The monk grinned back. “And to you. A fine morning to be alive.”
Flann dipped a ladle into the pottage and filled the first bowl, handing it to the monk. “Aye … if only every summer were like this one.”
The monks all agreed that this summer was the finest any had experienced upon the windy isle of Iona: day after day of sun.
More brown-robed monks entered the feasting hall then, Prior Aiden amongst them. He was an older man with heavy features and penetrating dark eyes. Once he had served the rest of the monks, Flann took a bowl of pottage for himself and sat down at the end of the long table. He tore a chunk off his slice of bread and dipped it into the thick vegetable stew.
“I’ll start on that manuscript this afternoon, Father,” he said, after he had swallowed his first mouthful. As usual, the pottage was bland, overcooked, and in desperate need of salt. “Will you show me what you need copying?”
Prior Aiden nodded. “Thank you, Flann. Collect your writing tools and meet me in thescriptorium after we are finished here.”
The scriptorium—a room built onto the far end of the church where monks wrote and copied documents—was one of Flann’s favorite corners of the monastery. It had a large shuttered window looking out onto the herb garden. Flann was glad he would work there, for the hut where he lived on the edge of the monastery was windowless, forcing him to write by candlelight.
Flann reached out and helped himself to some cheese curd. He ladled it into his pottage, hoping it would improve the flavor. Taking another mouthful, he glanced up to see the prior watching him, a speculative look in his eyes.
Flann hesitated. “Father?”
Father Aiden smiled. “Ten summers you’ve been with us, Flann … did you realize that?”
“Aye … just this morning I was thinking how fast the years have passed.”
The prior’s smile faded a little. “You were lost when you arrived here … I worried for you.”
“You did?” The admission surprised Flann. He had not noticed at the time—he had not paid attention to much save his own misery. “Your worries were unfounded, Father,” he replied with a smile. “I’m happy now.”
Father Aiden’s heavy brow furrowed slightly. “You understand why I didn’t let you take your vows, don’t you?”
Flann tensed. He did, and truthfully he had eventually grown used to being an outsider of a sort here. Yet he wished the prior had not asked him this when the others were sitting with them. He could feel the curiosity of the monks’ gazes as they swiveled to him.
He knew many of them wondered why this scholar continued to live with them.
“It was for the best,” he replied after a pause. “You told me a man shouldn’t take refuge in God, that it must be a calling … and you were right.”
The prior continued to watch him. “You’ve changed much over the years, matured into a man of temperance and reason.”
Flann’s smile turned embarrassed. “Thank you, Father.”
“The time has come for you to make a decision,” the prior continued, reaching for a cup of watered-down wine. “If you wish to take your vows now, I shall allow it.”
Surprised, Flann straightened up, his smile fading. The feasting hall went quiet around them, and he knew without glancing their way, that the monks were staring at him.
“Really, Father?”
“Aye … I think you’re ready.”
Flann did not know what to say. If the prior had announced this during his first years here, he would have been overjoyed at the news. Yet, he was in his twenty-eighth summer now and had grown accustomed to the special role he held in the monastery.
Truthfully, he was not sure he wanted to become a monk.
He did not voice this opinion though, for the prior was watching him with a hopeful expression, while next to him, Brother Euan was nodding with obvious approval. “It’s time, Flann,” the monk added. “You’ve been with us long enough.”
Flann smiled once more—forcing the expression this time—and hoped his lack of enthusiasm did not show on his face. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You all honor me.”
The noon meal finished quickly. The monks did not linger over meals, not even this one, which was the most substantial of the day. There were still many chores to get through before Vespers in the late afternoon.
Flann rose to his feet and helped clear away the bowls. It was his turn to help wash up, so he stood with Euan and two others scrubbing the wooden bowls, spoons, and platters, before he emerged from the dimly lit hall into the bright noon sun.
Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, Flann strode down the path toward the edge of the monastery. His hut, from where he would retrieve his writing tools, perched upon a rocky knoll, looking out to sea. It sat apart from the long dormitories where the monks dwelt.
