded, almost as if to himself.
"I can see that your tale is not a short one, " he said. "Quite clearly it must wait until you are rested and restored, so that you may do it the justice it deserves. At least," and he paused for a moment, an implied challenge in his tone "  -  may I assume that you are both willing and able to tell the tale, my son?"
The response was a grateful, exhausted nod of acquiescence.
"I am already indebted to you for your charity this night, Prior Asaph. It would indeed be churlish and a slur on the name Easten which I am proud to bear if I were to refuse. I thank you for your indulgence, as I have travelled far these last few days, and will gladly repay your hospitality with an account of the history of the lute Perori, her powers, and  the reason for my journey.... "