Brother Avelyn turned hard on the crank, both wood and man groaning with each rotation. When would that bucket finally appear? the young novice wondered.
"Faster," insisted Quintall, Aveyln's work partner and classmate. The class had been divided by birth dates; Avelyn and Quintall had been put, together solely because they had been born in the same week, and not for compatibility, either physical or emotional. Indeed, the two seemed obviously mismatched. Quintall was the shortest man in the class of twenty-five, while Avelyn was among the tallest. Both were large boned, but Avelyn was gawky and awkward, whereas Quintall was muscular, a fine athlete.
They were opposites in temperament, as well: Avelyn calm and reverent, always in control, and Quintall a "firework," as Master Siherton, the class overseer, often appropriately referred to him.
"Is it near?" Avelyn asked after a few more unrewarded turns.
"Halfway," Quintall answered coldly, "if that."
Avelyn sighed deeply and put his aching arms into motion.
Quintall offered a disgusted snort; he would have had the bucket up by this time and the pair could have gone off and gotten their midday meal. But it was Avelyn's turn to crank, and the taskmasters were particular about such things. If Quintall tried to sneak in and push that crank, it would likely cost them both their meal.
"He is an impatient one," noted Master Jojonah, a portly man of about fifty, with soft brown eyes and rich brown hair that showed not a speck of gray. Jojonah's skin was tanned and smooth, except for a fan of lines spreading out from each of his eyes -- "credibility wrinkles," he called them.
"Firework," explained Master Siherton, tall and angular and thin, though his shoulders were wide, protruding many inches from either side of his skinny neck. Siherton's features befit his rank of class overseer, the disciplinarian of the newest brothers. His face was sharp and hawkish, his eyes small and dark -- and smaller still on those many occasions that he squinted ominously at his young students. "Quintall is full of passion," he added with obvious admiration.
Jojonah regarded the man curiously. They were inside the abbey's highest chamber, a long, narrow room with windows overlooking the rough ocean breakers on one side and the abbey courtyard on the other. All twenty-four-one novice had been forced to leave because of illness -- brothers of the newest class were out in the courtyard, tending their chores, but the focus of the two masters was Avelyn and Quintall, considered the exceptional novices.
"Avelyn is the best of the class," Jojonah remarked, mostly to gauge Siherton's reaction.
The taller man shrugged noncommittally.
"Some say that he is the best in many years," Jojonah pressed. It was true enough; Avelyn's incredible dedication was fast becoming the talk of St.-Mere- Abelle.
Again, the shrug. "He is without passion," Siherton replied.
"Without human passion because he is closer to God?" Jojonah replied, thinking that he had finally caught Siherton.
"Perhaps because he is already dead," the tall man said dryly, and he turned to glare at his counterpart.
Master Jojonah settled back on his heels but met the penetrating stare firmly. It was no secret that Siherton favored Quintall among this most important class, but the man's overt insult of Avelyn, the choice of every other master -- and reportedly of Father Abbot Markwart as well -- surprised him.
"We received news this day that his mother died," Siherton said evenly.
Jojonah looked back at the courtyard, to Avelyn at work as always as though nothing was amiss. "You have told him?"
"I did not bother."
"What macabre game do you play?"
Again came that annoying shrug. "Would he care?" Siherton replied. "He would say that she is with God now, and so she is happy; and then he would go on."
"Do you mock his faith?" Jojonah asked rather sharply.
"I despise his inhumanity," replied Siherton. "His mother has died, yet will he care? I think not. Brother Avelyn is so smug within the cocoon of his beliefs that nothing can unbalance him."
"That is the glory of faith," Jojonah said evenly.
"That is a waste of life," Siherton retorted as he leaned out the window. "You, Brother Quintall!" he called.
Both the novices stopped their work and looked up at the window. "Go to your meal," Master Siherton instructed. "And you, Brother Avelyn, do come and join with me at my -- at Master Jojonah's chambers." Siherton pulled back into the hall and eyed Jojonah.
"Let us see if our young hero has any heart at all;" Siherton remarked coldly, and he stalked off toward the stairwell that would lead him down to the master's quarters.
Jojonah watched him for a long moment, wondering which of them it was, Siherton or Avelyn, who was truly lacking in heart.
"You are using this loss for a most unworthy point," Jojonah insisted when he caught up to Siherton three levels below.
"He must be told," Siherton replied. "Let us not miss the opportunity to measure this man in whom we may soon put so much trust."
