Willowmore
by M.E. Proctor
“I smell a rat,” the little monk said. The hem of his brown, shaggy robe brushed the old flagstones of the cloister. Each time he passed near the window of the chapter room, he sniffed and said, “I smell a rat.”
It was infuriating. The tall, elegant abbot slammed closed the book he was reading on the pulpit. It was a pity the community didn’t have an obligation of silence. “What’s possessing him? How many times is that?” He was about to go to the window and call out to the monk. “Kill the wretched animal, then, if you’re so bloody sensitive!”
Of course he couldn’t do it. The monk was just one of the dim-witted harmless creatures brought to the abbey because nobody knew what to do with them.
“How they can smell anything beside their own filth is beyond me.”
Monks. The creatures had a deeply ingrained fear of water.
“Blast!” the abbot shouted, his concentration was definitely gone. He was prone to distraction these days. He was always fidgety before the rains.
The rains. They would soon shroud the hills in blue vapor and fill the shallow rivers with mud. Then everything would settle down. The wildlife would get used to the liquid sky and all would find peace.
“And the monks will mercifully bathe,” the abbot sighed.
New beginnings. The cleansing of the land. The end of that nervous tension in his muscles. The abbot rubbed his left elbow, always the weak spot.
The clapping of the monk’s soles was fading in the distance. It would disappear completely when he turned the corner.
“Blessed be the Supreme One for small pleasures.” The abbot picked up a silver tumbler from a cupboard and filled it with cool water from a pitcher. The water was sweet. A natural phenomenon. They took the water from the abbey well, and it came up with a distinctly sugary taste. Not sticky, just sweet, and the taste disappeared when the water was boiled. Analysis showed there was nothing wrong with it, just an unusual crystalline deposit under the monastery. A luxury for a community otherwise deprived of any form of comfort whatsoever.
“Oh, let the rain come,” the abbot muttered. Four days, one week at the most, and relief would come.
There was the clacking of the soles again. “I smell a rat,” the monk said.
The abbot’s hand closed on the silver tumbler, and the metal gave under the pressure. It was only by an effort of will that he didn’t squeeze the precious object flat.
A novice was at the door. He had knocked lightly to announce his presence. “A visitor to see you, Honorable.”
“Give the name of the visitor when you announce him, boy,” the abbot said.
“It’s... the thief.” The novice’s plain and inexpressive face managed to convey reprobation.
Is it a measure of our success that we can instill a notion of right and wrong into the minds of these idiotic beings? the abbot thought.
The novice stepped aside and the abbot’s visitor walked in.
“Good afternoon, Aloysius. How unexpected.”
“I need your help, Honorable,” Aloysius Fence said.
“The monastery is supposed to help souls in need, not finance bankrupt smugglers.”
“Who says I’m bankrupt?”
Aloysius Fence was the abbot’s only friend in Willowmore. The smuggler wasn’t a tall man, but he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and sturdy legs. He might have been slightly over forty, but he was already balding and it made him look older.
“Didn’t you plan to leave these parts?” the abbot said.
“I will, Honorable. Very soon. Won’t you be sad to see me go?”
The abbot sometimes wished he were a castaway on a deserted island. The company of ignorant monks was worse than no company at all. Yes, he would miss Fence. “Stupidity is hard to bear, but I chose to live here. Wine?”
They drank in ceremonious silence. The abbot only had wine when Fence was around.
“This is not life, Honorable, this is punishment. I wonder what your crime was.”
“I’m a man without secrets, Aloysius. The books keep me in Willowmore, and they’re all I need to be perfectly content.”
“I smell a rat,” said the monk in the cloister.
“I hope he’s not referring to me,” Aloysius said.
The abbot laughed. “Or me. What do you need from me, friend?”
* * *
The library was below ground. The stairs wound down in a narrow spiral with a greasy rope for a handrail. Dirty light globes created fantastic shadows. The stairs seemed to go on forever.
“Isn’t it too humid for books down here?” Aloysius said, and his voice died in the darkness.
“The vault is dry and the temperature is constant. It’s ideal. The monks who built Willowmore found a small buried chapel: animist worship. When they removed the idols, they discovered the stairs and the vault. The pagans used the vault as a burial place. Their mummies are perfectly preserved, clothes and all. We keep them in a separate section. They cannot be moved. They rot as soon as they reach the surface.”
The vault was now a vast library: rows of volumes encased in glass boxes to protect them from dust; precious woodbooks displayed on lecterns, their pages engraved like the most delicate lace; neat stacks of thin metal-sheeted volumes, to be deciphered with a silver needle dipped in mercury; scrolls of fragile silk parchment preserved in oil, the text only readable as long as the silk was wet.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the abbot said, “but you’re mistaken. These wonders are worthless. You cannot sell without a buyer.”
“And nobody is interested?”
