Iamerge didn’t want to feel like he was being imposed on, but he did.  Six times a day, interminably it felt sometimes, all the monks of the community were at prayer.  Only five men remained in the guesthouse-turned-hospital, but for all those hours of chanted obeisance to their god it was left to Iamerge to tend to the needs of that hand full of men.

And what needs.  Iamerge had never felt particularly paternal.  Of the children born to his wives it seemed likely that none were of his blood.  Perhaps that was not an excuse for his indifference to them, but it might well be a reason.  These men, in need of every sort of help, were not even known to him before a few days ago, and with the exception of Conal, he had no interest in continuing the association.

Conal, for his part, did what he could from his pallet.  The good-hearted, one-limbed, man supplied a needed interface between Iamerge and the others.  Iamerge had no sense of their need, nor desire to meet them, so as a team they managed, the cripple and malcontent.  Still the best that Conal could do was identify more tasks for Iamerge to do and the only reward was a little less moaning and complaining.

Iamerge sighed, dealing with foul smelling dressings on the fellow who Iamerge felt certain would die next seemed more than he could bear.  He stifled the wish that “whimpers in the night” (Iamerge’s name for the poor man) would succumb sooner rather than later. 

Despite the best efforts of the monks, Gospels in particular, three of the eight severely wounded that had crowded the guesthouse had died soon after the long trudge from the disaster.  Two of the fellows who had seemed fine and gone on to town, had grown worse and not died before Ui Birlinn could bring them out to Gospels.  Only one man, first admitted to the makeshift hospital, had rallied and asked to go home instead of staying with the monks.  Iamerge had some suspicion that at least one of men he was forced to tend was malingering, though this fellow, ”whimpers in the night,” at least, was not one of them.  And of course there was Conal, who was greviously wounded, but somehow didn’t seem like an inmate, but rather one of the monks now, just waiting to assume his duties.

Iamerge sighed again, the man whimpered, jabbering away in some strange dialect that Iamerge didn’t recognise at all.  It made the man even less appealing, an alien. 

“Steady there Jonesie,” said Conal, “You’re do’n fine.  Iamerge’s fix’n you up good and noth’n to worry about now.  You’re in the LORD’s house.”

The wounded man was delirious, Conal could talk himself blue and that wouldn’t do a thing for these infected wounds.  So Jonesie was the man’s name then, not whimpers at all.  Well, Jonesie, good luck to you, Lord’s house or no.  Iamerge let out yet another self pitying sigh. 

Conal mistook self-pity for concern, “Is it bad Iamerge?” 

“Is it as bad as it smells, do you mean?”  Iamerge barked and immediately repented of his harsh words, “It is bad enough to kill him if he doesn’t want to live, maybe even if he does.”

Conal considered the words, but found nothing further to say.  Iamerge finished with the bandages and took the mess with him toward the door and fresh air outside.  Leaving “whimpers in the night,” Jonesie rather, Iamerge reminded himself, as he walked by Conal who smiled at him encouragingly. 

It was too much.  Too much doing for men he didn’t care for.  Too much laying awake while they moaned in the night.  Iamerge looked out from the guesthouse down the hill and saw a rider coming toward the monastery.

This begins Chapter 4, if you have navigated here other than by the Novel Progress Page you may want to have a look at it.  If this is the first part of the story you’ve seen you might want to begin HERE.

CHAPTER  4

The fresh sea breeze cooled his face, warm with the effort of rowing.  It was a beautiful day.  The sea was kind and the breeze was perfect for a sail.  They had no such though, so it was work on the oar and only glances at the shore as they passed the headland and moved into the bay.

Gospels sat the bench in front of Smoke.  Beside his friend, an ancient but still fit fellow named Ezekiel toiled.  Beside Smoke, now known to these men as Iamerge, was a talkative fellow named Hebrews and in the stern manning the tiller a gaunt, even among his fellow monks, man named Kings.  He spoke little, but seemed to eye Smoke with suspicion.

“So, Iamerge,” ventured Hebrews, “Where do you hail from?”

“The South,” Smoke said, focusing all his attention on his oar and volunteering nothing more.

“Don’t pester our guest Hebrews,” Gospels said. “There will be time enough to learn about Iamerge when we get to shore.”

“Pardon Abbott”

To port and starboard now there was land, draped in dark conifers, clinging to dark stone. It occurred to Smoke that everything seemed brighter in the South.  Greyer usually, and yet brighter.  Smoke had seen needle covered trees in his travels, they had a pleasant astringent smell, but most often these sorts of trees lived high in the mountains, in his experience.

They came along a boat not much bigger than theirs, two men hailed the monks.  They almost immediately turned back to their nets, drawing from the deep what it might give up.  Another boat came into view, this one piloted by one man with oars.  He pulled a cage from the water and set it on the gunnels, it appeared full of crab, and then waved, his boat hailed him in return save for the dower Kings in the stern.

Smoke glanced at the man who seemed intent on his tiller to the exclusion of all else, and then, as if triggered by Smokes gaze he put he tiller hard over and the skiff lurched to port.  It was a matter of moments to gather himself for another stroke, he glanced over the side and noticed that the stony bottom was very close.  Perhaps brother Kings had his reasons, there was even a few pillars that protruded out of the bay. 

The monks rowed with more determination now.  Smoke hoped the journey was nearing its end.  He was tiring, but it seemed that Gospels and the older monk, Ezekiel, were struggling even more.  He tried to keep his strokes even with the eager young Hebrews, but feared he could not hold out long.

They were embraced by a little cove.  Kings had steered them true and the rocky shore came up around close on both sides.  “Here we are!” exclaimed Hebrews.

“At last,” panted Ezekiel. “Praise God you and your friend were there to help us home, Gospels.”

The boat glided up into a landing, there was some fumbling as four unpracticed oarsmen shipped their oars and Hebrews blundered about trying to get on the quay to make them fast.  When they realized his plan they made way and balanced his efforts.  Soon enough, they were moored, “By God’s grace,” an exhausted Ezekiel said as he was helped ashore.