Jojonah caught Siherton by the shoulder, stopping him in mid-stride. "Avelyn has spent eight years proving himself worthy," he reminded the taller man. "Unbeknownst to him, he has been under constant scrutiny these last four years. What more would Siherton demand?"
"He must prove that he is a man," the hawkish master growled. "He must prove that he can feel. There is more to spirituality than piety, my friend. There is emotion, anger, passion."
"Eight years," Jojonah repeated.
"Perhaps the next class --"
"Too late," Master Jojonah said quietly. "The Preparers must be selected from this class, or from one of the three previous, and not a man among the seventy-five admitted in the last three years has shown the promise of Avelyn Desbris." Jojonah paused and spent a long while studying the other man. Siherton knew the truth of Jojonah's words, and seemed now caught within that truth, helpless in the face of reality. His arguments against Avelyn would be duly noted, but they rang hollow in light of the choices before the abbey. And even with any credible arguments, Siherton's posture, bordering on anger, on outrage, seemed so out of place.
"Why, my dear Siherton," Jojonah said a moment later, figuring it out, "you are jealous!"
Master Siherton growled and turned away, heading for the door to Jojonah's private room.
"Our misfortune to be born between the showers," Jojonah said, sincerely sympathetic to Siherton's frustration. "But we have our duty. Brother Avelyn is the best of the lot."
The words stung Siherton profoundly. He stopped at the door, bowed his head; and closed his eyes, conjuring images of the young Avelyn. Always working or praying; there were no other recollections of Avelyn to be found. Strength, or weakness? Siherton wondered, and he wondered, too, about the potential danger of having one so devout getting involved with the precious stones. There were pragmatic matters concerning the magic which might not sit well in a man so deep in faith, in a man so obviously convinced that he understood the desires of God.
"Father Abbot Markwart is quite pleased with the young man," Jojonah remarked.
True enough, Siherton had to admit, and he understood that he would not win any debate he might wage against the selection of Avelyn as one of the Preparers. The position of the second Preparer remained wide open, though, and so the tall master decided then and there that he would use his energy to put forth a student better to his liking. Someone like Quintall, a young' man full of fire and full of life. And, because of that passion, because of worldly lusts, a man who could be controlled.
He was not surprised; his lip didn't quiver.
"Pray tell me, Master Siherton, was it peaceful?" he heard himself ask.
Master Jojonah was glad to hear the sympathetic question. Avelyn's lack of initial response to the news that his mother had died had lent credence to Siherton's complaints. "The messenger said that she died in her sleep,", Jojonah interrupted.
Master Siherton eyed his peer sternly, considering the lie, for the messenger, a young boy, had only delivered news of the death and had offered no details surrounding it. Master Jojonah hadn't even conversed with the messenger. In a rare display of sympathy, with Jojonah glaring at him out of the corner of his brown eye, Siherton let it go.
Avelyn nodded, accepting the news.
"You will want to leave at once," Siherton offered, "to join your father at your mother's gravesite."
Avelyn stared at him incredulously.
"Or you may choose to stay," Jojonah put in immediately, seeing the lure. If Avelyn left St.-Mere-Abelle for any reason, he would have to wait until the following year to enter. His reentry would be guaranteed, but his position as a Preparer -- though he had no idea that he would be offered such a position or even that there was such a thing -- would be lost.
"My mother is already buried, I assume," Avelyn responded to Siherton, "and my father has surely left her grave to return home. Given the short time since their departure from St.-Mere-Abelle, he has yet a long road before him."
Master Siherton squinted ominously and leaned close over Avelyn, glaring openly. "Your mother has died, boy," he said slowly, accentuating each syllable. "Do you care?"
The words hit young Avelyn hard. Did he care? He wanted to punch out at the tall master for even insinuating otherwise. He wanted to fly into a rage, tear the room -- and anyone who tried to stop him -- apart!
But that would be a disservice to Annalisa, Avelyn knew, an insult to the memory of the gentle woman. Avelyn's mother had lived in the light of God. Avelyn had to believe that, or else all of her life -- and all of his own life - - would be no more than a lie. The reward for such a life, for such a good heart, was a better existence in a better place. Annalisa was with God now.
That thought bolstered the young man. He straightened his shoulders and looked squarely at the imposing Master Siherton.
"My mother knew that she would not make it home," he said quietly, aiming his words at Jojonah. "We all knew it. She lived on, in sickness, only to see me enter the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was her glory that I join the Abellican Church, and I would be stealing that glory if I left now." He sucked in his breath, bolstering his declaration.
