Wee Monk's Tale E-Book

Rene' van Zyl

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A MYSTERY, A QUEST, A COUPLE OF GUTSY TEENAGERS AGAINST ALL ODDS
795 AD: A time of superstitious beliefs and dangerous forces. When Viking marauders burn the monastery on the Scottish Island, Iona, the orphaned Shaughn (14) is forced to flee the only home he ever knew in a desperate attempt to save a precious altar Bible. Not willing to be left behind, his cripple step-brother Connor (14) (with grand illusions of becoming a knight) and Heather (13), a superstitious, street-wise gypsy girl, accompany him on the adventure of a lifetime.
Hot on the heels of the relic follows the fierce Viking, Thorvald, who is convinced that the Bible contains a secret recipe (a potion for eternal life). The escaping teenagers are cast into every imaginable medieval drama, from a bewitched castle to an encounter with a nasty Druid and even weird Viking Tournament Things.
Shaughn, who passes the time reading Latin (a super-weird hobby for even a medieval teenager!) is clearly not equipped for this mission. Meanwhile, the cynical Connor, who harbours aspirations of becoming a famous knight, notwithstanding a lame foot and serious lack of valour, appoints himself bodyguard to Shaughn. But the brothers can barely stay on top of the spirited horse they fled on!
Their only hope lies in the quarrelsome gypsy, Heather. Half Spanish and severely traumatised by the abuse she suffered at the hands of her stepparents, her single wish is to find her mother who, according to her, was abducted by fairies when Heather was 6 years old. Skilled as an archer, she saves the naïve boys from various predicaments but her superstitious nature soon drives them crazy. Shaughn, who is focused on his mission, is determined to educate her, whilst Connor finds it hard not to believe all her weird superstitions.
As if it isn’t enough that they are being harassed by a group of Vikings and their nasty offspring, an ‘undercover’ witch and each other, the teenagers also have to deal with Heather’s drunken step-father (an ex-communicated monk who wants the Bible’s bejewelled cover), the midget druid and his ogre-like twin brothers who plan to sacrifice the kids on the night of the all-dead, and an eccentric Pilgrim who appears and disappears like a ghost. Their greatest enemy, however, might just be their own insecurities.
Through this journey of outsmarting medieval foes, the bickering children, barely equipped to deal with the threatening choices of real life, touch the lives of many hurt and lost people and also find real friendship. The journey teaches them to trust God unconditionally and to find the heroes inside themselves.

A note on the Altar Bible: The Book of Kells.
Fact: The Gospel of Colmcille is considered the most important treasure contained in the Trinity College Museum, Dublin. During the Viking raids on Iona in 795, the Bible disappeared and mysteriously reappeared at the monastery of Kells, Ireland. How it ended up there nobody knows...
Fiction: Well, maybe three canny teenagers rescued it!

Leseprobe

Rene' van Zyl

Wee Monk's Tale

The Secret Of Immortality

I dedicate this book to my husband, Anton and my three kids, Sean, Michelle and Chantal who inspire me to do great things. BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Author's note

AUTHOR’S NOTE

A great mystery surrounds The Book of Kells (a.k.a. the Gospel of Colmcille/ St. Columba) one of the most renowned books in the history of the world that now safely resides in the Trinity College Museum, Dublin. It is an eighth century illustrated version of the four Gospels of the Holy Bible. Over the years this Latin Bible mysteriously survived the hands of thieves and Medieval Viking raids. How? In this wee book, you might just find the answer as you venture into the superstitious world of the Middle Ages and follow the adventurous journey of three teenagers who dared to take a leap of faith.

    I dedicate this book to my three children, Sean-Jacques, Michelle and Chantal who inspire me with their weird and wonderful imaginations. May God bless you on your journey through life; may He give you faith to move mountains and loving compassion for all of His creatures. I need to thank my husband, Anton, for taking this journey through life with me and for teaching me how to be a blessing to the world. Thanks to all my friends who bless me daily with their unconditional love. Lastly I would like to thank God for being my Creator, my Mentor and Friend.  God bless! René van Zyl

AUTHOR BIO:  RENé VAN ZYL

René is a South-African born writer with an Honours degree in Communications, with majors in Journalism and Filmatography. Her husband, Anton, an ex-engineer, is now a fulltime reverend. Her children, Sean-Jacques (27, who is severely brain injured), Michelle (25) and Chantal (23) are her inspiration. She has spent four years researching and writing her first novel, a teenage action/ adventure, Wee Monk’s Tale. She’s been fascinated by the middle Ages since childhood and loves everything about the British Isles. She also writes children’s theatre (puppetry) and community plays combining old Biblical stories with modern day music to spark people’s interest in the Bible. She aspires to make God a reality in the daily lives of people. She has published nine Afrikaans novels (Lapa Publishers in South Africa).  

A Place in Time

A PLACE IN TIME…781 AD

Rain was pouring down on the small Island of Iona as two Viking longboats, loaded with bloodthirsty Norsemen, some on horseback, washed onto its sandy beach. The night was black. Lightning ripped open the dark sky as the marauders hustled towards the small wooden church. Reaching the building a colossal Viking on his warhorse crashed open the church doors. The assembly of monks and commoners panicked and screamed as the Seawolves penetrated the Holy place. Men, women and children desperately fled before the berserkers as swords and spears hacked down on them. Horses trampled on screaming people.

    A red-bearded Norseman, laughing like a demon from hell, set fire to the tapestries against the walls. Brother Breasal, one of the dedicated monks at the monastery, helplessly watched as a young fair-headed boy, about 14 years of age, tried to escape through a back door. The bearded Viking hurled his spear at him but missed. Brother Breasal cried, “Run, Shaughn! Protect the Scriptures!”

    Brother Breasal pushed Shaughn out of the way and accidentally ripped the boy’s shirt open. He saw a little red birthmark on the boy’s shoulder in the shape of the Holy Cross. The monk flung himself in the way of the oncoming spear. The boy scrambled over the floor, trying to reach the wounded monk. He cried out, “Brother! No!” The Viking was suddenly next to him. He lifted his sword to end the boy’s life. Breasal cried out as he saw the Viking hacking his sword down on the boy… Thunder and lightning gave one mighty growl outside.