“I must be the only one. We live in a materialistic age.”
“Researchers, historians, collectors...” Aloysius said. “People with a passion.”
“Passion isn’t what it used to be,” the abbot said. “People look up the documents on screen. They don’t need to touch the books anymore. It’s all recorded, encoded, and stored in data bases for easy access.”
“All the books?”
“There is no secret library, Aloysius. The vault is so big it would take several lifetimes to read everything. An army of historians has filed and cross-referenced the lot. You said you needed my help. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
They were in a large circular room. The most precious treasures of Willowmore were all around them. The silk scrolls gleamed like jewels in their crystal containers; the pure amber oil shone like gold under the soft light from the antique chandelier. It was a place where one could believe in fairy tales. The abbot often retreated here.
“Twenty years ago, in Didrah, I met an old fisherman,” Aloysius said. “He was a magnificent storyteller and a very talented smuggler. He showed me a few useful tricks. One of his stories stuck with me. It had that fantastic quality that makes a lasting impression. I got caught by the accuracy of the details. Myths and tales are usually vague. This story was unusual.
“It was about a visitor. That was the word the fisherman used. He didn’t say trader, or space traveler, or ghost. He said visitor. A man, tall and slender, with gray hair and pale, amber eyes. He was dressed like the warlords of Early Empire times, with high boots and a leather jerkin. He carried a sword with a very ornate handle in the shape of a coiled rope. The fisherman said his voice was deep with an accent that could not be placed and, when he spoke, all would listen and know he was a master.”
“Did your fisherman friend meet this man?” the abbot said.
“No. It happened well before his time. His father told him the story, and his grandfather told his father, and so on.”
“The details might have been added over time,” the abbot said. “Each storyteller adds embellishing details, and it turns into a saga.”
“Let me finish before clobbering me with your rationalities. One morning, the visitor took the villagers to the bank of the river Norges. He showed them where to dig a hole and they uncovered a flat black stone. The visitor used the handle of his sword to break the stone. It contained a pyramidal crystal. Perfect of shape and purity. The man said it was a key that opened one of the three books of knowledge.
“The next morning, he took the villagers to Byrd Island, upriver. There’s a small cave on the island where children often play. The floor is white sand and crushed shells. That’s where the book was hidden. It was big and square, about two feet wide. The cover was silvery blue like the feathers of the kingfisher, as smooth as baby skin and yet as hard as stone.
“When the visitor inserted the crystal in a hole in the spine, the cover turned to mist. He told the villagers to pass their hands through the mist. They were afraid, and none of them dared do it. The visitor was obviously a powerful sorcerer. When an old man tried and they saw that nothing happened to him, they all did as they were told. That’s how they learned to write.”
The abbot chuckled. Aloysius Fence was a good storyteller. He knew when to pause for dramatic effect. “You see the inconsistencies in the story.”
“Writing existed long before the times of the warlords, and the visitor’s clothes seem to indicate the events happened during that period,” Aloysius said.
“What do you make of it?”
“The visitor might have been a time traveler.”
“Sure, and how did he learn what he’s teaching to his own ancestors?” The abbot wagged a finger. “Circular logic, Aloysius.”
“Not an issue. The visitor could have been an alien.”
“The alien race or the benevolent gods that bring us knowledge are a recurrent theme in popular myths,” the abbot said. “As if we couldn’t have invented these things all by ourselves. I am religious, but I believe in human progress. Don’t you? I understand why you’re drawn to the tale, Aloysius, but what’s the value of these books of knowledge if you don’t know who the visitor was?”
“There is more, Honorable. The Norges river really exists and so does Byrd Island. I’ve been there. I walked in the sand cave.”
“A good lie is always based on truth,” the abbot said.
“I also found the sword.”
The abbot straightened in his chair.
“When people, who could not possibly have known the fisherman told me the same story, I looked at it differently. I came upon the sword five years ago,” Aloysius said.
“Where?”
“In Sigyllia Major. I stole it.”
The abbot didn’t flinch. One didn’t spend a hundred years with temperamental morons without acquiring a minimum of control. “The sword gives some credence to the books,” he said.
Aloysius Fence’s coat had deep pockets, and he searched a while before retrieving a black pouch. The abbot’s heart missed a couple of beats. There they were. Two crystals in the smuggler’s hand. One of them was cubic with rounded corners. The other was a perfect pyramid.
“Did you steal those too?” the abbot said.
Aloysius Fence laughed. “They’re like your books, Honorable. They’re worthless.”
“There are no books in this library that could accommodate your crystals, Aloysius. Didn’t you scan the records? They show holograms of everything we store in Willowmore. What do you expect to find that the records don’t show?”
“Record keepers are more interested in the contents of the books than in their covers or their spines,” Aloysius said.
The abbot sighed. “You’re almost as stubborn as I am. Please stay as long as you wish.”
