“Here they are then,” said Gospels conversationally if a bit breathlessly, “I will introduce you.  Gospels brow furrowed, “Odd to say, I don’t know your name.”

Smoke coughed, “uh, well I may have neglected to mention my name.  Indeed my name is both of no importance to me anymore and of very central in importance to what I am doing here.  You see, I mean to escape what I was most recently called and it is also true that I never knew what my parents, if I had them, may have named me originally.

“This is a bit awkward,” said the monk, he looked hard into Smoke’s eyes appraising, ”though it was not my parents that named me Gospels, but rather my vocation.”

“I’ve had many names like that, from vocations.  Now I want to start new and I don’t want to trouble old associates with it resurfacing.”

“Was it murder? Are you sought for some crime?”

“No, unless it be that I killed the old me.  I had a successful life, but there are expectations that I can not meet.  Over and over my life progresses and folk expect a certain path that everyone else takes, but not me.”

There was a shout from seaward as someone in the skiff noticed them standing above the landing, Gospels turned and waved to the approaching boat and then turned catching Smoke’s eyes again and staring hard for a moment before speaking, “We must speak of this further, but for the time I must call you something.  Sailor?  Something that speaks to your vocation?”

Smoke frowned, concentrating.  “No, not that.  What was the dark hour that I first awoke and you gave me a sip of water in the night?”

“I believe after Iamerge.”

“Call me Iamerge, perhaps it will seem familiar to your friends and. . .”

Gospels smiled but not kindly, “An excellent deception, but should I really deceive my brethren, participate in that even as you deceive me?

Smoke blushed, “No, I don’t mean to deceive as much as to ease.  I have no ill intent and much interest in your abbey.  I mean only good.”

“I will hold you to that.  I think you are my purpose, but I’ve been wrong before.” Without a word more Gospels walked down to the boat landing.

Smoke followed a bit more circumspectly, allowing Gospels to lead and staying in his shadow.  The approach for the boat was somewhat precarious.  It was relatively calm, but the berth was all sharp rock and unforgiving and the sea, even when it was not in a rage, was still the sea.

Four of the monks climbed out of the boat and held it while three remained in the skiff, their faces all turned toward Gospels.  Smoke could not see Gospels face but there was a range of emotion on the men who had just come to the little island.

“Gospels! How can this be?” Dark eyes and a heavy brow gave the first monk to speak a brooding demeanor,  “We committed you to God and the sea half a year ago.  Are you flesh or spirit?”

“Ah, Exodus, good to see you.  I am still quite corporial, still some flesh on these old bones.”

“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.

Some may know, but it seems to me that they do not comprehend the reality of the hundreds of years my father and I have lived.  They do not see the way he uses them.  They plot and scheme, but they live and die at his word and often serve his purpose even while they think they will succeed in supplanting him.

I am not his heir, though I am the oldest of his.  Whether it is because he hates my mother, Brigid, or for some error of mine, or because I am not evil enough for his taste I do not know.  But he delights in tormenting me.

He keeps me close, as one should always keep one’s enemys, and so I stay to watch the man.  I also must watch my back.  My brothers think I am favored to be at my father’s feet, they see me as a rival.  They seek to rise and they do not know that no son of Brigid will ever sit his throne.  But then Balor never means to give it up, he means to live forever.

Balor hates.  That seems to me to be the greater part of evil, More than anyone else he hates Lugh, his brother, and second of all he hates my mother, his sister, Brigid.  Sometimes I know he hates me third, but no one could supplant the first two in his antipathy.  His nearest brother, his wife, and his son, folk so close to him he hates the most.

This character figures in the Niall Nine Hostages tale.  He lives and observes all that Balor does. As such he could be a point of view character for “the Many Son’s of Balor.” I still need to decide on a name. He is very good looking, he could be Bres. As an observer he could very well be Tuan (I plan to use the name Tuan for an Uber-Celt that is placed with the Norfolk), the magical observer for “the Book of Invasions.” Then too, he might have a name that reflects his true parentage, but I haven’t settled on anything yet.