    Brother Breasal startled up in frenzy as the lightning gave its threatening roar. He realised he had had a terrible nightmare, but he was now wide-awake in his modest wooden bed in the dormitory of the monastery of Iona. The storm raged on in the darkness outside. The dream was so real; he could almost feel the scorching heat of the surrounding flames and smell the burning timber.

    Cold sweat dripped from his forehead and his clothes were soaking wet. Brother Breasal suddenly leaped out of bed, “Dear Father, the Chronicles!” 

    He put on his shoes, snatched his black cape and with his oil lamp, hastened to the Scriptorum to make sure that the precious handwritten manuscripts were all safe.

    Brother Breasal crossed a short hallway and ran up the stairs to the Scriptorum. He entered hastily and bumped into a surprised, dark-hooded figure that was clinging to an altar Bible of calfskin.

    Brother Breasal, spooked, lifted his oil lamp and recognized the thirty year old Brother Dominick. His hood fell back over his shoulder to reveal his bleak, bald head. He was a tall and scrawny person with high cheekbones and had the eerie look of an undertaker. A muscle under his right eye twitched nervously.

    The dedicated Brother Breasal, who expected the same devotion from his fellow brothers at the monastery, frowned, not understanding what was happening, “Dominick? What are you doing here at this hour… and with the Gospel of Colmcille?”

    Dominick clutched the book closer to his heart. He was extremely disappointed to see the Abbot. “Brother Breasal! Why am I not surprised?  Don’t you ever sleep?”

    Breasal felt icy fingers clutching his heart, “God woke me with a terrible dream … obviously to make me aware of something bad going on in the Monastery… What are you doing with our Gospel of St. Columba?”

    Dominick sighed dramatically and snarled at Breasal, “Saint Columba! Bha! I am so tired of living pure and poor like all you saints! For once I would like to know what it is to be rich and sinful!”

    “You chose this life of chastity! You decided to serve God,” said Brother Breasal.

    “Now I’m un-choosing it! This book will make me rich.” He pushed the much shorter Brother Breasal out of the way and headed for the door with the jewel-covered book.

    “I would like to see you try! I gave twenty years of my life working on that book... and it is far from finished!”  Brother Breasal pulled him back by the robe, which was strange in itself, because monks never ever used violence of any kind.

   Dominick charged Brother Breasal with a short knife. Brother Breasal sidestepped instinctively and much to his own surprise, he punched Dominick in the face. His oversized golden ring, set with a roughly cut rose quarts stone, ripped open the flesh of the stunned Dominick’s cheekbone. He dropped the weighty book and stumbled out of the Scriptorum, clutching his heavily bleeding wound. Brother Breasal took a moment to regain his dignity.

    Dominick turned around, “I’ll be back for the book! I will do what it takes to get it... I could be anyone passing through here in future. And what’s it to you anyway? God doesn’t want riches!” Then he disappeared down the dark stairway, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

    Brother Breasal’s trembling hand crossed his chest in prayer. He anxiously counted the other scrolls stacked on the wooden shelves. Then he softly touched the finely crafted cover of the Gospel of Colmcille, decorated with thin gold leaf and various valuable stones: rubies, amethysts, moonstones and tiger-eye jaspers. The large altar Bible was neatly bound with leather strips and contained the unique artwork the monks of Iona were famous for: elaborated letters creatively woven into a colourful fantasy of dancing lions, dragons, birds and saintly figures. When finished, in another ten years or so, it would contain the four Gospels of the Holy Bible. It would be a masterpiece.

    “Thank, God!” Brother Breasal sighed. “This Bible should be preserved for many ages to come!” He then lit some more candles on his table and sat down. “No more shut-eye for me tonight! Might as well work.” He took a clean piece of dried calfskin, dipped his feather pen in an inkwell and shaped an elaborate letter on the page. His head was still spinning from the dream and he wondered what the Lord wanted to tell him with such a dreadful vision. And who was the little boy in the dream: Shaughn? Outside the storm roared angrily and pushed against the wooden windows of the Scriptorum.

    At that very same time in the village of Iona, not far from the monastery, another person was having a ‘nightmare’, but in his case, it was only too real… (Years later Brother Breasal would recall that strange night. He would then say, “One should remember that our people live in a superstitious Dark Age. They do not always see the greater meaning of events like we do… we who have seen the Light…”)

    “Dear Heavenly Father! No!” The voice of the twenty-year old terrified Angus tore through the stormy night as he stumbled out of his thatched dwelling. The black maws of the medieval darkness swallowed up the dim light of the candle behind him. Rain lashed down mercilessly on the trembling young man dressed in the brown clothes of a humble monastery farm hand. A fluttering owl, frightened out of its hiding place, startled the disheartened man even more. 

    “What’s wrong, Angus?” his elderly Irish neighbour yelled. He grabbed the soaked, fair-haired Angus by the shoulders to get a response out of him, “Ye look like death itself!”

    The young man’s tears washed over his cheeks together with the torrential rain. It was as if the very skies wept with him. “He’s dead!” Angus sobbed, “My newborn’s dead!”

    Lightning slashed open the skies above the Scottish island, shooting bright rays of light into the darkness. Angus covered his ears to block out the overwhelming cracking of the thunder as well as his woman’s screams coming from inside the hut. Then for a few seconds when nature itself took time for a breather, another sound echoed from within. It was the fresh, innocent cry of a baby inhaling his first breath of life. The father hurried back into the hut where the light of the candle reflected the hope in his eyes.

    “Did he make it? Is he alive?” he gasped, anxiously looking from the elderly midwife to the healthy, screaming baby in her arms. His heart leaped with joy. He grabbed hold of the baby and tenderly held the barely covered child against his chest. “Thank you, Jesus! My boy is alive!”

     An anxious silence greeted him. The other two stared at him. He tore his eyes from the fair-headed boy in his arms and frowned at his troubled wife.

    “What is wrong, woman?” The terrified look in her eyes smothered the flickering hope in his. “What?”

    Slowly the midwife lifted a blanket to reveal another baby. It was the first one: the stillborn. Then all three pairs of eyes looked upon the screaming baby with terror.

    “Please, no…!” The father nearly dropped the baby. He quickly put it down on the mother’s bed as if it was cursed. Everybody kept looking at the screaming infant, not knowing what to make of it.