"The Order of St.-Mere-Abelle, God's Year 816," Brother Avelyn said without the slightest quiver in his voice. "That is my place. That is the vision that allowed Annalisa Desbris to pass on peacefully from this world."
Master Jojonah nodded, seeing the calm and logical reasoning, and at once impressed with, and frightened of, the depth of this young man's faith. It was obvious that Avelyn had loved his mother dearly, and yet, there was a sincerity in his. demeanor. In that, Jojonah could clearly see Siherton's point. Either Avelyn had a direct line to God or the young man simply had no idea of what it was to be human.
"May I go?" Avelyn asked.
The question caught Jojonah off guard, and as he considered it, he came to realize that Avelyn's stoicism was, perhaps, not so deeply rooted. "You will be excused from your duties this day," the master stated.
"No," Avelyn replied without hesitation. He bowed his head as soon as he realized that he had just spoken against a master's command, an offense that could lead to exile from the abbey. "Please allow me to continue my duties."
Jojonah looked to Siherton, who was shaking his head disgustedly. Without a word, the tall master stalked from the room.
Jojonah suspected that young Brother Avelyn should be careful in the coming weeks. Master Siherton would see to his dismissal if given any real cause. The gentle master hesitated for a long while, making sure that Siherton would be far away by the time that Avelyn left the room.
"As you wish, Brother Avelyn," Jojonah subsequently agreed. "Be away, then. You have a few minutes left for your midday meal."
Avelyn bowed deeply and exited the room.
Jojonah folded his hands on his desk and spent a long while staring at the closed door. What was it about Avelyn that really bothered Siherton? he wondered. Was it, as Siherton insisted, the young man's apparent inhumanity? Or was it something more profound? Was Avelyn, perhaps, a higher standard, a shadowy mirror, held up before all the monks of St.-Mere-Abelle, a testament of true faith that seemed so rare in these times, even in the holy abbey?
That thought shook Jojonah as he looked around at his decorated chamber, at the beautiful tapestry he had commissioned from the gallery of Porvon dan Guardinio, among the most respected artists in all the world. He considered the gold leaf highlighting the carved hardwood of the room's support beams, the rich rug from some exotic land, the cushiony chairs, the many baubles and trinkets on his vast bookshelf, every one of them worth more gold than a common laborer would make in a year.
Piety, dignity, poverty, that was the pledge offered upon entering the Order of St.-Mere-Abelle. That was the standard. Jojonah glanced around the room again, reminding himself that most of the other masters, even some of the tenth- year immaculates, had chambers more richly adorned.
Piety, dignity, poverty.
But pragmatism, too, should be part of that pledge, so said Father Abbot Markwart, and so had declared the abbey's. previous leaders, dating back more than two centuries. In Honce-the-Bear, wealth equalled power, and without power, how could the Order hope to influence the lives of the common folk? Wasn't God better served by strength than by weakness?
So went the widely accepted argument that allowed for relaxing some aspects of the holy pledge.
Still, Master Jojonah could see why a student such as Avelyn Desbris would so unnerve Master Siherton.
That night, Avelyn retired to his room, thoroughly exhausted, both emotionally and physically. He had spent all his waking hours at demanding work, volunteering for the most difficult parts of each task. He had lost count of the buckets he had cranked up from the well -- somewhere near fifty -- and had gone right from that heavy work to removing loose stones near to the northern end of the abbey's top wall, pulling them free and piling them neatly for the masons who would follow the next day.
Only the call to vespers, the ceremony heralding eventide, had interrupted Avelyn's frantic pace. He went quietly to the service, then skipped his evening meal altogether and went right to his chamber, a five-foot-square cubicle with a single stool, which doubled as a table for Avelyn's candle, and a cot -- little more than a flat board and a blanket -- that folded down from one wall.
The work was ended now, and the ache settled in. Despite his weariness, Avelyn Desbris could hardly sleep. Images of his mother flooded his thoughts; he wondered if he might see a vision of her now, a visitation of her spirit before it went to its place in heaven. Would Annalisa come to say goodbye to her youngest child, or had she already said her farewells to Avelyn in the courtyard outside of St.-Mere-Abelle?
Avelyn rolled off the cot and fumbled with his flint and steel, finally getting the candle lit. He glanced around in the shadowy light, as if expecting Annalisa to be standing in a comer waiting for him.
She wasn't, to Avelyn's ultimate disappointment.
