I began my account of Cuthbert’s life with an earnest eulogy and followed it with my theory that he was born in Ériu, the son of a noble father. Later, as he told me, loving foster parents raised him in Northumbria. I soon wrote this in my best handwriting and it filled but a few pages. When I had finished, I explained to Sherlaith my need to be alone in the hope that I could recall my friend’s exact words through meditation.
The mellow late-spring sunlight caressing the sandstone of Edwy’s Cross and the reeling song of a skulking warbler transported me once more to the cove we shared on Lindisfarena. I closed my eyes and conjured the vision of Cuthbert drinking in the lapping waves with his gaze and toying with a spindly sea thrift. In my mind, I heard him say,
“My earliest memory, you