    “Twins!” he stammered the words, “But… Surely …Maybe, God wanted it so …”

    “A bad omen,” the midwife hastily blocked his shaky thoughts. “A double bad omen: One dying while crawling out of his mother’s womb; the other born with the mark of the devil himself.”  With bloodstained hands from the birth process, she turned the baby around so that Angus could see the little red birthmark on the back of his shoulder. It was in the shape of a perfect little cross. The midwife’s bloody fingers left a red stain on the baby’s white skin when she rapidly withdrew her hand from the supposedly cursed infant.

    “I can feel the life being sucked out of me…!” the mother cried, “I’m losing too much blood. I am cursed! Cursed for carrying this bad omen! Kill the child!” she yelled hysterically. “Kill him! Or this house will be cursed forever!”

    Pulling out his knife Angus turned to the crying baby. The midwife tried to calm the pale mother while tending to her bleeding. She glanced at the hesitating Angus. “Kill him. You are angering the forest gods!” Her voice was heartless and cold, “The baby’s cries will wake the forces of the night.”

    Angus held onto his knife. He was but a commoner: a grad Fhéne, an illiterate man, who worked on the lands of the monastery. What should he do? His wife was dying. The raging forces of the night were looking for blood; for victims to consume. The woman he loved was fighting against the grasping arms of death. The baby was still crying. The father’s head wanted to explode. He grabbed the baby and stumbled outside, not wanting to hear his wife’s wailing and not wanting to kill the baby inside the dwelling…

    “God,” he whispered while rain mercilessly poured down on them, “What must I do? Is this the devil’s work?” At the very same moment there was an ear-splitting clap of thunder and bright streaks of lightning lit up the darkness. On lifting his eyes, the discouraged man saw his answer: on the far end of the island in the flickering light of the storm the monastery’s solid walls were cast starkly against the night’s backdrop.

    Without hesitating the father hurried to the monastery. The baby in his arms fell silent and the wind burrowed its ice-cold fingers into every opening of the baby’s shabby wrappings: trying to freeze the very breath of the tender mortal.

Inside the monastery it was dark as usual for that time of night, except for the flickering lamp in the Scriptorum. As the Lord wanted, Brother Breasal was still burning the midnight oil, working on the precious Altar Bible, the Gospel of Colmcille (or St. Columba as that holy man was also called). With painstaking precision he drew the detailed lines of each elaborate letter. He read the next part of the text he was about to copy. It was the words the Prophet Zechariah used as prophesy on his son, John the Baptist, in the Gospel of St. Luke in the Holy Bible.

    Brother Breasal pondered for a moment, “John the Baptist… Shaughn, an Irish John?” He kept on reading, “And thou, child, shalt be called the prophet of the Highest: for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare the way for him; to give knowledge of salvation unto his people through the forgiveness of their sins…”

    He had only just started on the first intricate letter, when his nervous heart again violently leaped in his chest. There was an urgent banging on the monastery’s door. Immediately thinking of his dream, he feared he truly had a vision of a coming Viking attack! Surely there had been no signs of those Seawolves close to here in ages? But who would be awake at such a ghostly hour? Would Dominick have the nerve to come back?

    “It cannot be a good sign,” he thought. The rain and the intense lightning outside did not help much to still his nerves! He drew the sign of the Holy Cross over his forehead and chest with his right hand, while praying for the Lord’s protection.

    Feeling more at ease, but still shaking, he then took the oil lamp and hurried towards the large wooden door of the Church from where he had heard the urgent banging. With his heart still beating wildly he opened the doors. Darkness greeted him with an ice-cold breath. Seeing nothing, only the rain pouring down and splashing onto the church floor, he started closing the door. The door got stuck somehow and would not move an inch. Frowning, then he bent over to use more force and it was then that his eyes fell on the little wet bundle at his feet.

    He gasped for breath. What he saw, pained his heart so much that he totally forgot to be afraid any longer: a baby in his skinny draping was lying there - quite dead. ‘Who could survive such a cold and wet night?’ Brother Breasal thought. He quickly picked up the little bundle and closed the door.

    When they were safely inside, he unwrapped the baby and felt for a pulse. Again he gasped for breath: the same red birthmark that had been on the shoulder of the boy in his nightmare was on the shoulder of this baby. He frantically felt for a heartbeat, found it and made for the infirmary. One of the villagers’ wives had given birth to a baby just a few hours before. The Lord’s timing was great as usual. The woman would surely have enough milk to nurse both the children.

    In the infirmary she took the abandoned baby in her arms. “May it be as the Lord wishes,” the twenty-year old, red-haired Irish mother, Lily, mumbled in a sleepy voice. Her green eyes watched as the baby’s lips sought their way to her breast. She held him closer and he hungrily latched onto her nipple. Smiling the mother looked into the boy’s eyes and said, “If the Lord wants to bless me with two boys, so it shall be. We live in troubled times. No man knows if he would survive childhood or let alone if he would get much older than thirty summers.” She lovingly stroked the reddish, deformed left foot of her own baby who was asleep next to her. “Better to have more than one male child to ensure the future of God’s people, the Irish,” she said.

    Breasal smiled tiredly, “Can we name him Shaughn…an Irish John?”

    “It would be just grand... God is gracious,” said Lily.  

    So it came to be that the orphan child in a matter of hours got another chance at life and at a family. Unlike the fair-headed orphan, the other child was a red-haired lad. He was only a few hours older and his name was Connor, named after the legendary Gaelic King Conchobar.

     Brother Breasal went back to the Scriptorum, opened his personal chronicles and dipped the sharp tip of his feather in a well of ink. He wrote: “It is the year of our Lord 781 AD. We are having a cold and wet winter. How do we know the ways of the Lord? Tonight I had a terrible dream of Norsemen attacking our monastery. But the Lord woke me and sent us an orphan boy with the mark of the Holy Cross on his shoulder. I believe that this bad dream and the future of the monastery somehow by some godly connection have something to do with this little orphan boy…”

    The villagers later recalled a heartbroken man, named Angus, who buried his male child and his wife that next morning in the black turf. Then he too disappeared, never to be seen again. Some said God took mercy on him and others whispered that the fairy folk had snatched him away to a better world on the Other Side…

Chapter 1

 Chapter 1

BOYS WOULD BE WARRIORS!

IONA, 795 AD (14 years later)

A runaway mule’s hooves thundered through the early morning mist on the island of Iona which was nestling her green body in the Scottish Sea.    

