Fire Star

  Rain slanted into the windows, strumming jazzily against the glass. Brother Vincent closed his eyes, time and space peeling back through his mind. It had been raining that autumn evening, on the bridge above the river where he’d seen a comet arcing brightly across the sky. In that place where her hand had first reached for his … and where he had tried to say his last goodbye. The pattern of that night was embroidered on his memory. White fires, burning in the sea of his grief. What need did he have of books or ephemerides? What could he say that the abbot would understand? How was it possible to speak of his loss to an old man dressed in a stone-colored cloth, who had never loved anyone other than his God?

  Abbot Hugo coughed into his fist. “You understand why I must ask you this?”

  Brother Vincent lowered his head.

  “If you have no access to scientific data, then it must be assumed you are using the stars to give weight to prediction. The penalty for any act of divination would be instant exclusion from the Order.”

  “No!” Vincent leaped up straight, rocking the pew’s uneven feet. He slid to his knees and gripped the abbot’s robe. “Don’t send me from the island. Please. I beg you.” He placed his forehead against the abbot’s knees.

  Eyes plumping behind his spectacles, Abbot Hugo placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, pushing him away to a comfortable distance. “Are there more of these papers?”

  “Yes, Abbot. Yes.”

  “You must show them to me. They may have to be destroyed.”

  Brother Vincent pressed his hands to his face.

  “You spend a great deal of time at the folly. Is that where most of this … writing is kept?”

  The folly. A gray stone tower to the north of the island. A place of meditation. A place of secrets. Brother Vincent drew back into himself. “I go to the folly in search of peace. All the writings are in my cell. In the drawer of my escritoire.”

  The abbot touched his beard as he pondered this reply. His gaze flickered briefly to a curtained-off enclosure, returning quickly as Vincent looked up. “Gather them and bring them here, tonight. Speak to no one of this. Go now. I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you, Abbot.” Vincent rose up humbly and headed for the door.

  “Oh, Brother Vincent?”

  “Yes?”

  Abbot Hugo was now tipped slightly forward, his hands squeezed together under his chin, the chain of a crucifix trailing from them. “The ink on the paper: It’s a most unusual color. In a certain light, it seems to glow green.”

  Brother Vincent allowed himself to swallow again, confident this time that he was too far away for his fear to be detected. “I … dilute the ink with alcohol,” he said.

  “Alcohol?”

  “From the perfumes,” he added, thankful that God had guided his eyes toward a row of bottled scents on the abbot’s shelf. The island was sustained by its sales of dried herbs, candy, and colognes. Brother Vincent, with a history of science in his background, was one of the accomplished members of the Order. “I was writing down a recipe for Brother Malcolm and the ink and the alcohol ran together. I liked the color. I found it soothing.”

  “Intriguing,” said the abbot. “Peace be with you, brother.”

  “And you, my Lord Abbot,” Vincent said quietly. With a courteous nod, he backed out of the room.

  The rain lashed the windows again, masking the sound of a curtain swishing back.

  “Well?” said Hugo, to the monk who came to join him. His name was Brother Bernard Augustus. He was short and his legs were bruised at the ankles. His face was round with kindness and concern.

  “His soul is aching. His voice betrays it.”

  “He’s hiding something,” the abbot said quietly.

  Brother Bernard spread his fingers, touching their pudgy ends to the window. “I fear for him. The history of this island is dark.”

  “Then find out what he is keeping from us.”

  “You wish me to follow him? To spy on my brother?”

  A bell clanged, low and rich with persuasion. The abbot parted his hands. “Eleven years ago, before he came to the brethren, Brother Vincent tried to end his life by throwing himself off a bridge into a river. No one has ever found out why. That torment is rising in his eyes again. Something evil is preying on his heart. All I want to do is protect him, Brother Bernard. All I want to do is understand.”

  44 IN THE FIELDS, NEXT DAY

  Brother Vincent!”