* * *
Weeks went by. The rains came. Dust was washed away and everybody breathed more freely. The abbot enjoyed the smuggler’s company. He wished he could slow down his search to make him stay longer. It was a shame that the record-keeping was so good. Aloysius would soon leave.
“If the books are not here, I have no idea where they might be,” Aloysius said.
“Maybe they’re still buried,” the abbot said.
“It would mean they’ve never been used. What knowledge could they contain?”
“As it must be something we ignore, it also must be something we can’t quite imagine.”
“Something good.”
“Maybe,” the abbot said.
Aloysius was playing with the crystals. “I’m not really disappointed. It would have been sad to break the tale. If I don’t find anything, my dream is intact. I’ll keep looking for the books and the third crystal, and maybe one day I’ll find them.”
“Our religious order is a great collector of manuscripts. Interesting finds are sent to Willowmore. You’ll always be welcome here.”
“Do you want to keep the crystals?”
It was very tempting. “They’re yours, Aloysius. They’re the stuff of your dreams. I have no right to take them from you, but I would love to see the sword.”
“Historians think it might have belonged to an early Deacon Knight,” Aloysius said. “It’s in great condition. No rust and no dents. It looks almost new, like it’s never been used.”
The abbot ran a finger on the blade and followed the rope design that ended in a knot at the top of the handle. It was a magnificent weapon. The long blade and the handle balanced perfectly. “Wonderful workmanship.” It was hard to refrain from holding it as it should be held, ready for assault or defense.
“It’s yours,” Aloysius said. “You didn’t want the crystals, but I can see you’re quite taken by this. Please accept it. As a gift.”
* * *
Aloysius Fence left in the evening. The abbot knew he would never see the smuggler again. The sword was on the pulpit, in the chapter room. It caught the last rays of the setting sun and blazed red. The abbot shivered. Never used? If Aloysius only knew... The abbot’s hands were in the sleeves of his robe. He would not be able to keep them there much longer.
He checked that the heavy door was locked, and he closed the shutters. The monks were supposed to be asleep, but the creatures could not be trusted. The room was dark, except for a thin candle on the pulpit.
The abbot removed the rope holding his robe and let it fall to the stone floor. He stood naked. The candle light shone on the two silver rings on his left hand. He removed them.
Now he was ready.
The sword handle fit his left hand perfectly. The rope design embraced his fingers and warmed under his touch. The memory of the crippling fight that had mangled his arm so long ago was remarkably fresh. The left hand was no longer his fighting hand. He switched to the right hand and the rope design immediately adjusted to his fingers. When he lifted the blade, his muscles tensed and his body automatically found the fighter’s stance. He moved slowly, gracefully, and aimed at his shadow in a make-believe duel.
“Yes, you are mine,” the abbot whispered. “You should never have been taken from me.” He remembered the revelation of the second crystal, when the book had freed men from their fear of gods. When they stopped fearing him and a thief stole his sword. He chuckled. Now another thief had returned it.
A metal trunk contained his belongings. He pushed aside the neatly folded clerical robes and selected a pair of boots, black trousers, black shirt and a leather jerkin. Only the raincoat was not part of Aloysius Fence’s story.
“Because it seldom rained in Didrah,” he muttered.
He tied his gray hair in a loose ponytail and checked that the sword was secure on his belt. The candle was almost out. It would soon drown in its own wax. The last sputter of light shone in the abbot’s amber eyes.
The cloister was deserted. The abbot walked to the entry of the buried chapel and went down the stairs leading to the vault. Some mummies were stored in metal drawers. The tallest ones were chained to the walls. The abbot had made his choice long ago. He removed the chain from the mummy placed closest to the door. It had long gray hair and a thin hooked nose. In profile, it looked a bit like him. It would do the job.
Aloysius Fence would never know how close he had been to the third crystal. It was right there, encased in a black stone at the foot of the stairs. Men weren’t ready for the third revelation yet. How could they comprehend how low the human race had fallen, how much knowledge they had lost, how dark these centuries were compared to the brilliance of the past? The past that the abbot came from, a time traveler indeed, just not the kind Aloysius imagined.
The return of the sword was a sign that he should move on and look for hopes of revival away from Willowmore, further in time and geography. He used the sword to break the black stone, and pocketed the crystal. The book was buried in a safe place. The best smuggler in the galaxy could not find it. The abbot shifted the weight of the mummy from his left shoulder onto his right and went up the stairs. He would miss the Willowmore library, but he wouldn’t miss the filthy monks.
* * *
“I smell a rat,” the little monk said.
For once, the entire congregation agreed. A heavy stench hung over Willowmore. It came from the chapter room. The abbot didn’t look sick, yet he had died. A twist of fate.
But how could his body have rotted away so fast?
Copyright © 2023 by M.E. Proctor
