Chapter 12: The Tower

Marriette found a ride with a wagon carrying supplies to a monastery up north by the mountains. John, the drover, knew the town George had talked about and said he would be passing through there on his way. She bundled herself up in heavy wool blankets and sat on the seat beside John. He talked as much as George on the road, but where George had pointed out landmarks along the road, John pointed out the sites of tragic events. Given the amount of snow on the road, and in the fields beside them, she was nervous. His stories made her fears worse.

Here, a family was accosted by bandits and killed. There, a drover lost a wheel in a blizzard and froze to death. The longer and more torturous the death involved the more John relished the telling of the tale. Marriette had never realized that life in the country was so dangerous. If it wasn't bandits, it was the weather, if it wasn't the weather, it was animals. There was a spot where a man had starved to death while pinned under a tree that had fallen on him. He had time enough to scribe a last letter to his family in the wood of the tree before he died. She wrung her hands and held tight to the seat. John finally noticed her agitation.

"Don't you worry, as long as the wind doesn't blow up too hard we will be fine. I have a fine strong wife who would kill me if I died out here."

In spite of the never-ending tales of death and destruction, their journey north was uneventful. They arrived in the village and parked by the local inn.

"You've been good company, Marie," John said. "If you finish your business quick enough, come back and wait here for me. I will take you back down to Northdale."

"Thanks, John," Marriette said, "I would appreciate it."

Since John's whole load was destined for the monastery, there was no unloading. They went in and ordered supper. The inn looked and sounded a lot like the Broken Dog Art had taken her to once or twice. Plenty of talk; but most of it harmless. The trick, Art had said, was to know when someone got serious about making trouble. No one here looked serious.

John was well known in the inn, since he often brought supplies to the village. He was going all the way to the monastery because the farmer who used to take the monks their food refused to go back. By the time they were done with supper, John had wrangled the tale out of the bar man.

"You won't believe this, Marie," John said, "but the man who did the supply run to the monastery was him who picked up a man who fainted right in front of his donkey. He took him up to the monks, and that was the one they're saying was possessed and killed all those people. The farmer's here tonight." Marie smiled and told him to go and find the man. John grinned like a kid given a candy and vanished into the crowd.

Shortly after John went searching for the farmer, an older man sat himself at the table across from Mariette.

"We don't see many women visiting our inn," he said. "Welcome. If anyone bothers you, just let me know, and I will have a word with them."

"Thank you," Marriette said, "but everyone has been very kind."

"Your friend seems to have deserted you."

"He's off trying to find the farmer who picked up the man on the road." Marriette shook her head and pretended to shudder. "He collects horrible stories."

"Well, Ganther will give him plenty of those. I swear the story grows every time he tells it. First time I heard it, it was just some ordinary man who fell on the road. Now blond hair has become writhing snakes, and blue eyes flaming eyes from the pit."

"I am sure John will be delighted," Marriette said trying to calm her pounding heart. "Are there any other storytellers he should be looking for?"

"Young William has quite the story. He met the demon bandit, as they are calling him now, and lived to tell of it."

"Is he here tonight?" asked Marriette.

"No, he has sworn off drinking and spends all his time with that red haired granddaughter of his."

"Where would we find him, then, this Young William with a granddaughter?"

The man laughed. "Old William has been dead some thirty years, but we still call him Young William."

"What do they call his son?"

"Bill," the man said, laughing even harder. "Though, truly, I'm his son-in-law." He reached across the table. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. The girl is my sister's daughter. Your John will be driving close enough to their farm tomorrow. You will know it by the carved rooster on the gatepost. Just tell them Bill sent you. I'll give you some soft cider to bring my dad since he no longer drinks the good stuff."

John returned a few minutes after Bill had left. He told her Ganther's story in all its bloody detail. He was delighted to carry Mariette up to Young William's farm the next day and hear the old man's tale.

The morning dawned crisp and cold - Marriette was very glad for the blankets that she had wrapped around her. John was content in his heavy wool coat and gloves. He turned them out so she could see.

"Sheepskin," he said proudly, "leather on the outside and wool on the inside. They let me drive and keep my hands warm."

They drove through the morning in silence, and Marriette realized that John had never been up this far before and didn't know the stories of the road. His nose twitched when they passed a marker on the side of the road, but he just sighed and drove on. They reached Young William's farm just before noon of the short winter's day. True to Bill's word, they were welcomed with open arms.

Young William insisted they stay for their noon meal, so they sat off to one side and listened to the old man tell his story as a variety of children set the table with cracked plates and chipped mugs. Cheese and meat on a platter were set in the center.

"It was just as the rains had come on heavy. We had the crop off and the field was plowed. They walked across the plowed field, then scraped off their boots, as bold as brass. I told the family to hide then went out with my Janie's husband and his brother to run them off. Only the young fellow with the sword stared right through me, like I was no more to him than a bug. Had the coldest eyes I ever saw. He'd have killed me as soon as look at me, only I think he was tired from walking across the mucky field in the rain. Told me to move or die. So, I asked him what he wanted. If I could get him satisfied and off my land, I was going to give up drink and start going to church again. They wanted some cold weather gear. We always have extra around here. I put him in the barn while the brothers went with a couple of his men to fetch the stuff."

"The barn was warm and I could see they were getting more relaxed, so I just oiled up the cloth I was giving them and watched them. The boys came back with the other two and coats for all of them. I had rope and rags with the cloth by then. I was hoping they were all set to move on. That's when Fran's prize hen wandered out of the stall and those fellows saw supper looking up at them."