    “You hold on, Connor! This old mule won’t throw us today!” one of the two Irish boys on the mule yelled. It was the skinny, fair-headed fourteen year-old with blue eyes, sitting in the front. He had on the simple clothes of a monastery worker; his shoulder length hair fluttering in the breeze.

    “We are dead meat, Shaughn!” the chubbier lad of the same age and a shock of red hair, sitting behind him on the mule shouted, clinging nervously onto him. He saw the wooden fence of the monastery approaching and shut his green eyes. His freckles seemed redder than usual on his pale face.

    “Today we’ll meet our doom! Not even our Holy Mother can help us now!”

    Shaughn threw his head back and laughed in the wind. “You’re a big softy, you! This mule wouldn’t be that lucky!” The mule galloped at a rather slow pace, tripped over some sods, but kept on heading for the fence.

    “Who are you calling a softy?” Connor grabbed hold of Shaughn’s shirt, hitting him with his other fist on the back. That was what fourteen year old boys did.

     “You filthy animal! You take this!” Shaughn relaxed his grip on the mane and half turning, started to hit Connor with his own fist, clinging onto him to keep his balance. They forgot about the approaching fence. One got a batter, the other a smack; until the mule decided she just about had enough and tried to jump the fence.  

    As soon as her hooves left the ground, the two lads took to the air while the mule fled the scene. She dragged most of the torn-down fence with her. Now naught was left of the morning’s peaceful companions: the innocent chirping birds were silent and only the brook murmured by on its meandering course over the island. On touching ground, the two lads continued wrestling on the muddy green meadow.

    “Great! Look what you’ve done!” Connor shouted while pushing his brother’s head into the mud and locking his legs around Shaughn’s neck. He knew no man had a chance against a grip like that.

    “Nay! Not the pretzel grip!” Shaughn cried.

    Connor laughed. He knew he had won; never mind his disfigured foot. Against his pretzel there was no defence. “Serves you right; it is time for Confession, brother!”

    “I have done nothing! We would still have been on the mule if you hadn’t started hammering me!” Shaughn, out of breath, defended himself.

    Suddenly a harsh voice said: “Hold it! In the name of King Charlemagne of France, lay down your arms!”

    They immediately ended their wrestling match and looked up at the newcomers. A circle of blue war-painted children’s faces surrounded them. Wooden swords were pointing at them from all sides.

    “King Charlemagne me butt!” Connor said out of breath.

    “Don’t say words you will regret! Give up or die!” said William, the leader of the warriors. He was not much older than fourteen years. His painted face seemed dangerous and mean, which of course was the effect he was looking for.

    “We do not fear your king. We work for the King of all Creation!” Shaughn said unruffled.

    “Aye and where is he now, this King of yours? And what sort of King is it to have a wee monk and hobbling Connor fighting for him? We’ll take you as our prisoners. Then you will die by the sword!” said William in a kind of voice that his men obeyed. He and his warriors gave a war cry, waving their fists victoriously in the air.

    Shaughn and Connor quickly glanced at each other and like one man they rolled over with a combined effort and dashed against the barrier of legs surrounding them, causing the wall of warriors to tumble over each other. Swords scattered in all directions. Then the two captives jumped up, each grabbing a wooden sword from the ground and started fighting off the enemy like real little warriors. 

    The fight went on for about ten minutes. The attackers were only just stronger (or that was the story Connor told afterwards) and they eventually tied Shaughn and Connor up.

    Then William sneered, “Serves you right to make fun of King Charlemagne!” The blue-faced gang ran victoriously back to their homes in the village, some bleeding and some limping from the wounds sustained in the terrible fight.

    Shaughn and Connor, not without scratches, struggled free under the watchful eyes of a bullfrog sitting by the stream (or maybe he was just waiting for them to die and attract some flies!) In any case, the lads figured that their wounds counted for warrior scars and they were inflamed with pride! “We shall beat them… sooner or later!” Shaughn said confidently.

    “Sure, with my lame foot?” Connor asked doubtfully. “But really, what kind of man waits in the bushes the whole morning just in case someone passes by and then attacks them? Don’t they have better things to do?”

    “Aye, they have no lives! But we didn’t go down without a fight!” Shaughn grinned.

    “Come… let’s race home! I must help father in the workshop today!” Connor said and started back home, hobbling, crying, “Catch me if you can!” Shaughn followed, making sure he kept just behind him, because that, he contemplated, was what one should do when one had a brother with a badly developed foot.

    On their way to their thatched hut at the end of the small village, the two muddied lads passed the mule that was now grazing in the vicinity of the monastery. She gave them a cold shoulder.

    Shaughn and Connor quickly cleaned up and changed into dry clothes in front of the central fireplace of their thatched hut. There were almost no hot coals left. “This time we almost stayed on the mule, brother,” Shaughn said, adding a dry sod to the fire.

    “Great! We should go for lessons or something. We can’t go on hurting ourselves like that! I almost broke me arm today. Look here!” He proudly showed Shaughn his badly bruised left arm.

Shaughn gave a soft whistle, “And look at my back, there’s no skin left!” He lifted his shirt over his back, revealing his birthmark, a little red cross, like the High Crosses adorning the Celtic countryside. “But I would sure like to ride a real thoroughbred horse one day!”

    “And I am going to be the greatest knight the Scots have ever seen! Dream on! You are asking for a miracle!” Connor mocked him.

    “I am in the company of monks everyday, Brother! I believe in miracles! Have to go now. Have chores to do at the monastery. See ye later,” Shaughn ran towards the monastery while Connor limped off to look for his father, Colin, the blacksmith, in his workshop next to their dwelling.

    It was still early and Shaughn, like every other day of his life, collected some eggs from the chickens’ burrow, “Come on ladies! The Lord needs your eggs today!” He placed the wealth of eggs in a bucket and ran to the stables where the cows were.

    “Good morning, John! Are you well today? How is your back pain?” he inquired, because old John always had the one or the other pain somewhere.

    John smiled, “Very well, thanks to that green wine you got from the cellarer!” He gave Shaughn the pail of milk for the monastery’s kitchen.

    “The green wine always works. The cellarer believes in it!” Shaughn winked at John, “But can I tell you a secret? In the cellarer’s potions we trust, but it is truly the Lord that heals.”        