The young man settled on the edge of his cot, head bowed, hands resting on his sore thighs. He felt the first tears leaking from his eyes and tried to deny them. To cry would be a weakness, Avelyn reasoned, a lack of faith. If what he believed, what he truly held in his heart, could not sustain him in a time of death, then of what value was it? The Abellican Church, the ancient scriptures, promised heaven to those deserving, and who could be more deserving than gentle and generous Annalisa Desbris?
A tear rolled down Avelyn's cheek, then another. He dropped his head lower, brought his hands up. to cover his eyes, his wet eyes.
A sob lifted Avelyn's bowed shoulders. He tried to deny it, tried to fight back. He recited the Prayer of the Dead, the Prayer of the Faithful, the Prayer of Eternal Promise, all in a row, forcing his voice to hold steady.
Still the tears came; every so often his even tone was broken by a sniffle or a sob.
He went through the recitals again, and again. He prayed with all his heart, wrapping the words around images of his mother, often intoning her name between lines of verse. He was on the floor then, but did not know how he had gotten there. On the floor and curled up like a baby, wanting his mother, praying for his mother.
Finally, after more than an hour, Avelyn composed himself and sat back on the cot, taking several deep breaths to fight away the last of the sobs. He thought long and hard then, considering his grief, searching his soul for the weakness that had come into his faith.
Soon enough, he had his answer, and Avelyn was glad. He was not crying, he realized, for Annalisa, for he did indeed hold faith that she had passed on to a deserved better existence. He was crying for himself, for his brothers and sisters, for his father, for all who knew Annalisa Desbris and would not be graced by her presence in this life again.
Avelyn could accept that. His faith was intact and solid, and so he was not desecrating the memory of his mother. He moved to blow out the candle, then changed his mind and settled back on the cot. Still his eyes searched the corners of the shadowy room for his mother's spirit.
Perhaps he would find her in his dreams.
Two men walked quietly away from Brother Avelyn's closed door. "Are you satisfied?" Master Jojonah asked Master Siherton when they were far away.
Indeed Siherton had been pleased to hear Avelyn crying, to know that the too -- dedicated young man was possessed of human emotions, but the sound of Avelyn's sobs had not changed the stern master's general attitude toward Avelyn. He gave a slight nod to Jojonah and started away.
"I have been given the blessings of Father Abbot Markwart to show young Brother Avelyn the stones," Jojonah called after him.
Siherton stopped dead in his tracks, fought down the angry protest that rose in his throat, and then nodded again, only slightly, and continued on his way.
It was settled then. Brother Avelyn Desbris would be one of the Preparers.
Avelyn tried to keep his head bowed, his eyes to the floor, as befitted his lowly station, but he couldn't help notice some of the splendors that surrounded him as he followed Master Jojonah through the winding corridors of the Abbot's Maze, the most private and revered place in all of St.-Mere-Abelle, and one that a first-year novice would certainly not expect to visit.
Jojonah's explanation for the tour had been weak, some remark about an area that needed cleaning. After only a few weeks in the abbey, Avelyn knew enough about the routine to understand that students much older and more experienced than he were the normal choice for any tasks, however menial, in the Abbot's Maze. He also knew that nothing special was going on, that many of the older students would have been available to Master Jojonah.
His questions were kept private though, for it was not his place to ask anything of the masters. Only to obey, and so he was, walking as quietly as he could beside the plump man, keeping his head bowed but still stealing an occasional glance at the splendor: the gold leaf bordering every side door, the wondrous and intricate carvings on every beam of wood, the mosaic tile patterns on the floors, the tapestries, so rich in detail that Avelyn figured he could spend hours and hours lingering over but one of them. Master Jojonah talked constantly, though he said nothing of interest -- slight remarks about the weather, a storm that had hit twenty years before, the passing of his favorite baker in the town of St.-Mere-Abelle, a surprisingly off-color remark about the man's "lusty" wife. None of it diverted Avelyn's attention from the wonders of the place, though he did listen somewhat, fearing to miss any questions directed his way.
They stopped before a heavy door -- and what a door! Avelyn could not help but lift his eyes at the sight of the thing, at the layers and layers of painted carvings, scenes of battles, of Saint Abelle being burned at the stake, of the healing hands of Mother Bastibule. Scenes of angels conquering demons, of the mighty demon dactyl screaming in agony as its own lava poured over it, consuming it. Scenes of the Halo, the heavenly gift, enwrapping all the others, an oval because of the angle at which it was portrayed. It started, if such a complete thing could be said to start, at the bottom left corner of the door, and led the observer's eye upward across the portal to the top right. And on the way, as Avelyn's eyes scanned, it seemed to him as if the history of the world, of the faith, unfolded to him, the images packed so that one led to another easily, with enough distinction so that each made an impact, however brief, like the flowing of time.
