The Humming of Numbers Page 4

  “Well … most of it,” he said, sinful pride tugging at him and tingling his scalp. It had not been easy to learn a language so different from what he spoke every day, and even more mind-boggling to capture spoken words from out of the air and shape them in ink. Making sounds into pictures that a reader could turn back into sounds felt to him almost like magic. Caressing a line of script with his thumb, he added, “I’m still learning.”

  When he glanced back up at her, she was studying him, not the illumination.

  The book felt suddenly heavy and dangerous in his hands. He hurried to replace it. Once it rested on the lectern again, his heart pounded at the liberty he’d taken. He walked slowly back outside, pondering the loss of sense that Lana seemed to effect on him.

  “And that’s what you do all day?” she asked, when he drew close. “Draw words and cunning little patterns and creatures?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “But I will, once I’ve apprenticed enough. If you will help me by minding the rules,” he added pointedly.

  “You haven’t told me any yet,” she protested.

  Forced to admit she was right, he finished her tour and then led her toward the kitchen, off by itself near the back gate because of the danger of fire. On the way he described the constraints of humility and modesty and the importance of washing and the many times to be quiet.

  “Is there a tree drawn in one of those books?” she interrupted. “The Trees of Life or of Knowledge that Father Niall talks about?”

  “Did you hear anything I’ve said?” he demanded.

  A grin played on her face. “Some of it. I’ll listen better after you answer my question.”

  Huffing, Aidan resisted the desire to stomp. Talking with her was nothing like talking to the other monks or novices, not even Rory. It reminded him more of horseplay with his brothers and sharp-tongued little sister at home. How accustomed he’d grown to silence and nodding! A pang of homesickness amplified his annoyance.

  He sulked until he realized that treating Lana to silence would only likely hurt him. Then he grumbled, “I don’t remember any drawings of trees.”

  “Are you sure?” She reached a hand to his arm.

  Aidan didn’t know any books but the Psalter by heart, and some had illumination so complex the pages could be studied for hours and still reveal surprises. Plus there were plenty of volumes in the scriptorium he’d never touched.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not sure at all. There could be. Why?”

  A crafty light crossed her face, but she shook her head. “I just wondered. Thank you for showing me. Now you’d better tell me your rules again. I don’t want you to get into trouble over me. I’m used to it, but you’re not. I can tell.”

  Feeling somehow insulted, though sure she hadn’t meant it, Aidan replied, “Brother Galen is probably wondering where we are. Just do exactly what he says and stay in the kitchen or the yard right outside it. I’ll come get you before the Hour of Compline tonight and tell you the rest—again—then.”

  She ignored his emphasis. “Will he give me something to eat, do you think?”

  “Ask him,” Aidan said, wincing at the pinched hope in her face. “I’m sure he will. But don’t speak to anyone else unless they speak to you first. Please.”

  “Just you?”

  “Yes.” A few steps later, he added, “And I speak to you too much. I’ve got to stop.”

  They hurried the rest of the way to the kitchen in silence.

  VI

  “You neglected to see me after instructions,” said Brother Nathan. He need not have bothered. Aidan had realized his error the moment the hawkish monk had hailed him from outside the scriptorium. He had been hurrying toward it after leaving Lana to her taskmaster, hoping he wasn’t too late for a calligraphy lesson that morning. The chance to practice on a waxed wooden tablet was often the best part of his day.

  At Nathan’s call, Aidan had cringed, the memory of the monk’s earlier request flooding back. He’d approached the scriptorium’s master with his feet dragging. Brother Nathan’s precise and unforgiving nine had whined at him the whole way.

  “I forgot,” Aidan groaned, dropping his gaze to the senior monk’s hem and feeling his heart sink even lower. “Can you forgive my stupidity? I was so surprised by the abbot’s instructions, I did not remember your request.” Aidan wondered if Brother Nathan, who knew Aidan had witnessed Lana’s arrival, had played any role in that surprise.