    John smiled, “You’re much too young to be so wise, lad!”

    Shaughn ran to the kitchen, carefully holding the eggs and milk, only spilling a few drops. His red-haired mother, Lily, now thirty-four years old, smiled lovingly, “Better not trip over something! A bit late this morning, aren’t ye, lad? What were you two lads up to so early?”   

    She frowned as she touched a bruise on his forehead; her green eyes concerned.

    “Not much; we were riding the mule again and Connor tried his pretzel grip on me!” He grinned.

    “The pretzel grip?” she asked while kneading the bread dough on the table.

    “Aye, that is when he twists his legs around me neck and I get no air in me lungs. We named it after these twisted rolls you always make,” he said, while snatching one of the rolls and biting into it.  

    “I see. I also see that mare is going to hurt you, but you’ll find that out for yourselves! You don’t make fun of women! Hell has no fury the likes of a woman that is ridiculed!” Lily warned him, smiling.

    “That I believe! Brother O’Malley has taught me that; seems like he had some dreadful encounters with women. This reminds me, got to wake up the cellarer. He is probably still in his deep sleep!” Shaughn said while running towards the cellarer’s dormitory.

    “Before you go, be a dear and take this tray with food up to the Brothers in the Scriptorum, please!” Lily asked.

    “For you, I’ll swim across the seven seas!” Shaughn said.

    Lily smiled, “I wish! …With you fearing water and all!”

     Shaughn grinned, swept up the tray and ran upstairs to the Scriptorum.  He pushed open the door with his foot and entered. Brother Breasal, now fifty-two years old, still a devoted, dignified monk with a saintly presence about him and two other scribes were as usual at their table busy copying the Gospels on calfskin pages. Feathered pens and coloured ink adorned the working space where the monks were sweating away at their life task.

    “Good day, Brothers! Mother thinks it’s time to break fast and eat a wee bit!” said Shaughn.

    Brother Breasal smiled warmly, “Thank you, Shaughn.” Brother Breasal poured the tea and watched Shaughn as he quickly scribbled a note in Latin on a piece of calfskin.  “Your daily verse for Brother O’Malley, aint it?”

    “Aye, he keeps forgetting things lately. I just help him to remember: Ei autem qui potens est omnia facere superabundanter quam petimus aut intelligimus, secundum virtutem, quae operatur in nobis...” Shaughn then drew a line sketch of himself walking on water and Connor fighting with a sword.

    “You know, Shaughn, you are indeed my prized student! Maybe you should help us write the final pages of the Book of Colmcille. We’ve already been at it for thirty years. I think it is time to finish!” Brother Breasal pondered.

    Shaughn seemed more than happy, “That would be the greatest honour, Brother!” Shaughn tenderly touched the vibrant illustrated pages. He knew the Brother would never let a child touch the unfinished pages. That was work only a trained scribe with many years of experience could do. “I’ll see you at morning prayers, Brother. Must go!” Then he grabbed his note and hurried out.        

    In front of the cellarer’s door Shaughn hesitated and knocked gently. “Brother O’Malley! Wake up! Morning Prayers will start soon!”

    Thumping sounds came from the inside and then a sleepy voice, “Holy Scotti! Is it time already!” hailed the Brother. “Come in, Shaughn… Now where are me shoes … I can’t seem to find me shoes!”

    On entering, Shaughn saw the chubby, fifty-something Brother crawling on all fours looking for his shoes in the semi-dark room. The bearded monk was in his brown monk’s robe and had most likely never got out of it the previous night.  

    Shaughn tried not to smile, “Have you looked in the latrines, yet? Remember that’s where we found them the last time.” He ran down the hall, picked up the shoes in front of one of the latrines and carried it back to the Brother who was trying his best to stay awake.

    “Can you believe it? Some evil magic must be upon me shoes! They have a mind of their own, walking away at night to go to the latrines!” He laughed loudly, his round cheeks dancing rhythmically along with his round belly. “Come here, lad!  What would I do without you! The almighty Lord has sent you to watch over me in these dark times: my very own guardian angel.”

    Shaughn frowned, “Brother O’Malley, why do you constantly sleep so much? Are you sick or something?”

    “Nay, ye see,” he sat down his huge body, fingering around his head to make sure his monkish hairstyle was in place and then put on his shoes, ‘it is just that I have a very responsible profession. It is my work to make ginger beer and wine for the monastery and even potions for all sorts of ailments. And to keep things interesting, I have to invent new recipes for the kitchen. You know, I do that with all those herbs and roots you always collect for me. See, it is a difficult task to introduce the correct ingredients with every brew I make and to have the wines fermented at just the right temperatures.”

    The brother shook his head, “Sometimes my mixtures don’t work so well and I get real dizzy while brewing and tasting and inhaling some of these fumes. And because I am such a dedicated cellarer, I always want to serve up the perfect brew. Therefore I have to do a lot of tasting in which case it sometimes happens that I fall into a very deep sleep.” He sighed, “But nonetheless, I enjoy me work to the fullest!”

    O’Malley finished fastening his shoe laces and stared intensely at Shaughn, “And that is why, my little helper, I am so grateful to you for waking me up in the mornings. Otherwise I might oversleep and miss important monastery meetings. That would reflect not so well on my spotless character, you know?”

    “I almost forgot! Here is your morning verse,” said Shaughn and handed him the calfskin note. O’Malley smiled appreciatively. He read it out loud, “Ephesians 3 verse 20: ‘God is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to His Power that works in us...’ ‘Now look at you!”

    “See, I am walking on water and Connor is fighting with the sword!” Shaughn proudly said.

    O’Malley felt for a loose rock lying under his bed and nailed the calfskin note to his wall.  There were many notes exactly like that one decorating his wall, all with different drawings and verses. “I always say: God is watching; let’s at least give him a good show! Come! Let’s go praying before Brother Breasal comes looking for me! You know, ever since he became Abbot of this Abbey, he’s become a bit rough on me and me old bones!” He gave the boy a hug. Shaughn’s skinny body gasped for breath.

    “Have mercy on me, Brother!” the boy chuckled.

    They started walking towards the church. Shaughn was half-running and the Brother tried keeping up with small, hasty steps. He looked like a big brown goose with his broad swinging hips in his monastery robe.