He wanted to kneel and pray; he wanted to ask who the artist -- or artists; for certainly no one man could have created all of this -- might be, but realized before the words left his mouth that any name would be inconsequential, for certainly the carvers and illuminators who had done this had done so at the explicit intervention of God. He alone, who called all the men and women of the world His children, might have done this.
"You know of the Ring Stones?" Master Jojonah asked abruptly, and the words sounded sharp and out of place to Avelyn. He nearly jumped, and turned with a start, surprised that a master would be so foolish as to speak in the presence of such beauty.
Then the impact of the question hit him fully.
"You know?" Jojonah asked again.
Avelyn swallowed hard, trying to discern his best response. Of course he knew of the Ring Stones, the heavenly gifts to St.-Mere-Abelle, the source of all the magic in the world. Avelyn didn't know much, though, just the common rumors about how the stones would fall from the heavens into the hands of waiting monks, to be blessed by the Father Abbot that their special powers be realized.
"We are the Keepers of the Stones;" Master Jojonah said after a moment, Avelyn still making no move to respond.
The young monk nodded slightly.
"It is our most holy duty," Jojonah said, moving to the door and lifting the heavy latch that held it. Avelyn blinked; amid the wonders of the door, he hadn't even noticed the huge latch!
"The stones are the proof of our faith," Jojonah remarked, pushing wide the door.
Avelyn stood as if turned to stone. "The proof of our faith," he whispered under his breath, hardly believing that a master of St-Mere-Abelle had uttered those borderline blasphemous words. Faith heeded no proof -- indeed the very value of faith was loyalty to beliefs without proof!
Of course Avelyn would not protest aloud, and even his silent musings were washed away as the heavy door opened silently, on balanced and oiled hinges, to reveal the greatest splendor of all.
The room inside was well lit, though Avelyn saw no torches and didn't smell the usual odor of burning wood. They were far below ground in one of the abbey's interior chambers, so there could be no window. But there was indeed light inside that room, such a light as to make Avelyn think of a cloudless midsummer day. It filled every corner, every crack in every stone, and reflected brilliantly off the glass covers of the many cases set about the room, and off their contents, as well, hundreds and hundreds of polished stones.
The Ring Stones!
Jojonah moved into the room, Avelyn practically stumbling behind him. The young monk made no pretense of keeping his gaze low now, looking left and right as they passed each case, marveling at the gems, the reds and blues, amber- colored stones and violet crystals. One case of a dozen or so smooth stones, a dark gray in hue but somehow seeming even blacker than night, caught Avelyn's attention and made him shudder, though he did not know why. In another case he saw clear stones -- he recognized them as diamonds -- and he paused again, and noted that Jojonah, too, had paused, allowing him to linger.
Avelyn studied the way the light worked off the many facets of the diamonds, how it seemed to delve within the stone itself, swirling down to crystalline depths. Then he realized the truth.
"The diamonds are the source of the light," he said, and he bit his lip immediately when he realized that he had spoken out of turn.
"Well done," Master Jojonah congratulated, and Avelyn relaxed somewhat. "What do you know of the Ring Stones?"
"They are the source of all the magic in the world," Avelyn recited.
Jojonah nodded but said, "Not exactly true."
Avelyn stared at him hard.
"The Ring Stones are the source of all goodly magic," Master Jojonah explained.
"God-given magic," Avelyn dared to put in.
Jojonah hesitated -- a pause not consciously caught by Avelyn, but one that he would recall in years to come -- then nodded. "But there are, too, the Earth Stones, the source of evil magic, the power of the dactyls," said Jojonah. "They are not numerous, by God's grace, and can only be used by those demons -- who, by God's grace, are even less numerous!" He ended with a chuckle, but Avelyn was hard-pressed to see any humor in a discussion of the demon dactyls.
Jojonah cleared his throat uncomfortably. "And there is magic in the Touel'alfar, as well," he said. "In their melodious singing, so it is said, and in the metal their gardens `grow' from the soil."
"Grow?" Avelyn asked.
Master Jojonah shrugged; it was not important. "Tell me of the Ring Stones," he prompted. "Who gathers them?"
"The brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle," Avelyn answered immediately.
"From where?"