  The voice came calling out from some way behind him. Turning, he saw the stumpy figure of Brother Bernard Augustus hurrying along the flattened grass track. They were halfway between the monastery chapel and the folly at the northern tip of the island. A knot of uncertainty rolled into the center of Vincent’s chest. He had never been followed out here before.

  Red-faced from the hurry, Bernard came puffing up, resembling a small, very overweight puppy. Wisps of ginger hair from his freckled head were falling forward, sticking to his brow. A brittle wintry rain was in the air and the grass underfoot was slippery and muddied, but he had neither changed his sandals nor raised his cowl. Brother Vincent bit his tongue in silent reproach. Direct exposure to the harshest elements was one form of penitence he had not yet considered. He shook his head, chiding himself for such scorn. Even now, after all these years on the island, the monastic principles did not always sit comfortably with him.

  “Brother Bernard. What brings you chasing me here?”

  Bernard patted his brow with a handkerchief. He puffed his chest and blew a round breath of air. It solidified into a larger ball of mist. “What a glory it is to be out in the wilds, even in the bleakness of a February morning.”

  Vincent bowed. That he could not argue with. Isolation was a route to inner peace, but his mind, just then, was anything but still. What did this winded brother want?

  Bernard opened his chunky hands. His smile was almost as wide as his reach. “I’m sure you remember that ornithology is an amateur pastime of mine. I was merely wondering where that was nesting?” He pointed beyond. Brother Vincent turned to see a large black bird skitter down from the sky and land just a yard or two away. It strutted a few steps and pecked the earth, then threw back its head and screeched at the men.

  “Fascinating, don’t you think?” Bernard said, wiping the handkerchief hard across his mouth.

  “It’s a crow,” said Vincent. His heart was thumping but his voice was even. Beneath the folds of his habit, his bare knees seemed to have welded together. He blinked as a snowflake landed on his eyelid. “Why would it be of particular interest?”

  “Ah!” Bernard rubbed his hands together as though he was attempting to spark a fire. “At the risk of sounding overly precocious, I must correct you, Brother Vincent. I believe that is a raven, not a crow. It has a fan-shaped tail and a beak more rounded than its smaller cousin. Its presence here is most beguiling.”

  Vincent dragged his gaze away from the bird. “Why is that?”

  Bernard’s eyebrows hopped and he smiled again. “Because we’ve never had a single raven here before.” He brushed past to stand a little closer to the bird. It dipped its beak and stared back fearlessly. With an elegant ruffle of its flint-black feathers it put its wings into the wind and was carried away north. Bernard twisted, cupping his eyes. “Magnificent,” he breathed. “I first saw it on the roof of the chapel. That was just over a week ago. This morning, I observed it again through my binoculars. It was circling the folly, of all places. I know you like to spend time out there. I was wondering if you had seen it, brother, and could possibly tell me if there is a pair?”

  Brother Vincent drove his hands into his wide, loose sleeves and continued his measured walk along the path. “You must forgive me. While my heart contains joy for all God’s creatures, during prayer my eyes are trained only within. I know nothing of this bird. Peace be with you. Good day.”

  “Brother, wait.” In a matter of clumping strides, Bernard was back at the other man’s side. “If you have no objection, I
would like to join you at the folly today and hopefully answer my question myself.”

  In the distance a soft wave landed, spilling its hollow yawn into the caverns cored out of the island by the motions of the sea. Brother Vincent paused and rolled his shoulders. “The folly is not a place of comfort, brother. I …”

  “I have provisions,” Bernard interjected, cheerily. He patted a knapsack strapped across his shoulder. “Cheese, bread, and a flagon of water.”

  Vincent looked to one side.

  “Forgive me, I have been too presumptuous,” Bernard said, clasping his hands together and bowing. Snowflakes fell across the yoke of his shoulders, patterning his brown, slightly threadbare cowl. “I have no wish to disturb your meditations. I will walk the coast path and observe the bird from there.”

  “No,” said Vincent, recovering quickly. “The island retreats are there for all. It would be a pleasure to share bread with you at the folly. Excuse me if I seemed anything less than grateful for your offer. Come, let me guide you. I know a route less likely to wet the toes.”