    “I just can’t imagine for the life of me why the Lord assigns me with these bad headaches every morning,” he groaned, shaking his head, walking through the outdoor Cloister area towards the church.

    Inside the church the other Brothers were already chanting Latin versions of the Bible. Brother O’Malley was just in time for Morning Prayer.

*           *           *           *

After that first of the seven services of the day, Brother Breasal bade Shaughn closer, “You can summon the other boys for choir practice, Shaughn. Brother John will be ringing the bells for Cathedral school in a few minutes’ time … and Shaughn?”

    “Aye, Brother Breasal?” Shaughn asked.

    “Connor. You know he’s already been sitting detention for choir practices for the last seven weeks. Do you think he purposely tries to avoid singing in the choir?”

    Shaughn shook his head vigorously, “Oh, no, Brother, but you must remember he is not one for sitting in one place for too long. Maybe his bad foot constricts him. And I think he likes fighting with his sword more than singing.”

    “Very well, Shaughn, it is good though that he has a brother like you to keep him on the true path!” said Brother Breasal.

    Shaughn summoned the other boys, all of them commoners’ children who came to the monastery for Cathedral school and after that for grammar school (and all that against their free will!) Shaughn quickly gave each one a white tunic to pull over his head to cover up the dirty clothes they were wearing. Brother Breasal fancied that. ‘One should respect the Lord’s Church,’ he always said.

    Everyone stood in line, all dressed up. All the warriors from earlier that morning were there: little John, big William, Finn, the baker’s son and the brothers, Thomas and Duncan, with dirty faces and hands; here and there some blood on the noses. With noses twitching and mouths yawning they started practising the first line of the Ave Maria. Brother Breasal was standing in front of them, waving his hand gracefully to guide them through the high notes.

    Then the huge church doors swung open. It was Connor who came hobbling in and aimed straight for Shaughn, who was holding open his white tunic, ready for him to drop into.

    “I beg your pardon, Brother Breasal, for being late. It won’t happen again,” he said and whispered to Shaughn, “Thank you, brother!” He crossed his arms in front of him as if he was hiding something.

    Halfway through the next chorus a sudden movement in Connor’s shirt caught the other boys’ attention. Connor tried to fold his arms even tighter over his chest, but the budging became wilder, until he had trouble controlling it. His face grew red and he bit his lip to control himself.

    One by one the lads stopped their singing and stared at Connor who had a hard time standing still. They started squirming away from him. Brother Breasal, who usually chanted with his eyes shut, suddenly realized he was the only man singing and before he could open his eyes, Thomas screamed hysterically, “He has a demon inside of him! He is being possessed!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

    “Dear Lord! What in Heaven’s name is happening to you?” the Brother frowned with concern. He had never encountered a demon in a child before. He stormed towards Connor in a panic, which was strange in itself as he never panicked; except for that one time when he hit Dominick, but that was a long time ago and no-one knew about that...

    “In God’s name, demon, show yourself!” the Brother shouted while lifting the golden cross necklace adorning his tunic in Connor’s direction.

    Just then Connor lost his grip on the ‘demon’. A terrified hare leaped out from the neck of the tunic. The anxious choirboys did not wait around to see what the demon looked like; they had seen enough and they scampered around in the church screaming. If it really was a demon, none of them wanted to be the one being re-entered! The hare left the building and was never seen again.

    “Enough, I say! Everybody! Stand still!” the Brother yelled. The boys calmed down. Scattered throughout the church, they carefully peeked from behind the wooden benches. The Brother regained some dignity and held out his hands, palms down, to calm the terrified children, “There is nothing to be afraid of. There is no demon. It was only a petrified hare.” He paused and said, “The question is however, how on earth did a hare get into Connor’s shirt and into church?” He glared at the boy with irritation, an uncommon feeling for a man of the church.

    “We are in God’s Holy Church now and here is no place for making a mockery of our Church ceremonies,” he sighed, “If you boys only knew the amount of the Lord’s work that has to be done in your lifetime still. There is a world out there that needs to hear the story of the Gospel. You cannot waste your time any longer on children’s games; most of you are already fourteen years old and ready to start working to take care of yourselves and your families.”

    Connor tried to explain, “Ye see, Brother, I caught the hare in the church garden for our family dinner and as I was already late, there was no time for cutting its throat.”

    The Brother held up his hand to silence the boy. “The house of our Lord is not a slaughtering place, Connor, nor is it a place to bring your animals to. I know not what to do with you anymore, lad.  Go sit in the kitchen with your mother. The rest of us will continue bringing praises to the Lord.” He knelt down to pick up the books that had fallen from the table during the ‘exorcism’. 

    The other boys giggled uncontrollably now and enjoyed Connor’s dilemma. William whispered loud enough for all of them to hear, including Connor, “Serves him right. Thinks he’s invincible, doesn’t he? Loser!” He made a sign of the letter L with his thumb and forefinger, without the Brother seeing him. The others giggled even louder.

     “But, Brother, I am sure that Connor will pay attention now that the hare is no longer possessing …hindering him,” Shaughn tried to save what was left of the situation as he so often did for Connor.

    Brother Breasal silenced him and showed Connor the door with his finger.

    “Great!” Connor said with a sigh. He turned around with sagging shoulders and sauntered into the kitchen. These ceremonial church practices were too much for him to handle!

    Breasal, in a strict voice, said, “And for what it is worth, William, the letter L stands for love… not loser.” The lads only giggled.

    After an hour of practising and another hour of church school, Shaughn fetched Connor and they were out and about in the fields, looking for herbs and roots for Brother O’Malley. After the early morning mist the day started out sunny but by late morning, a cloud of fog hung over the island like a thick feather blanket. The boys each carried a basket made of straw. Every now and then they picked some herbs and put them into the baskets. Connor seemed on edge.

    “What’s the matter? You keep looking back?” Shaughn asked.

    “Nay, I am just worried. Ye know, on foggy days like this, they say the fairy folk are wandering around, looking for some mischief to do,” Connor again looked over his shoulder.

     Shaughn shook his fair head, looked up into the sky and said, “Lord, you gave me a strange brother, still believing in the fairy folk.” He came up to Connor and said in a mysterious voice, close to his ear, “Is it the fairy queen who is following us? Dressed in green, riding on her white horse, looking to lure away those who are not wary?”