"Fran, my granddaughter, wasn't too pleased with that. I told them to hide, so, of course, she had come out and hid in the barn. She grabbed a pitchfork and tried to stick the young one with the eyes with it. Didn't do much damage, but he had his sword out ready to take her fool red head right off. Only he didn't. I can't explain it. A man like that should have killed her like I would kill a dog that bit me, but his arm stuck. Him wanting to kill, but his arm saying no; I'm mighty glad his arm won. Sent them off with a fine young pig. When they vanished into the rain, I grabbed my family and headed into town. We come back a couple of days later, but they hadn't been back. I poured out my drink and I been scaring the young priest at our church every Sunday since."

"His eyes were sad." Marriette jumped as a little girl spoke up behind her. "Papa says he was a mean one, like the dog we had that killed the chickens, but his eyes were sad."

Young William ruffled the girl's hair.

"She might be right at that. All I know is that I looked in his eyes and saw death. I know for sure he killed other folk up and down the forest boundary. The baron's sent a group of his soldiers into the forest, just today, to search him out and kill him, and I can't say I am sorry to hear it."

"You said he was young?" asked Marriette.

"Yep, he wasn't much older than you, except for those eyes."

"Did they call him anything?"

"Not that I could hear. I think he called one Rat and one Oaf, but they didn't talk to him at all, though they watched him almost as hard as I did."

Fran's mother called them to the table and decreed that there would be no talk of bandits at her table. Marie told them about Northdale and even a little about Bellpolis. Then it came time to get on the road again. She and John decided she might as well ride up to the monastery and back with him, so off they went. The day continued cold and clear, and stayed cold through the night.

They arrived at the monastery in the early morning. The young monk at the gate had to run for the abbot since, by custom, women weren't allowed in the monastery. The abbot, however, was very understanding. He watched with approval while Marriette checked the load out of the wagon.

"Come inside for a bit and warm up. It doesn't hurt to remind the monks of their vows now and again." The abbot led them into his office. He poured out some tea for them and cut some rough bread. "It isn't much, but we try to live simple lives of contemplation here. Too much comfort makes it hard to focus."

"So you keep yourselves hungry?" asked Marriette, curious. The abbot wasn't at all like the archbishop in the cathedral.

"Not hungry, but our diet is simple and predictable. We put the effort we would have used to wonder about what's for supper to use asking what God has in mind for us."

"That must be hard, after this summer," John said.

"Yes," the abbot said, "the monks who died were like sons to me, and the strangers were also God's children."

"What about the demon?" John asked. 

Marriette tried to kick him under the table but feared she'd kick the abbot instead.

 "There was a man who may or may not have been possessed by a demon. He had some of the signs, but not others. Since he escaped during the attack, we may never know. I fear the bandit we have heard about in the forest may be him." He stood up. "It is time for you to go, before the weather changes."

As they stepped outside, the wind sucked the heat from Marriette. It howled like a living thing as it drove snow into their faces. The abbot pulled them back inside.

"You may stay in the guest rooms until the storm has passed. Feel free to use the chapel, if you wish. If a brother speaks to you, you may talk to him, but otherwise please respect the silence of our community." A young monk showed them to rooms. They were tiny, but warm and clean. Marriette stretched out on the bed and was soon asleep.

A bell woke her, and for a moment she didn't know where she was. Once she remembered, she realized the bell must be a call to prayer. Marriette no longer felt tired, so she followed the sound of the bell until she saw a line of monks entering what she guessed was the chapel. She walked in after them and sat herself at the back. She didn't understand the prayers. They were in some ancient and sonorous language, but they warmed her. She stayed through the prayers then remained in the chapel after the monks had filed out.

In the silence, Mariette let her mind wander where it wanted. The day in the market, her father, Torrance, her fears, the old woman's voice speaking about a terrifying future and everything fell into place as the answer to a question she didn't know how to ask.

"May I help you?" Marriette turned. An old man stood holding a stick and as his eyes stared off into nothing.

"I am waiting for a question," she said.

"Most people wait for answers," he replied.

"I think I know the answer, but it is the question that is important."

"The abbot told us that we had a fair visitor. He didn't say you were wise." The old monk sat himself on a bench near her.

"Not very wise, I'm afraid," Marriette said.

"So, you have achieved the first part of wisdom," the monk said, "to know that you are not wise."

"What is the second part?" she asked.

"To know that God is." He pushed himself to his feet. "I will leave you to your contemplations."

"Brother..." Marriette began.

"Brother Stephen," he said.

"Do you think the abbot would let me stay?" She didn't know where the question came from, but it felt right.

"The only way to learn is to ask," Brother Stephen said, and he walked out of the chapel.

Marriette found her way back to the abbot's office and knocked timidly on the door.

"Come in," he called.

As Marriette entered he looked at her and his eyes widened.

"I would like to stay a while, here," she said, stumbling over her words. "I think what I need is here."

"And what do you need?" asked the abbot.

"I don't know," Marriette said, "I am too tangled up in what I want."

"Ah," he said and waited. 

Marriette didn't know what else to say, so she waited with him. It seemed like hours before the abbot spoke again.

"I think you have come here for a reason," he said. "You may stay, but our rules for novitiates are strict, and I will expect you to live by them."

"Simplicity, contemplation, silence," Marriette said.

"I think you will do well here."

Marriette sent a message with John back to Giuseppe that she would be spending the winter at the monastery, then, going back inside, she left the world behind for a season.