  Brother Bernard nodded graciously and fell into step.

  For a few strides they walked on in silence, then it was the taller monk who spoke again. “May I ask a question about this bird? You seem excited yet puzzled by the presence of it?”

  “Indeed,” said Bernard, his heavy feet slapping against the grass, spraying his companion’s ankles with water. “Members of the Corvidae tend to cluster. Why one should choose to cross eight miles of water and settle here is a mystery, brother.”

  “Perhaps something attracted it,” Vincent said quietly.

  “Other than your excellent recipe for chocolate, I cannot think what. Though I did read an article the other day which the ignorant or misguided might argue was the cause. It was to do with, of all things, spiritual awareness.”

  Brother Vincent felt a shudder topple off his shoulders and leave an ice-cold trail down his arms. “To know God is something we strive for every day. Why be so dismissive, brother?”

  “The subject matter was monkeys!” said Bernard.

  The leader came to a sudden halt. “Monkeys?”

  “On a group of South Sea islands.”

  Vincent shook his head in puzzlement, throwing off his cowl. The cold wind immediately punished his ears. He flipped up the cover and continued walking.

  “It was a scientific study,” Bernard said, “which set out to determine if the monkeys were able to solve a simple problem. Sweet potatoes were left on a sandy beach for them. The monkeys found them and sensed they were good to eat, but were put off because they were covered in sand. Then one day, a wise old monkey, on the remotest island of the chain, washed her potato in the sea and ate it. Monkeys nearby quickly learned to follow suit, until most of them were cleansing their food in that way. Then something extraordinary appeared to happen. When the number of monkeys exhibiting such behavior reached one hundred, monkeys on islands miles away suddenly began washing their potatoes as well, even though they’d had no contact with the original troop! The author of the piece proposed a preposterous explanation —”

  Vincent cut in and said without a pause, “That the skill had been attained by enough members of the group to form a critical mass, so that awareness of the skill was then transferred to every monkey through their group consciousness.”

  “Precisely!” Brother Bernard exclaimed. “You astound me, brother. How did you guess?”

  They were at the base of the folly. Brother Vincent unlatched the door and bade his fellow monk follow him in. There was nothing on this level but a winding staircase and dampness leaking from the circular walls.

  As his foot found the first worn hollow in the stone, Brother Vincent said, “There is a theory called the Law of Attraction, which proposes that whatever we think about, we bring to us; whatever we desire, we create.”

  Brother Bernard Augustus lifted his habit and trod his way carefully up the stairs. “A law, Brother Vincent? Surely the only law of creativity is that which the Lord himself commands? Would it not be the greatest of profanities for you or I to think we could — shh! What was that?”

  As he’d climbed through the hatch to the next floor of the folly, something had scuttled across the wooden boards.

  Brother Bernard closed his hands in prayer. “Are there rats here? Forgive me, I do not like rodents.”

  “Only one,” said Vincent. He dropped down on one knee and opened his hand. A small lithe figure jumped onto his palm, ran the length of his arm and vanished behind his neck. “This is my companion,” he said. “Quite tame.” When he turned, there was a gray squirrel sitting on his shoulder.

  Brother Bernard stared in astonishment. As in the case of the single raven, he had never seen a squirrel on the island before.

  And certainly not one that smiled.

  45 PRAYERS IN THE FOLLY

  On the first floor of the folly was a lectern as old as the abbey itself. It faced a broken window which looked out onto the open sea. Gulls, and sometimes fishing boats, crossed by, but for the most part there was only water and sky. It was here that Brother Bernard leaned a forearm. The desk was often used for standing prayer and he found himself muttering a biblical passage, hoping it might explain this apparition now chirring softly into Brother Vincent’s ear.