"They fall from the sky, from the Halo, into the waiting hands of --"
Jojonah's chuckle stopped him short. "They fall with a speed greater than that of an arrow in flight," the master explained. "And they are hot, my novice friend, so hot as to burn the flesh and the bone beneath it!" Jojonah chuckled again as he described to Avelyn an image of a young monk standing in a field, as holed as the cheese of Alpinador, an incredulous look on his face, a group of glowing rocks on the ground behind him.
Avelyn bit hard on his lip. He realized that Jojonah wasn't mocking him, but could not understand why he was being told these things.
"Where do we get them?" Jojonah asked suddenly.
Avelyn started to say, "The Halo," but stopped short, realizing that that ground had already been covered. His expression blank, he merely shrugged.
"Pimaninicuit," Jojonah said.
Avelyn's expression did not change.
"An island," the master explained. "Pimaninicuit. That is the only place where the sacred stones may be collected."
Avelyn had never heard such a thing.
"If you ever utter that name to any who do not know it, without the express permission -- no, the express instruction -- of the presiding father abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle, all of the powers of the abbey will be put into focus to bring about your execution."
Avelyn knew why he had never heard the name before.
"When do we get them?" Jojonah asked, changing the subject so abruptly that he had Avelyn thoroughly flustered. Again the young monk could only shrug helplessly, wanting to know but afraid to know. There was something most sacred, yet particularly unmysterious, and thus unholy, in all of this, a tingling of ecstasy combined with a slightly foul taste that Avelyn Desbris could not ignore.
"The stones do not come to ground often," Jojonah explained, sounding more like a scholar than a priest. "They do not fall frequently, but they do fall regularly." He led the way to the left-hand wall of the large chamber, and as they neared, Avelyn could see that the murals carved there were, in fact, charts, astronomical charts. Avelyn, who had often spent hours at a time gazing at the wondrous night sky, recognized some of the points. He noted the four- starred girdle of Progos-Behemoth the Warrior, the most prominent constellation in the northern sky, and the arcing stars that marked the handle of the Farmer's Bucket, the one he had to walk away from his parent's back door in order to see, for it always lingered right above their roof. Corona, with its Halo, was certainly evident, and prominent, being the center of it all, as Corona was the center of the universe.
Looking closer, Avelyn noted grooves in the wall. At first he thought them the borders of the known spheres, for he had heard theories of the universe as a series of overlapping, interlocking heavenly spheres, the invisible bubbles that held the layers of stars in place. When he realized that most of the grooves were near Corona, connecting the sun and the moon, and the five planets, he came to understand the truth. Those grooves were of a practical and not aesthetic nature, serving the mechanics of the chart so that the heavenly bodies could be kept in motion. Avelyn carefully noted the position of Sheila, the moon, and stared at it long enough to realize that it was indeed moving, ever so slightly, along its path about Corona.
"Six generations," Master Jojonah explained, after he had given Avelyn several quiet minutes' in which to study the fabulous chart. "Or nearly," he added when Avelyn turned to him. "A hundred and seventy-three years will pass between each of the offerings."
"Offerings?"
"The stone showers," Jojonah explained. "Consider yourself blessed, my novice friend, for you live in a time of the showers."
Avelyn breathed hard and stared again at the chart, as if expecting little lines of falling stones to appear between the Halo and Corona.
"Have you ever witnessed one of the stones at work?" Jojonah asked suddenly, drawing Avelyn from his contemplations. The young man stared at him wide-eyed with hope and eagerness, his hands clenching and opening at his sides.
Jojonah pointed to a case near to the middle of the room, and motioned for Avelyn to approach it. As soon as his back was turned to the master, Avelyn heard a click from the wall and suspected that Jojonah had thrown some sort of lever, probably hidden within the tapestry of the star charts, to unlock the case. The master soon joined him at the case and slowly slid back the glass top.
There were several various stones within, all smooth and polished. Jojonah's hand reached for one of two of the shiny gray stones. "The soul stones," he explained. "Hematite, by name." He held the stone tightly in his right hand, then reached back in with his left and took out a different gem, mostly clear, but with a slight shading of yellow-green. "Chrysoberyl," he said. "A stone of protection, in this clear form. Always a wise choice when dealing with the dark hematite!"
Avelyn didn't really understand, but he was too overwhelmed by all of this to think of interrupting with a question.
Jojonah dropped the chrysoberyl into the pocket of his thick robe and moved far from Avelyn, facing the younger man directly. "Count to ten," he instructed, "that I might have time to cast the enchantment. Then place your hands behind your back and raise your fingers, however many you choose, in a slow and clear sequence of seven distinct numbers. Take care, to remember your sequence!"
