Odda pulled the blanket over his head, trying to escape the voices. But it was no use. He had been trying to drown them out for two days, but still they continued, swirling inside his head on and off during the day like a scop’s melody.
He scowled, wishing he had gone with the other novices to the kitchen as they had asked. Preparations were underway for the meal for the upcoming feast. Father Donal would give them a treat, perhaps even one of the sweets baking for the celebration. St. John’s Eve, they called it, but everyone knew it was Midsummer’s Eve, for all that the monks tried to bring their god into it.
Guilt poked him at this errant thought, and he said the Pater Noster once under his breath as penance. He liked the monks well enough. Their kindness was a sweet balm that soothed