  “I do not understand this,” he said, somewhat flushed. Out came his sweat-soaked handkerchief again. “How can squirrels and ravens arrive on the island when they have never been present before?” He watched Brother Vincent feed a peanut to the squirrel. It shelled it in seconds and chirped for another. “Perhaps the tourists?” he added, gesturing hopefully. There were many every year. But not through the winter. He pulled his hands tight together again, troubled.

  “You should rest,” Vincent said. “The walk here saps the strength from the knees.” He drew up the only chair in the room and sat Brother Bernard with his back to the window and the rustling sea. Bernard slipped his knapsack of provisions to the floor, noticing something by the foot of the lectern. A scrunched-up piece of paper. He reached for it, only to find his arm gripped at the wrist.

  “Allow me,” Brother Vincent said. A weak light bounced off his glassy blue eyes. He picked up the paper and squeezed it in his fist.

  Brother Bernard sank back, bristling nervously. Glancing around, he could see other balls of paper. Evidence that Vincent had been lying, at the abbey. Oh, why had Abbot Hugo given him this task? There was nothing spiritual about distrust.

  “You seem anxious. Is something on your mind, Brother Bernard?”

  The chair creaked as Bernard shifted his weight. He prayed quickly for guidance, and made a bold decision. “Brother, the abbot is concerned for your welfare. He fears you are fighting demons in your mind and has asked me to watch over you. I am not altogether at ease with his request. I don’t know what to do.”

  Brother Vincent walked to the window and guided the squirrel onto the ledge. “You must do what the Lord dictates,” he said, “and follow the path of righteousness. I see questions in your eyes, worry in your movements. What is it you wish to know?”

  Brother Bernard ran a hand across his gleaming crown. “These … papers. What are they? There: It’s out!”

  “Mistakes,” said Vincent. “Unforeseen errors. Passages I’m not quite comfortable with.”

  “Passages?”

  “For the past few months, I’ve been writing a story. Here, at the lectern.” He patted it as though it were a faithful friend.

  “A work of fiction?”

  “I thought so, once.” There was a tremor in Vincent’s voice. He ran his little finger down the squirrel’s back. It darted up his arm again, back onto his shoulder. “Let me guess,” he said, stepping forward. “Abbot Hugo has told you I tried to take my life. He would like to know why, in case I try again. If I tell you the circumstances, will you swear to me you will not speak of my story till after I am gone?”

  “You’re leaving the Order?”

  “Shortl
y, yes.”

  Bernard let his arms fall loosely at his side. “So many surprises.”

  “There are more,” said Vincent. He dropped the ball of paper into Bernard’s lap. “Look at it. Please.”

  Bernard smoothed it out. It was three-quarters filled with the same green ink that he had seen on Vincent’s sketches of the heavens. “What will I learn from this?” he asked. He glanced at the page and saw the word “dragon.” Immediately, his warm heart cooled.

  “Many years ago I knew a woman,” Vincent said. “I was in love with her. She with me, or so I thought. One day I discovered she had mothered a child that could not have been mine. I was devastated and threw myself into a river. I was rescued and taken to a hospital. When I recovered, I chose to find spiritual sanctuary, here. In the past few months, I have.”

  “But this …?” Bernard passed a hand across the page.

  “That is my catharsis,” Vincent said. “My explanation for the birth. It exonerates her virtue and keeps our love alive.”

  Bernard blinked in confusion. He looked again at the word “dragon.” “Liz,” he muttered, finding a name.

  “Elizabeth. That was she.”

  “And this explains her … infidelity?”

  “There was no infidelity,” Vincent insisted. “No other man involved.”

  “Then who was the father?”

  Vincent looked away.

  Bernard slowly folded the paper. “Brother, you have been my companion for ten years now. In all that time you have never once stepped off this island. How can you know what you cannot know, or convince yourself of a truth just imagined?”

  Vincent pushed his tongue between his tightening lips. He stepped backward and turned to the wall. There was a grating sound of stone against stone. When he turned back to the light again, there was something in his hands. It was long and curved with a sharply pointed tip.

  “What is that?” Bernard said, fear rising in his throat. The myths about this island seemed suddenly very real.