The master closed his eyes and began to softly chant. Avelyn hesitated for a moment, trying to digest the newest information. He collected himself quickly and did as instructed, alternating the number of raised fingers behind his back. Through it all, Master Jojonah continued his soft chant, his eyes never fluttering, all of his body seeming locked in place.
A moment later, the master opened his eyes. "Seven, three, six, five, five, two, and eight," Jojonah said, seeming quite pleased with himself.
"You heard what was within my mind!" Avelyn gasped.
"No," Jojonah quickly corrected. "I left my physical body and ventured behind you. I merely watched as you raised your fingers."
Avelyn started to respond but held the thought private, though his labored breath and incredulous expression revealed volumes.
"Not so hard a task!" Master Jojonah said suddenly, exploding with delight. "The hematite is a powerful tool, among the most powerful stones of all. Using it to walk out of body barely touches at the edge of its true magic. Anyone trained in the stones could do it. Why even you . . ." Jojonah's voice trailed off, a tease that anxious Avelyn could not ignore.
"Brother Avelyn," the master said in all seriousness a moment later, "would you care to try?"
Before he could even begin to consider the offer, Avelyn nodded so forcefully that he was sure he must have looked incredibly simple. His feet, too, were moving before his conscious thought could stop them, as if he were being drawn to the stone.
Jojonah nearly laughed aloud at the spectacle, and held forth the hematite. Avelyn reached for it, but the master pulled it back.
"It is a powerful stone," the master said somberly, "one that could put you somewhere you do not belong. Take care in your travels, my young friend, for you may soon be lost!"
Avelyn retracted his hand a few inches, wondering if he was being a bit foolish here. The temptation was too strong, though, and he reached out again, and this time, Jojonah let him take the hematite.
Its feel was impossibly smooth, almost liquid. It was heavier than Avelyn had expected, quite solid and dense. He ran his fingers over it repeatedly, felt something deeper within it, a place of mystery, of magic. He looked to Jojonah and saw that the master was clutching the chrysoberyl close to his heart.
"It will prevent our spirits from crossing," Jojonah explained. "That would not be a wise choice."
Avelyn nodded and backed off a few steps. Jojonah put his free hand behind his back. "All in your due time," he said softly. "I will know when you are in the hold of the magic, and then I will begin."
Avelyn hardly heard him. Already the young monk was falling into the depths of the stone. To his rubbing fingers, the hematite felt truly liquid then, and inviting. Avelyn stared at it for a long while, then closed his eyes, but saw it still. It was expanding before him, engulfing his hands, then his arms. Then he was falling, falling.
He resisted, and the hematite receded dramatically, almost forcing him from the trance. But Avelyn caught his fears in time and started the journey once more.
His hands were gone, then his arms. Then all was gray, then black.
Avelyn stepped out of his body. He looked back and saw himself standing there, holding the stone. He turned back to Jojonah, saw most distinctly the chrysoberyl, fiercely glowing and encasing all of the master in a thin white bubble, a ward that Avelyn knew his spirit could not pass.
He started toward Jojonah, giving the man a wide berth. He felt incredibly light, felt as if by will alone he could rise from the ground and fly.
Behind the master, Avelyn watched the sequence of fingers: one, three, two, one, five.
"Go higher," he heard Master Jojonah prompt.
Avelyn was surprised that he could even hear the voice in this state. He understood the command and willed himself off the ground, drifting effortlessly toward the ceiling.
"There is no physical barrier that can stop you," Jojonah remarked. "No barriers at all. Have you seen the roof? There is something on the roof that you should know."
Despite the thrill, Avelyn flinched as he drifted through the room's ceiling. He marveled at the loose structure of the wood, at the density of the higher room's tile floor.
There were several monks, men a few years Avelyn's senior, in the chamber above. Avelyn felt himself grinning, felt his physical form in the lower room grinning, as he passed, the men totally oblivious of him.
Then the grin was gone. Something tugged hard at the young monk, some dark temptation that he should enter one of these men, that he could push out the host spirit and possess the body!
He was beyond them before that dangerous notion fully registered, drifting higher, through the next ceiling into an empty room, then through that ceiling and the next and the next and the next, this last one much thicker. Then he was outside, though he felt none of the physical sensations, the warmth of the sun or the chill of the ocean breeze. He saw that he was rising above one of the highest spots of St.-Mere-Abelle, coming right out of the roof. Still he went higher, and Avelyn feared that he would never stop the ascent, that he would drift through the clouds, out to the Halo, the stars. Perhaps he would shine in the heavens above, a fifth light on the girdle of Progos-Behemoth!
