Historical Setting: sailing at the mouth of a river, 794 C.E.
We are following a wide river from its mouth at the sea, upstream to a place Cloothar believes will be an established market in an old Roman city — Ludenwic — it has a name. This river does seem more marked with houses and all the other vestiges of human dwelling. We pass by a church in clear view of the river. He notices my interest. Did I let my loneliness show? How does one, always focused on fabrics and markets, possibly notice what interests me?
“Eleazor, there are churches all along this way. You should be so happy to find that Ludenwic has turned Christian. I’ve heard from others on the river who know, and this place has a grand church. In Ludenwic there is a palace for bishops. You will love the Christian nature of this city!”
I answer his advertisement with a grunt. I know he’s trying to sell me on this side-trip where we are. And I know we are only further from our intended destination on the Celtic Island of Mull. For me, finding a palace of bishops is completely the opposite of finding humble monks inhabiting the thin places of nature.
We come to a wide bend in the river and here is a mooring bay with other small river craft. I row to the pier, and Cloother climbs ashore taking with him some samples to sell. He instructs me to stay with the boat, since he hasn’t secured a safe mooring here. So much for my visit to this new city. He trudges down the path toward the city markets.
To make good use of the time I string a line from the mast to the prow to hang up the black wool robes in the sun and air them out before he tries to market them. It is a perfect day for airing fabrics. Cloothar will be pleased I’m only airing them and not soaking them in lye water as I would prefer.
Now I find, under all the monk’s robes, is another chest just like the empty chest I’ve been using for a rower’s seat. But this chest is locked and weighty, apparently already filled with coins. Of course. This is why Cloothar protects this spot with the heap of moldy fabrics, never sorting or airing them while he continually cares for the commoner’s rags. He’s been guarding this chest from my sight.
(Continues Tuesday, May 12)
Lazarus Ink 