“Doesanyonein the village actually have plague?”
“Not a soul. No other Aspect of mine has come through. Most of their sickness comes from the well water being tainted. Some of it is worms or bad food. Now do you see why I hate dealing with mortals? They panic at the slightest hint of illness, assume it’s plague, and lose their minds.” He’s annoyed even as he settles his cloak over my shoulders again, tucking me close. “The breeze is chilly and I made you sick earlier. Take this.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, letting him wrap me in it. My thoughts are still churning, though. Plague and sickness are catalysts, Lachesis had told me. It’s the clearing of the forest so the rest can thrive. It’s the low spot before the renaissance. It’s cause and effect. It’s the terrible cloud right before the glorious silver lining.
And Kalos is the god of both…but it seems as if he never gets to appreciate the second part. He’s bogged down with the ignorance, the bad reputation, the lack of knowledge that the people here have. It’s hard not to compare it to my world, where centuries of learning have taught us about things like microbes and bacteria and penicillin.
They can’t get to their renaissance because they’re still in the darkness. We need to somehow bring them forward into the light so they can flourish. So Kalos can flourish, too.
This is what he was sent here to learn. I grab his hand with excitement at the realization.
“What is it?”
I shake my head. I don’t know yet. My thoughts haven’t coalesced into an actual plan, but I’m hopeful. “We’re going to figure this out, youand I.”
“Figure what out?”
“All of it.”
He puts his hand to my forehead. “You’re delirious, sunshine. Come on. Let’s get you home and to bed.”
“I’m fine,” I reassure him, even though I’m fighting off another sneeze. I feel better than I have in ages. Like something has finally clicked into place.
I playwith ideas all through the next day, but I don’t get a chance to talk them over with Kalos. Right after breakfast, pilgrims knock at the door with crystals to trade to the monk. He feeds them and chats with them, taking notes on what they tell him is going on in the region. Kalos takes the goats out into the pasture so no one will see him, and I clean the goat pen and water Omos’s garden. When I’m done, the old monk is pulling out a pair of butter churns and sets them into the sunshine.
“The visitors bought all my cheese and butter,” he says happily. “Time to make more!”
He’s the only person I know that gets excited at the prospect of lots of hard work. “Didn’t you say the other day you were grateful you had so much cheese stored because it’s a beast to make?”
“Oh, it’s terrible,” he agrees cheerfully. “So much sweating over the cauldron while boiling milk. But I can always make more cheese, and coin helps support the monastery. As long as the goats make milk, I can make cheese. But for now, we need butter.”
So we churn. And churn. Churning is an easy chore in some ways, and a nightmare in others. You pour the milk into the churn “pot” and agitate the stick, pushing up and down over and over. And over. And over. And over. That’s the hellish partof butter churning. Your arms start to burn and you’re ready to give up…and you’ve only just started.
Sweating, I look over at Omos. He’s as happy as a clam, cheerfully working the churn and appreciating the sunshine. It makes me feel like a petty person for wishing momentarily for a grocery store. I push harder and glance over at him. “How long have you been a monk, Omos?”
“Oh, all my life.” He glances over at me, smiling. “I’ve never wanted anything but to serve my Lady Magra and share her bounty with others. I do what I can and hope that she smiles upon my efforts.”
“Have you always been at this monastery?”
He nods as he churns. “Twelve of my brethren were here with me prior to the Anticipation. I regret that I’m here alone. It grows very lonely at times, but I hope they’re doing well in their pilgrimages and hope that they’re safe. I think of them often.” His smile fades and he grows thoughtful. “It’s not that I dislike the idea of traveling, but I thought someone should stay behind and tend to the animals and the town…and the books, of course!”
“Of course.” I really adore this sweet man, who wants nothing more than to share his food, love on his goats, and read his books.
“It’s been a blessing that I ended up staying behind. I’ve gotten to meet so many Aspects and their Anchors, and I’ve been here to help the town with their sicknesses. I’m glad the gods have put me in the path of so many so I could be of assistance.”
“How did you learn your herbalism?” I ask him, curious. My arms feel like they’re on fire, but I gamely churn on. “How do you know what’s useful and what’s not? Did another monk teach you?”
“Not at all! I learned it from the books, of course.”
That makes me pause. “You didn’t have a teacher?”
Omos nods. “None of the other brothers had an interest in herbalism, but back in my village, my aunt was our healer. She had a tea for everything, and she was never sick. One of my brothers had problems with his lungs, and I knew my aunt had an herbal tea for that, so I began to research what I could use to help him. I planted what I didn’t have and traded for seeds. I taught myself from reading everything available. There’s always more to learn, though.”
Books. Naturally, he learned from books. I bet there’s a ton of knowledge that could be shared with the locals, and my excitement grows…only to flatten again a moment later. If it was as simple as what I’m thinking, it would be done already. “Do the locals ever come and borrow your books?”
“Oh, mercy, no.” Omos chuckles. “They cannot read. It took me many years to learn myself, and they have not the time. Also, the books are heavy and valuable and should remain where they can be properly tended to.”
Because they’re handwritten by the monks. It makes sense, but even so, there must be a way to share the knowledge somehow. Maybe a cheat sheet. A teaching rhyme. Something. “Can I borrow some of your books? To read through?”
