Monk's Maze

Chapter 2-3

He swung his feet over the side and onto the rough stone floor. It was as cold as ice. He jerked his feet back.

“Do you live in a meat locker?”

“What’s that?”

He actually wasn’t sure, but it always sounded cold when he said it.

“Why’s it so cold?”

“Because it is b****y April in the Hebrides. Did ye think this was the Spanish coast?” She tossed him one of his boots. Before tossing the other, she looked at it closely. Turned it this way and that inspecting the sole and lacing.

“How are these made?”

“Why?”

“I’ve na seen such fine working. Where be the stitches? And I’ve never seen such a fine cloth.”

He shrugged, “I have no idea. The manufacture of footwear is not something I have studied beyond its use as a socio-economic indicator.”

She tried to pull her feet beneath the chair as he looked down at her boots. They were of rough manufacture revealing no niceties of machine assembly. Hand-made. Some people on New Kells still insisted that such were better, but he’d always felt it was more of a fashion statement than a truth.

Here, on Earth, all it did was depress him. His captor did not look particularly fashion conscious. Her rough boots matched well with the gray woolen pants and flannel blouse. Either she was from the lower classes or the Earth had not recovered even the most basic of skills, the manufacture of quality clothing. Had they descended all the way back to weaving guilds? If they had, then the options offered by the Plan developed on New Kells would be cut down to distressingly few options. Years more of study and planning would be cast aside if humanity had indeed passed below that societal threshold.

He held out his hand for his other boot which she parted with reluctantly, only after rubbing her hand one more time across the smooth surface. Once properly protected from the icy floor, he tested rising to his feet. The room spun slightly but even that stopped after a few deep breaths. With ginger fingers and only a few zings of pain he tested the lump on his forehead once again. It had not burst forth, no matter how much if felt as if it had. He was okay, he just wouldn’t be wearing any hats for a few days.

The room had only two adornments and he moved over to inspect them. One was a faded map of Iona glued to the wall. It showed happier times for the islands. Small icons revealed intact buildings, a few lodging houses, a number of small businesses that had catered to the few needs of The Order that they did not fulfill themselves. All gone. Even the classic picture of the fisherman leaning against his boat tied to Iona’s lone stone pier that probably no longer existed.

A small panel with a row of green lights was attached by the window. At least there was some technology, the first sign of it he’d seen. He moved back up several layers in the Plan and leaned in to read the worn markings. He couldn’t make them out in the dim room and pushed aside the curtain for more light. The vista that spread before him took his breath away though he had to squint to face it.

The sun glittered off the sea and Iona floated, dreamlike, across the sound. From here the expanse of the island was set out, from the small town that nestled about St. Ronan’s Bay, past the remains of the medieval nunnery and the burial ground of kings, to the great abbey that soared above the meadows of Iona. He wished he could see more closely, but there was no magnifier control on the window.

The woman, who he’d forgotten for a moment, handed him a small but heavy instrument.

“Take care with these.”

He held them to his eyes and they made everything smaller.

She took them from his hand and turned them the other way round. The two eyes didn’t focus the same, but the abbey of Iona leapt toward him. He couldn’t see the crosses. They were upon the wrong side. But he noted that the church and library seemed well intact. But it was the massive square bell tower, twice the height of any other structure on the island that repeatedly drew his attention. Against the stark wildness of Iona, it was a magnificent statement, “Here is a temple to the Lord God made by the hand of man.”

Had St. Columba and his twelve monks envisioned such an edifice when first they arrived? He knew that the church and tower dated from over six hundred years after Columba’s death and that any chapel or church of Columba’s time was long since beneath the abbey’s foundation, but Colin liked to think the old monk had been able to see what his simple faith had wrought.

His faith. And the power of what lay beneath the soil and green grass.

“I must get back to Iona. Why did you take me from there?”

She took the instrument from his hands and began wiping it carefully with a cloth. Watching her work, he noted the fine patina of the casing, worn smooth by a thousand hands until the fingers had left smooth patches in the dark metal. Even this technology was old. Not until it was wrapped in soft cloth and returned to a leather case did she answer.

“How is it that ye do not know?” Her words were slow and her eyes were narrowed suspiciously.

“Know what? I’m at a loss here.”

“How is it ye dinna know that madness lies on the soil of Iona for any man who walks it?”

“But you were there. Are you mad?”

She hesitated for a long moment before nodding.

“Had ye asked of me yesterday, I’d have said no. Now, I might well be. The crosses have a great power of evil and I lay senseless beneath them as you did. Though,” she almost smiled at him for a moment, “I dinna have a rock help me on my way.”

He touched his forehead, which complained bitterly about the contact, and returned her smile. It felt good to have made a friend.

