“It was no jest when I said that we had little comfort here. There is a shift like this that I wear by your head, and too, your clothes, such as they are after the sea, are drying though not yet dry.”
“Perhaps I’ll get around to the kitchen and sit by the fire.”
White Hands frowned, “This may be difficult for you, there is no kitchen, nor fire. Rest here. I will bring the treasure for you to see.” White Hands bussled out the door.
Smoke gathered himself, the room was chilly and damp. He slipped on the rough fabric of the garment, covering his head with the hood. He draped an animal skin around his shoulders and began to feel warm again. No fire, truely this place seemed the poorest he had ever seen. Even in the city streets amongst the filth there was material, at least fuel for a fire, something, here there was only stone and wind and wet.
True to his word White Hands returned. He bore a skin wrapped package and atop it a candle. He produced a tinderbox and with a little effort made a flame and lit the candle. “We value words you know.” White Hands spoke as he unwrapped the package, “And so for us this written word is of utmost value. But that isn’t why this place is so austere. We seek places like this, places of contemplation amid privation. Places where one can hear a still small voice. I don’t imagine that you understand, but this place has been used by my brethren because of its difficulty not inspite of it. We seek to remove all distraction so that we may focus on God alone, and His Christ.”
“It would seem that the harshness would distract. . .”
Okay I’ve lost my way in this. I’ll have to get back to this later.