    Connor pushed him away, “You can make fun of me, but some say it is true. It is not for nothing that they say a lady in green should never be seen! For if she sees you she will take you to the Other Side, the underground world of the dead, and you will never ever come back. They say if you see her, it is too late … Her elves will grab you, pin you to the ground, and bind you with rope, the strongest in the world which only fairies can make, and you will be her slave for eternity. Old John told me his wife had once seen the green lady from a distance, but before her little helpers could grab her, she turned herself into a white dove and flew away.”

    “His wife can do that? She can turn herself into a dove? Then she must be a witch! Brother O’Malley says the witches of the olden days did things like that with the help of the devil himself.” Shaughn shook his head, “But it truthfully sounds like bad luck; you flee from the fairy to the devil and they both will have you for dinner!”

    Connor grabbed Shaughn by the chest and was more than ready to teach him a lesson for making fun of his story. Then they heard the sound of a twig breaking not far from them behind the trees and a snorting sound. By now the morning air was clogged up with a cloud of thick fog. Their bodies immediately chilled inside their warm clothes. Only their eyes moved around wildly in their heads as they tried piercing the fog.

    “You heard that?” Connor whispered, his grip on Shaughn’s shirt was not one of aggression any longer but one of fearful hesitation; his eyes big.

    “It sounded like… ” Shaughn whispered back with eyes just as worried.            

    “A horse snorting…” said Connor.

    They stared at the fog surrounding them, not knowing exactly where the sound had come from. Shaughn shook Connor’s hand from him, trying to regain some dignity, “That was nothing. It was only one of the monastery’s cows. What would the fairy do on our island? She has more work to do on the mainland.” Shaughn tried joking.

    But then the snorting was heard again and out of the fog a beautiful white pony became visible.

    “Shaughn, look,” Connor exclaimed, “It’s a unicorn!”

    That was a fact. No-one could fail to see the little horn. A pony whiter than snow with a little curly horn on her forehead, was watching them from behind the curtain of mist. But even more beautiful was the little Lady sitting on her back. She had hair as black as the night and on her head she had a crown made of white flowers and ribbons braided around it and dangling over her pale, white face. Her eyes were as green and unsettled as the open sea. It was the face of an angel. Her green lacy dress was draped over the unicorn’s snowy white body and she had the haughty air of a princess about her.

    The boys had never seen something so beautiful in their lives. They could not breathe or take their eyes off this vision. For a minute they only stared at the image in the mist while she gazed back at them with her deep green eyes, very intense, almost as if she was casting a magic spell on them… The pony snorted again and both the boys snapped out of their trance.

    Connor was the first to panic, “Fairy princess! Fairy princess! Run, Shaughn, run for your life!”

    Frightened by the sudden noise, the pony leaped into the air on her hind legs and whinnied. But the green lady did not lose her balance. She just spun the pony around and vanished into the thick curtain of mist. The boys were not so composed. They sprinted as if all hell had broken loose around them. Once or twice they fell over the rocky pastures of Iona, but they kept on running.

    Connor ran as if he had no limp at all! They only stopped after dashing through the monastery’s kitchen door and felt the safety of the old solid walls around them. But not even the smell of freshly baked bread could calm them down that day. Brother O’Malley was sitting at a worktable in the kitchen cutting up his roots and herbs. 

    The monk glanced unconcerned at the two boys who were so out of breath that they could not speak.

    “Seen a ghost? Have a seat, lads, and tell me what is the rush? Is it blood I see on your hands and knees? What happened to my herbs I sent for? And where are my baskets?”

    Shaughn and Connor did not know where to begin. They looked at each other as if to get some clue where to start, and then they both started talking and gesturing with their hands to give significance to their story.

    “Holy Scotti! Stop the both of you!” the monk ended their gibbering, “One at a time! Shaughn!”

    “We saw an angel,” Shaughn began.

    “Nay, it was the fairy princess,” Connor said.

    “She was as white as a dove,” Shaughn said.

    “She rode a unicorn with a white horn and everything,” Connor added.

    “She wore a crown on her head… of flowers and ribbons and…” Shaughn went on.

    “She had hair as black as the night,” said Connor.

    “Wait! Time out! Now, this fairy angel, did she have a name?” Brother O’Malley asked.

    “Pardon me, Brother, but have you lost your head? We barely escaped with our lives! She might have cast a spell on us! We ran like lightning! Our fear gave us wings!” Connor replied.

    “And Connor was telling scary stories about the fairies and their spells and the fog was thick and then she really came, and we didn’t know what to do!” Shaughn added, “So we thought it safer to take off!”

    “And you know what else? She sat on a real unicorn. I saw it with me own eyes!” Connor insisted.

    “A real unicorn, ye say? I wonder where she is now, but because of your panic attack, we will never know who she really was, would we?” the Brother said, making some hot tea to calm the lads’ nerves.

   “And you didn’t think of asking the Lord for wisdom before flying off like wild geese?”

    “Nay, there was no time. But I think the Lord would have understood. You know, even the great apostle John fell down out of fright when he saw an angel. Is it not so, Brother?” Shaughn asked.

    “Aye, but he showed great courage when being confronted by visions of beasts and other terrible sights which the Lord Christ revealed to him, depicting the future of mankind in the Holy book of Revelation.” He handed them their steamy honey tea.

    “But let me tell you something about our own Saint Columba who founded this monastery. He was a man filled with the Spirit of God. He would spend days fasting and praying, not worrying about anything, but to do the will of the Lord. It was said that he even confronted bears while spending time alone in the forest with God. But he scared them away for he could not risk any kind of interruption while meditating with the Lord.”

    “I wish I could be like him one day! Colmcille… the great saint,” Shaughn whispered in awe.

    Brother O’Malley took a sip of his tea. “That’s not all. He also saw visions of angels while conversing with the Lord. Sometimes the angels even brought him food to break his fast.” He pointed to Shaughn and Connor, saying, “Try that sometime! Be brave and full of the Holy Spirit, for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and of love and of self-control! Next time you make time to stop and ask who she is, this lady in green, and maybe you will be surprised! Maybe she is just a scared little girl, who knows?”

    “Aye, but, it is still scary to see such a vision in real life,” Connor said.