  If so, the older monk did not let a trace of amusement or understanding cross his face. “Your assignment,” he said. “Yes. Well, I had an errand for you. But perhaps you’ve been burdened enough.”

  “Something for the scriptorium?” Aidan asked, unable to keep his eyes down or his voice from leaping in hope. It was exhilarating to know that Brother Nathan had even thought of him. Until now only a few younger scribes had deigned to encourage his interest. Aidan added, “I would still serve you, if I may.”

  Brother Nathan regarded him coolly. Aidan pressed his lips together and looked down again, resenting his own impulse to grovel.

  “You no longer have time before our next prayers.”

  Hoping it would not sound like argument, Aidan ventured, “Is it something I might do following supper instead?” The hour after the midday meal was the monks’ only free time, a rare chance to nap, enjoy a game of quoits, or listen to someone playing a pipe. He might regret giving it up.

  By the time Nathan spoke again, Aidan was expecting a reprimand. His ears took an instant to confirm what sounded like a question.

  “Perhaps. You roamed near here as a boy, did you not?”

  Aidan nodded warily. He’d driven his father’s cattle to summer pastures, played along the banks of the river, and hunted in the woods with his brothers and friends. Those days seemed a long time ago now.

  “I thought so. Well, the scribes are running low on dark ink. Go gather oak apples, dry ones if possible, and you may learn how it is made.”

  Aidan turned bright eyes to the senior monk’s face. “Truly?”

  “A few dozen should do. Can you find them nearby and be back before the next worship this afternoon?”

  Aidan’s mind raced, trying to think where the nearest oak grove lay. “I think so.”

  “See that you do.”

  “I will. Thank you, Brother Nathan.”

  Nathan turned away. Aidan held his breath, afraid the older monk would change his mind. As if hearing that fear, Brother Nathan paused.

  “This is the first time you’ve left here since becoming a novice, is it not?” he asked.

  “Except for the fields,” Aidan replied. Lord Donagh’s forebears had granted the abbey a large tract of land, but tending crops or livestock alongside other monks was not the same as crossing common ground where he might meet old neighbors or kin.

  Nathan pursed his lips. “Be alert, then, for distractions unbecoming a monk. I’d rather you returned empty-handed than with a confession.”

  Aidan agreed quickly. Compared to supervising Lana, he didn’t expect this errand to prove much of a test. He waited until Nathan retreated, then sped to dispatch his daily chores so they couldn’t delay him later. He kept his legs to a walk only with effort.

  When Rory heard, in quick snatches on the way to their next prayers, that Aidan would be going out, his reaction took Aidan by surprise.

  “Don’t go,” he murmured, jostling Aidan to get close enough so those around them wouldn’t hear. Since Rory barely moved his lips, it took Aidan an instant to translate, “Tell Bro’ Na’an you’re ill. S’rain your ankle. Anything.”

  Aidan scratched his upper lip and said behind his hand, “No. I want to do his bidding. Why not?”

  They turned a corner, out from under the watch of Brother Eamon a few paces behind them. “I have never been outside since I’ve been a novice, nor has any I know,” Rory said. “He could send a servant instead. They may not be merely testing you, Aidan. They might be setting you up.”

  Aidan sto
le a sidelong glance, trying to interpret Rory’s scowl. “You’re just jealous.”

  Rory nodded vigorously. “Yes, that too. But I have a bad feeling today, and mostly I’m worried you will err so seriously that I’ll be alone here again. That would be a foul disappointment.”

  “Thanks for the confid—”

  By then, however, their fellows behind them had turned the corner as well.

  “Brother Rory,” called Brother Eamon, “are you having difficulty walking that you must crowd those around you?”

  With a wince, Rory stopped and turned while Aidan kept walking.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I was just telling Brother Aidan how much I value his example as he is tested prior to vows.”

  Aidan mashed a grin, glad his mentor walked at his back and thus couldn’t see it. His friend was quite practiced at explaining a lapse in obedience without actually telling a lie.

  “I see,” Brother Eamon said dryly. “But perhaps you should speak less and follow that example with a little more space between you.”