“There is nothing to fear from the crosses. St. Columba and his monks moved to Iona in 563,” he almost added ‘to find the power that lies there’ but caught himself in time. That was the greatest secret of the Order. Introduced to him in private by Brother David and only passed on in one-on-one tutoring sessions after he’d been selected over the other brothers who had also been in the training for this trip.

“Iona was continuously populated right through to the departure of the Order in 2072. I didn’t think just two hundred years could leave it so barren. We left behind shepherds, farmers, and many others who didn’t wish to leave.”

“We?”

“The Order offered passage to any who wanted to avoid the coming collapse of … What’s wrong?” Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open as if she couldn’t get any air.

She looked past his shoulder at the electronic panel and then bolted from the room.

He bent down to inspect it. Some sort of simple alarm system. Each green light was labeled for a portion of Iona: Abbey, Village, Nunnery, St. Oran’s Chapel, and so on. A button that must have once been bright red but had aged to a dull maroon was labeled: Guardians. She had looked at him strangely when he had asked if she were a Guardian. Perhaps they were now the local form of constabulary. He heard her returning footstep and turned to ask for more information.

Her staff was arcing down toward his head.

He dodged aside. It passed so close he could feel the wind before it thudded into the wall. Her eyes were wild as she took the rebound and turned it into another strike. He dove onto the bed and rolled off the other side as she came around, landing on all fours on the floor.

The staff thwacked on the mattress so hard he was surprised the bed didn’t break. His few self-defense classes were going to be of no use barehanded against the whistling piece of oak.

He scrambled through the door and arrived in a small kitchen.

Woodstove, cabinets, table, old chairs.

No sign of a ‘visor or any other device to call for aid. Some ridiculous part of his mind noted the walls were as yellowed as the other room then made worse by an overlay of wood-smoke gray staining. No use of electricity at all.

He fell over a stack of firewood.

It was all that saved him from her next blow.

The only exits were a narrow window and a rough wooden door.

He chose the door.

Dove through as the jamb crunched in agony from her latest attempt to brain him.

The cold wind, moaning in from the sea, cut through his thin clothes like a knife.

Colin ran.

Knowing it was useless. They were on an island only a few hundred meters across and then there was the angry sea.

He caught his foot in the rain-soaked grasses and tumbled into them.

Cold. Wet. This was not just some nightmare. He rolled to face his attacker. Raised his arms over his head as she prepared the final blow.

“Don’t! Don’t kill me! I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t even know your name! And I think I’ve just wet my pants and I don’t want to die!”

When the blow didn’t come, and didn’t come, he opened one eye and peeked around his arm. He flinched back when he spotted the staff still raised high against the burnished blue sky. But it hung there more like a painting than his imminent demise. Her stormy eyes glared down at him and once again he lay prone before the mighty giantess who had awoken him upon Iona’s soil.

“You’re of The Order of Iona?” The words grated out between her teeth.

“Aye.” It didn’t occur to him until he’d spoken that perhaps he should have lied. And also that he was using one of her words, even her lilting Scottish accent to reply.

“Have ye come back to destroy us again?”

“What?”

“The Great Pulse, man. The Great Pulse that destroyed the world. Once was na enough for ye and yours?”

“We didn’t destroy you, the Earth, the first time. The electro-

magnetic pulse that destroyed all your technology also destroyed several of our ships. We barely managed to save the people aboard them.”

“Ye dinna make the Great Pulse?”

“No. And no, we don’t know who did.”

“So ye’ve come back from your hole in the sky?”

It took a moment to figure out what she’d meant.

“Yes, I did come from space.”

Abruptly the staff wavered and she glanced about the heath. “Did ye come alone?”

“Yes,” he assured her quickly. “Just me. The Order felt that a single person would be better able to assess the true situation.” Or they only wanted to risk sacrificing one person at a time. How many hours had he sat aboard the ship contemplating that question? Not even a soul to converse with to pass the hours. What danger would another person have caused? A partner could have saved him many lumps this day.

After one more look around, she slowly lowered her staff, though she still held it at the ready.

“Meghan.”

He wondered what strange language she was speaking before it registered that was her name.

“Means strong, capable. It fits.” His voice actually squeaked a little at how well it fit. Once again he wondered how close he’d been to death.

Close. Very close. A shiver having nothing to do with the wet grass crawled up his spine.

Now it was her turn to look confused. “What fits?”

“That’s what your name means. Some often trace it back to the Greek Margaret for ‘pearl,’ but the proper translation based upon your Scottish heritage would be the Anglo-Saxon ‘strong’.”

She extended the butt of her staff toward him and he flinched back. But for the second time she was offering aid. This time he declined grabbing onto the weapon that had nearly brought about his demise and struggled to his feet on his own.

“And ye just happen to know what my name means in who knows what language?”

“Anglo-Saxon. It’s a mash of many things including Celt and German.”

“I’m na German.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He was quite sure now they were speaking the same language, but the item that appeared to be lacking would best be labeled communication.