He dismissed that ridiculous notion and turned his spirit about, looking at the roof of the abbey. From up here: St.-Mere-Abelle appeared as a thick and stretched snake, winding its way along the top of the sea cliff. Avelyn saw a commotion in the courtyard, far to the side, as a group of young monks labored at the well and with the abbey's horses and mules.
"Come back," bade a distant voice, Master Jojonah's voice, reaching Avelyn through his physical form. The disconnection was not complete, the young monk realized, and he shuddered to think of what a complete break from his own physical form might mean.
Shocked back to his senses, Avelyn turned his attention to the high roof directly below him. He had seen this roof before, from one of the higher points of the abbey, but looking on it from this vantage point revealed a most clever design, an image that could not be seen from a lower angle. Carved into the roof were four arms, two sets, hands lifted high, palms open and holding stones.
The journey back was quicker, until Avelyn got into the room directly above the Ring Stone chamber. This time the temptation of the other bodies pulled at him even harder. He felt himself being drawn in. He pictured the hematite as another living being, commanding him, whispering promises of power into his spiritual ear.
Avelyn felt something touch his hand -- not his spiritual hand, but the physical one, the one clutching the stone. He sensed the chrysoberyl again, that magical barrier, and then his spirit was pulled to the floor, through the floor, careening back to his waiting body.
Avelyn nearly jumped when he opened his physical eyes again, seeing Master Jojonah so very close.
"One, three, two, one, five," the young monk said abruptly, trying to satisfy whatever curiosity held the older man.
Jojonah waved his hand and shook his head, uninterested. "What did you see?" he asked.
Avelyn noted that Jojonah held both stones again, though he didn't remember giving the hematite back to the man.
"What did you see?" Jojonah pressed, moving even closer.
"Arms," Avelyn blurted. ""Two sets, palms open . . ." Before he could finish, Jojonah fell away, gasping, laughing, crying all at once. Avelyn had never seen such a display, couldn't begin to decipher it.
"How?" Avelyn asked with enough force to bring Jojonah back to his senses. "The stones," Avelyn clarified when he had the man's attention. "How could this be?"
Jojonah launched into a rushed explanation, more the regurgitation of a prepared speech than anything spontaneous. He talked of the humours of the body joining together with the alien humours of the stones to create the seemingly magical reaction. He even compared what had happened to Avelyn with the tablets given to a monk with a stomachache to induce a belch or a fart.
As he listened, Avelyn felt the mystery melting around him. For the first time since they had entered the room, there was no reverence in Master Jojonah's voice, just the dry lecturing tone of an instructor. Avelyn didn't buy into it, any of it. He could. not explain what had just happened to him, but he knew instinctively that this talk of "alien humours" belittled the experience. There was indeed a mystery here that no tumble of fancy words could lay bare; there was something here of a higher order. Master Jojonah had called the stone showers "offerings," and to Avelyn, that description seemed exactly wrong. "Graces" was a more appropriate term, the young monk decided there and then. He glanced around the room again, from stone to stone, his reverence of these gifts from God tenfold what it had been when first he had entered the chamber.
"You should be among those select few who make the journey," Master Jojonah declared, and the weight of the statement drew Avelyn back to him.
"To Pimaninicuit," Jojonah explained, his grin widening as Avelyn's brown eyes widened. "You are young and strong and full of God's voice."
Tears collected in Avelyn's eyes and began to stream-down his face at the mere thought that he might be among the chosen few to get so very close to the greatest gift of God
Jojonah dismissed him then and he left the room as if in a trance, overwhelmed indeed.
When he was gone, Master Jojonah replaced the stones, closed the case, then went to the wall and moved the hidden switch to lock it fast. All the while, the master considered the weight of what he had witnessed. A first-year novice should not have been able to activate the magic of the stone, despite what he had told Avelyn about hematite. Even if a novice had managed to fall into the magic, the control should have been above him, a quick and random out of body experience, culminating with a gasping, disbelieving, thoroughly overwhelmed young man.
For Avelyn to control the magic enough to get behind Jojonah's back and see the finger sequence was incredible. For the young man to use the stones and drift out of the room, out of the abbey, and see the design on the roof was truly amazing. Jojonah would not have believed it possible. The master paused and lamented his own weakness. He had been in St.-Mere-Abelle for more than three decades, and had only been able to use the hematite that way for the last three years!
Jojonah pushed his own self-pity away and smiled about Avelyn. The young monk was a good choice, a God-given choice indeed, to go to Pimaninicuit.