  After that, Rory and Aidan kept their distance, not daring to attract attention twice in the same day. The hours and prayers before supper dragged. During the meal, Aidan had to count silently to ten in Latin between every bite of his boiled bacon and cabbage to prevent himself from wolfing the food. The voice of the scripture reader droned in the background. Rory darted concerned glances down the table toward Aidan, rubbing one eye and then the other. Aidan took this confused gesture to mean that he should watch out, but his friend’s agitation was almost insulting. The senior monks were giving Aidan chances to fail, perhaps, but also to prove himself. If he could satisfy Brother Nathan, the scriptorium would move that much nearer his reach. He resolved to show only devotion. As long as he did what he was told, and stopped thinking of Lana as anything but a burden to bear, he’d be fine.

  When the monks were dismissed from supper, he tried to send Rory a reassuring smile. He completely ignored the signals his friend sent in return, a request to meet at the privy. Instead Aidan headed directly for the abbey’s back gate, which stood nearer the woods. He was worried about running out of time and returning either empty-handed or late.

  Emerging through the high embankment that circled the compound, Aidan felt curiously naked. Even the autumn sun seemed to recognize a monk out of place. It peeped at him from behind one cloud, came out to stare directly, then ducked away behind another.

  He walked tentatively past a few huts and noisy craftsmen’s sheds, soon passing into the fields. Then Aidan jerked up the hem of his robe and ran. He needed to go fast to be sure he got back on time, but more than that he needed to feel his muscles doing work other than plowing and weeding and scraping calfskin. He sprinted until his lungs hurt and sweat tickled him under his robe.

  He’d dropped back to a walk before it occurred to him that he hadn’t been gone for ten minutes and he’d already succumbed to a distraction unbecoming a monk. For Aidan, the monks’ insistence on thoughtful, unhurried movement was harder to abide than unquestioning obedience or silent meals or nearly anything else. He told himself speed had been necessary, not frivolous, if he was to obey Brother Nathan and be back before the next worship.

  Bent figures cut and bundled oats in the distance. The harvesting monks took no notice of Aidan as he ducked into the woods, relieved not to have met anyone else. The smell of sun-warmed bark and molding leaves enveloped him. Good memories welled up inside him in response. As a boy he’d spent long afternoons playing in the woods with his brother Gabriel, climbing trees and pretending to be warriors. Now Aidan was struck by how much he missed not only his family but the hillsides and vales and creeks. The flickering forest was a welcome change from the constraints of the abbey. He wandered amid the crackling autumn leaves, a smile on his face belying the pinch in his heart.

  He soon found a cluster of oaks, not as far from the abbey as he’d feared. The oak apples were plentiful on the ground or still clinging to branches within reach, and the small wasp that had grown within each had left long ago. Pulling up a fold of his robe, Aidan dropped the green and brown lumps into the makeshift pouch. He enjoyed picking out their number, twenty-seven, which whispered to him amid the chorus of birdsong and wind’s sigh and other numbers, most in the twenties and thirties, that swirled through the forest.

  When Aidan could no longer add oak apples to his cache without the same quantity spilling back out, he straightened and adjusted the load against his belly, wondering if he had enough.

  “I hope you’re not planning to eat those.”

  Aidan whirled. Standing behind him, having watched for who knew how long, was Lana.

  VII

  Aidan stared. It took several long seconds for him to overcome his surprise enough to speak. He had been so focused on the sound of twenty-seven that he had not heard the whir of her eleven behind him. Certainly he heard it now, verifying the tale his eyes told.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Lana moved closer. “I saw you running. So I followed.”

  “You fol—You’re supposed to be in the kitchen!” Rory’s words came back to him, and his astonishment rolled into suspicion. He cast his gaze into the shadowy trees, looking for spies.

  “Did they send you after me?” he wondered, dropping his voice. “Are you here to tempt me or something?”

  Her eyebrows shot up, then a smirk rose on her lips. “This is Glendermor Wood, not the Garden of Eden. And you’re the one with the fruit, though I don’t think it—”

  “Stop playing games. Why did you follow me?”