    “Can I tell you a secret? One day you will see for yourself, most women are scary in their very own way! Especially the beautiful ones!” O’Malley laughed at his own joke. “That is why we monks take an oath of chastity. It is because we are actually scared of these frightening visions the Lord has made!” He grinned, “A long time ago, I was also young and restless… but that’s a story for another time. A beautiful woman can blind a man’s wits and before you know it... she catches you in her web and spins a cocoon around you. Aye, it is not only the fairies who cast spells. Real women of flesh and bones do it as well. Nay, I pity the poor wretched men outside these walls, having to cope with wild women. Sometimes the fate of a married man can be worse than one being captured by the Norsemen!”

    “Great! I will never take me a wife. It sounds scary,” Connor said. “Is my mother a wild woman too?”

    “What? Lily?” O’Malley smiled at him. “Nay, now that is an angel if I ever saw one! Your father is a lucky man. What would we have done, without her helping here in the Abbey’s kitchen? She’s been here forever, since before the last Viking attack on the Abbey.”

    “Brother O’Malley,” Shaughn asked wide-eyed, forgetting about their close encounter with the strange white vision on the unicorn, “tell us about the Norsemen who attacked the monastery.”

    Brother O’Malley hesitated. Some things were better forgotten. Some nights he still had nightmares of Vikings haunting him. After refilling his cup with honey tea, he said, “It was a time I wish I could fail to remember. They came with their longboats, filled with hungry, untamed men, wearing horrifying masks and carrying flags with their unholy signs painted on it. They are a warlike people... They came with masked horses… with no forewarning.”

    The Brother pointed towards the church, “Do you hear the chanting of the monks over there in church? It was the same on that day. We had just finished the morning mass, when we heard the terrible sound of their hooves. Before we knew, they were burning our monastery’s doors and our stables. They hurled their spears into our people, killing many good monks and serfs.”

    O’Malley shuddered.  “It was long ago, almost fifteen summers have already passed, I think. The whole village was burned to the ground. People died… even babies. Only a few of us remained. It took us all these years to rebuild the monastery. Many of our sacred books were destroyed, lost forever.” Brother O’Malley sighed and continued, “But up to now, the Lord has blessed us here on Iona. The Vikings have left us alone all these years. Visiting monks have told us of an attack two summers ago just off the Northumbrian Coast at the Lindesfarne monastery. They said it was dreadful. It seemed as if the devil himself had inflamed the Norsemen. Their raid was accompanied by soaring winds; lightning exploded in the skies and appeared like fiery dragons diving down onto the monastery, devouring it; a sad day for those monks.”

    Connor listened with horror, “I will let no Viking come near my family! I will take my father’s sword and cut off their heads!” he said, taking up a kitchen knife and demonstrating with wild movements how he would execute such a deed, should it be necessary.

    The monk laughed, “Better let your father handle the sword, I think! You might kill yourself in the process! Or maybe blind yourself in the hero’s glow that I can already see shining in you! And you, Shaughn, how will you conquer the Vikings?” asked the brother.

    “I know not. I am not good at weapons like Connor. He always wins me at playing swords or throwing spears or the battle-axe… and wrestling!” Shaughn sighed. “And I’m afraid of water. I won’t be able to battle at sea. I think I will consume the enemy’s army with my prayers. Aye, I will pray them into the stormy sea! You know, like the Lord demanded the evil spirits in the possessed man to go into the swine and into the sea! I will command the angels to cast the evil Norsemen into the darkness of the ocean!”

    For a moment the look in Shaughn’s eyes was so serious that he gave the impression of being the archangel Michael himself. The Brother and Connor stared at him in wonder. Then the Brother said, “Aye, prayer is a powerful weapon. That you would find out sooner or later. The Word of God gives great wisdom to those who study it. The great Saint Paul once said that the Word of God is like a sword the Holy Spirit uses to fight evil in this world. This sword has supernatural power.”

    “Great! Then Shaughn and I will make a great army. He knows some of the Latin Bible by heart and I may be limping but I can fight… a wee bit!” Connor said dramatically, not knowing that these words would one day prove to be prophetic.

    The Brother smiled, “Who knows? No man knows for sure what the future holds but for those to whom God reveals it, sometimes without them knowing it.”

    “Aye, we will be the army of God!” Shaughn confirmed. “We shall protect the innocent and the sacred Scriptures of our Lord! But for now, the army needs to be fed!”

    “Great! I am sick with hunger!” Connor sighed.

    “Come me brother-in-arms; I’ll race you with my noble steed!” He grabbed his wooden horse from behind the kitchen door and passed the other one to Connor.

    “To Iona and beyond!” Connor leaped to his feet.

    “Are you two lads sure you don’t want me to escort your army home to protect you against the unicorn lady?” the Brother teased them.

    “Our steeds will run as fast as the wind! Not even a unicorn could catch us!” Shaughn said bravely.

    “We are the army of God!” Connor shouted and the two ran out of the monastery’s warm kitchen, wooden steeds between the legs.

    They passed the wooden fence surrounding the monastery and ran down the gravel road to the Blacksmith’s house. The late afternoon mist hovered over the island.

    “Last one there must wash the dishes!” Connor shouted, more afraid than he wanted to admit.

    Shaughn was in the lead and shouted, “I’ll beat you!” His heart was beating fast. He looked around frantically, not knowing if he wanted to see or not wanting to see the vision of the beautiful Lady on her unicorn again. Maybe it was just their imaginations, maybe not. But who was she then? Just as he entered the house, his eye caught a glimpse of something white not far from them, behind some trees. He stopped dead in his tracks. Connor stumbled past him and took the moment to dive into the house first. He slapped Shaughn on the head as he passed.   

    Shaughn took a moment to stare at the trees, but the white vision had disappeared. Or was she really there? “Lord, am I going mad or was that the lady in Green?” he asked. “Fairy folk are not supposed to exist, Lord, but just in case, please protect this house against them tonight, Lord!” He drew the symbolical sign of the cross over his chest.

    Shaughn quickly closed the door of the little mud house behind him. Night’s dark and scary fingers crawled over the island like a monster. The only sign of life left in town was the thin lines of smoke that danced above the dozen little chimneys and the faint flickering of candlelight peeking through the windows.

    That night, before bedtime, the boys eagerly said their prayers, “Matthew, Mark, Luke and John; bless us before the night is gone! Amen!”