Historical Setting: 793 C.E. Lindisfarne Monastery
The raiders were in this holy place at Lindisfarne an hour ago when I was still their slave. They came here to find an unguarded stash of wealth, knowing nothing of the Christian nature of a place for worship. Unable to find the “Jewels and the gold” inside the precious covers of a gospel, they saw it as worthless and feared Christian magic and curses, so I was assigned this task of returning it. Now, from this high place just outside the walls of the Christian oratorio I watch the sea as the sails of the longships that brought me here catch the west wind to take them swiftly back to their own lands. I’m wearing a borrowed monk’s robe made for a giant, having shed my slave’s shirt. As they disposed of me along with this book that I’m returning to the altar they are set free of owning me and my Christian conscience. It was a convenient fix all around.
Inside, the oratory the wash of light is tenuous in narrow shafts, harboring mostly shadows in dust. There is the smell of fresh blood. My eyes adjust. Naked corpses are at my feet splayed and strewn, each in his own dark pool. Walking in this long robe in this place has stained the hem of the borrowed garb in crimson. The altar here is stripped clean of linens by the Viking raiders and is an empty place now. There isn’t even a candle or a lantern. The sconces were ripped from the walls. I place the gospel on the stand where it had been as though it was simply out of place for a few moments for the housekeeper to dust.
With only my own voice in this void, I speak my prayer aloud.
“Dear God, As I return this great gospel to your post, let also, these devoted and precious souls of your servants return to you, broadening the depths of love, as all of Creation weeps for them. Amen.”
“Amen” I hear echoed.
I turn around to see who is here. In a dusty shaft of light is a living monk, all properly shaven in shorn, in shock, frozen in terror at the glimpse of my face. I believe he is the monk I saw peering down from the tower outside.
He stares hard into the darkness riveted on my face, trying to make sense of me, “I thought you were Brother Jabari.”
Maybe he doesn’t even see the horrors and deaths all around in front of the altar.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 