  She huffed. “I was sent to the well. The back gate to the fields was unguarded, so I ran. I was already half escaped by the time I saw you.”

  He blinked, dubious. “So they don’t know you’re gone? Nobody sent you?”

  “Well, they’ve probably noticed by now. There was shouting somewhere behind me.”

  Aidan groaned. That meant he’d be paying a price, maybe even getting the whip. “I’ll probably be lashed over you!”

  A fold appeared in her brow. “Aren’t you running away, too?”

  “Of course not! I was sent on an errand, that’s all!”

  “Oh.” Disappointment lay clearly over her face—disappointment and sudden mistrust. She backed up a step. “Well, I’m sorry you’ll be punished on my account. Truly I am. Will they really flog you? I thought monks were supposed to be kind.”

  He turned away with a frustrated snort. “They’ll say my soul matters more than my skin.” Sun dappled the trees all around them, and the dancing light made the clearing and Lana both seem unreal. Aidan prayed this might turn out to be a dream. But the thumping of his chest and the sound of his own breathing were too strong for any illusion.

  “But you’re not a prisoner,” Lana added. “I am. And I hate it. So I’m running away, even if you’re not.”

  “Donagh will just find you again.”

  “Not if I go far enough,” she replied. “Not if I hide.”

  Concern uncoiled through the anger and amazement in his chest. “Where? And what will you eat? Where will you sleep?”

  “‘Tis not winter yet. I know my way in the woods. There are hazelnuts and berries, wild carrots and garlic. And I can steal leeks and turnips by night.”

  Aidan regarded her, trying not to be impressed by her calm and almost sorry to feel his anger fading.

  “The woods are full of rogues at night, Lana. Bandits and worse. You can’t go about by yourself. You’ll be hurt, if not killed.”

  Her face never shifted, but a tight swallow gave away her own fears. “I thought your God would protect me?” she asked. Her sarcasm failed.

  Aidan didn’t bother to answer. He dumped the oak apples and eased toward her, afraid she might bolt. Wary, Lana stood her ground. Aidan looked her square in the face and reached to take both her shoulders as if reasoning with an obstinate child. The wool of her mantle was unexpectedly thin under his fingers, betraying the tension beneath
it. Her eyes latched onto his, and Aidan could feel her desperation pushing past her bold front.

  “You can’t,” he repeated, more softly. “Just go back now to the abbey. You’ll probably be punished, but not beaten or starved or left in a heap by men with no decency.”

  She studied his eyes. Aidan wished she wouldn’t. Realizing how little space separated her body from his, he felt blood pounding through his neck and down every limb.

  “Why do you care?” she whispered. Her breath smelled of the creamy cheese that Brother Galen must have fed her.

  Several safe answers occurred to Aidan but could not find the way to his lips. At such close range, her high-pitched, trickish eleven seeped in through his ears and muddied his brain.

  “You’re an eleven.” He heard the words as if someone else had spoken them. “I’ve never met an eleven before.”

  Her face puckered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Feeling exposed and out of control, Aidan let go of her arms and turned abruptly to retrieve his oak apples. He was in danger of forgetting himself and his duties. What if he’d been right about spies, and some hidden monk watched from the trees?

  “Never mind. Do what you will. I’ve got to get back.” He shot her a glare. “If they’ll still have me, once the abbot learns you’ve escaped.”

  She crouched to help him, infuriating him.

  “Come with me instead,” she said softly.

  “Be serious.”

  “I am serious,” she told him. She continued gingerly, as though stepping out on a wobbly bridge. “We’ll be safer together. We could pretend to be pilgrims. The churches, at least, will feed us if we—”

  “What makes you think I want to leave? I’m supposed to take my vows soon. I want to be a monk and work in the scriptorium!”

  Lana lifted oak apples into the fold of his robe. Without looking at his face, she asked, “Then why haven’t you spoken a single word of God or your love of Him to me?”

  He stammered, sure she must be mistaken but unable to think of an example.