“Not much to tell.”  Iamerge’s mind raced as he thought over what he should and shouldn’t tell.  The best course always seemed to reveal the least, “I washed up on the Skellig and Gospels was there to pull me out, care for me, feed me, such as there was on that bleak place.”

Jim Cooper nodded, knowingly, “Tis said there’s naught to eat and the saints perch there for months living on water and sea foam, then there’s some who say that their god gives them food, and others that say that they’ve a fat larder there and since they don’t eat here its there they go to eat.”

Iamerge laughed, “Well, as to the larder, I saw none, I ate no sea foam, and Gospels gave me bits of dry fish, some little leaves of green herb, and sometimes raw egg of sea birds on the isle, if it was his god that gave him that to eat then he isn’t a very generous god.”

“You make it sound like there is no fuel at all, nothing to burn.”

“Unless you can make wet stone burn there is naught of that at all.”

“Incredible, how did you live?”

“How did Gospels live before I came?  I’ll tell you I’ve never slept better than I did in their guest house last night.  Not because of any opulence, just not the austerity of the rock.  There are five men out there now.  I don’t know why they do it.”

“No wonder they have produce and more to sell, they don’t eat any of it,”  said Jim Cooper to himself as much to Iamerge.  “What do you know of their god?  I confess, they don’t have much truck with old Jim, but I’ve heard their bell and I’ve heard their weird singing a time or two.  They seem virtuous, but I’d say men that virtuous can only get in the way of a man’s business.  In the end.”

“To tell you the truth I can’t speak to the beliefs of the monks like Gospels, they are new to me as well.  But I can’t say anything against them, they seem virtuous, generous, and good to a fault.  I do take your meaning though, I think.  What’s a man to do who can’t live up to such a standard?  What must they think of those who don’t live as they do?”  Iamerge took another drink from his cup and cleared his throat, “Still, if I understand them, they serve the same God, the Lord they call him, who is served by the Jews that I knew quite well.  It seems to me that they are similar in their kindnesses and that it is their Lord who commands it of them.”

“So, these Jews grew food that they did not eat as well?”

Iamerge laughed at that, “Oh no, not so.  The Jews were adept at trade, at numbers, at drawing value from a thing.  It seems to me that the Jews took part in the blessings that their Lord brought them.  The monks like Gospels are prospered and they choose not to partake, indeed they take pride in denying themselves.  I can’t say if it is their Lord that demands that privation of one and not the other or what the truth of it is.”

“It sounds to me that you’ve travelled a far piece Iamerge.  I’ve never heard of these Jews.  Then again, I’d not heard of these monks either ’til I came here.”

“I would have thought to be the mayor of Rat Town you’d have had to be born here.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t born here, nor most of the rats for that matter.  They come on the boats, but I came from Cooperstown.  I’d be there still if there was one.”  For once Jim seemed a bit sad, “Mayhaps again.  But that’s nobody’s business.  Not yet.” The two men fell silent and they sat and nursed their drinks in the cool darkness.

“So, do you think that Ua Birlinn might have returned by now?”

Jim laughed, “Oh you and Ruaridh will get along famously, all business aren’t you?  I’d like to say that he’d be back by now, but I can’t. I figure you’ve got more of a wait than his returning.  Single minded he is, just like you.  I figure he’ll be about what ever took him out of here so fast a bit longer than it takes him to get there and back.  Don’t you?  Jim got up and moved back around the bar.  “A waste of a day I’d say.  Not like to be see’n visitors, since you’re ask’n me.”  Cooper refilled his ale and looked at Iamerge, “Can I get you a refill lad?”

Iamerge sighed, ”No, thanks.  I think I’ll get the lay of the land at least.  Perhaps I can find out a bit more about what’s happened and when I might speak to Ua Birlinn.  My thanks though, for the ale and the conversation.”

“Suit yourself.  Have a look, but come back by if you like.  I might have found a bit out myself by then.” Cooper winked and walked off toward the kitchen, “I do wonder where ol’ Mare has got to.”

Iamerge rose and went up the dark stair and out into the day.

The letter came to me as head copyist and librarian with a note in the abbot’s hand, “please look to this yourself. We are bequethed books from a rich trader’s library. You will find the details in this letter.”

The letter itself was beautifully written on fine parchment with embellishments and even illuminations, extravagant even in a gospel book or psalter, but ridiculously austintatious in a letter that was so utilitarian and mundane.

We were directed to a manse in the center of the city, right on the trade square, to get “books” from the “library.”  I thought it mad wishfulness, but I brought brother Timothy and a hand cart.

A thin young man, dressed in black silken robes, answered the door at my knock.  “I am the Djinn’s seneschal,” he looked over my shoulder. “I’ll show you. Come.”  With nary a word more he led off into the maze that was the mansion. Up stair and down hall after hall I followed the dark figure.

“These are the master’s private apartments,”  the Seneschal intoned.

“Aren’t they all his?” I asked, overwhelmed into a comment I would otherwise have restrained myself from making.

The man in black stopped and turned to eye me, chimera like.  I have no idea what he might have thought of my impertinence.  “Here,” he said and flung open double doors.

I was dazzled by the brightness of the light pouring into the room from the tall glazed windows opposite the doors.  My guide strode into the room and I followed blinking.  The room was spare apart from the opulence of so much glass, a couple of tables with stiff backed chairs in front of the windows and a more comfortable couch just inside the door.  There was a rich dusty scent in the air.

I gasped, stunned, there were books, scrolls and codexes, filling the shelves on both walls of the room, to a man of letters, wealth unimaginable.  “My master knows your order.  The books will have the care they deserve.”  said the Seneschal.

“Which books am I to take sir?”

“Why, all of them of course.”  The dark clad man stepped to the sideboard next to the couch.  He pulled a satin cord and a bell tolled somewhere in the bowels of the mansion.  “I take it that you are unprepared for so many.”

“It will more than double our own library.”

“Will there be a problem?” asked the tall young man.

“No no, of course not.  It is just that there are…,” I could not find words.

“Yes?” I could only shake my head in wonder. The man glanced around the room, pondering, “You are welcome to the shelves as well, if you like.  There are several cases of writing material as well as a supply of bees wax candles,” He tapped a box that dominated the  surface of one table, “everything in this room is for the order of San Gospellis. I will send servants to aid you and you may wish to bring another cart the next trip.” Without another word he was gone while I wrestled with words with which to thank him.

It was well past vespers when all was safely stowed.  I would be months surveying, cataloging, and organizing so many documents.  I was never more thrilled, more energized, and at the same time more tired than as the librarian for the abbey of San Gospellis at that wonderful time.

Two weeks later a cart rolled into our abbey. It contained precious glass panes.  That was a remarkable month. 

The only other item was a small psalter.  Oh, but it was so much more.  Knowing the collection as I do, I might actually trade the whole for that one little book. 

Singled out like it was, coming alone with the glazing, I immediately took it into the library and began to look through the little book.  It began as many personal psalters do, favorite passages copied in haste, I was stunned that I recognized the hand.  It was that of our founder, who’s writing filled many of the pages in our library.

That would have been a great treasure, to find this personal book of our founder, but fairly deep in that book began a journal of a fantastic odyssey. Perhaps you would not want to take the word of a copyist and librarian who was born near the abbey where he has lived almost all the days of his life. So you judge against your experience this tale and tell me if it does not rate the name odyssey and whether or not fantastical is a fitting description.

Malachi