The Prophesy Rhymes
Of
Tolk’s Tomb
Book Two, the Sequel
Darren Shell
© Copyright 2006, Darren Shell
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
or otherwise, without written permission
from the author.
ISBN: 978-1-60414-179-5
Published by Fideli Publishing
From the Book of Lore,
the Dark Ages:
~ The Missing Page ~
Look to those…with hearts unsold,
to renew the Faith of young and old.
When King forsakes Father for lust and greed,
Cobblestone hearts will again be freed.
Find written answers in dismal doom,
in sullen, dark dungeon of Tolk’s lonely Tomb.
Seek for the chosen…born of King,
soon the bearer of righteous ring.
There will be proof for those unswayed…
for the forest will awaken…and come to his aid.
…and the Prophesy begins.
~1~
The streets of Cobblestone were damp with the morning dew. It was a dreary late summer day, and the skies were drab with the rainy gray clouds that seemed to loom over the city with an impending sorrow. Shutters were closed, even with the warm and humid conditions, in anticipation of an impending shower. The thirsty plants and flowers in the yards and window boxes welcomed the drops of rain, but for the town of Cobblestone, the dreary weather mirrored the heavy hearts of its civilians. Recent years had shown a change in the quaint little town. What was once a vibrant and warm dwelling of man, had slowly dwindled into a more subtle and forlorn community of a people who questioned their leadership…even their faith. It was still as lovely as ever. There just seemed to be a change in the air.
More than a decade had passed since the leaving of eight of the most influential members of the old abbey in Cobblestone. No one knew where they had chosen to travel, and even more questioned their leaving altogether. People missed these inspirational men in their lives and wondered if the young ones would ever properly fill their shoes. Could this abbey ever truly recover from such an upheaval? The elders were sorely missed, and many townspeople began to shirk what was once a rock-solid family tradition of attending sermons with the monk elders. It wasn’t really a church service, but more of a sermon and a short counsel thereafter. There was once a time that the town filled its pews; yet now, the attendance had dwindled considerably.
To make things worse, King Lawrence rarely ever showed his face these days. There were times, though, that he would make an appearance. He would come forth to deliver the inevitable increase in taxes, which had become an almost monthly occurrence. He would sometimes come into the merry places of town in search of…well…entertainment. Few now remembered his father’s warm ways of walking the streets for a morning stroll. The king’s father, and sometimes mother, would walk a slow and intentional path through the city streets. They would pause and speak with the townspeople. They would take pleasure in the refreshing morning air and enjoy the healthful walk. They would listen to the voices of those they governed. It was a good system that worked for years. But, unfortunately, that was decades ago, and the most recent of kings was now in his late fifties and still very unwed with no children. He had no siblings, no Uncles, no apparent tie to family other than the line after line of portraits down the main halls of his castle. He would have been lonely except for all the people in his life. They were not family, or for that matter, even true friends. They were the King’s People and little more. But, by most measurable means, the king was quite happy being king. In fact, he loved it. He could throw horrid tantrums…could curse and rant and rave…could throw down detestable commands…all for his spoiled arrogance. His every wish, good and bad, was fulfilled. But such might be kingship.
During the last decade, the town had slowly and subtly undergone a change. Since the elders of the abbey had left so abruptly, many townspeople harbored a fear in their hearts. Why didn’t anyone mention this foreign sabbatical prior to their leaving? Where were the beloved men of God that most had come to trust? Many began to succumb to the neigh-saying and less righteous thoughts of those who were in the employ of the king.
Now, one must admit, that the king had been a very successful king. He had conquered all that he had set out to take. He had provided a fantastic army to preserve and protect his citizens. He had employed many walks of life…trolls for extra strength in protection…dwarves for their fantastic metal works…even local men and women for their honed talents in various ways. In all essence, he had been a very strong and valiant leader, worthy and just. He had been regal and domineering. He even looked “king”. He was the prodigy of many years of royalty. Despite his brilliant and cordial, kingly ways, he had slipped into a less-than-perfect social life and was quite a pampered and egotistical sort. He looked first and foremost to himself…“Old number one”. “All for one…and all for me!” And “Me” liked things the way they were.
On this particular day, as with many days, Earl, the right-hand servant of the king, walked the streets of Cobblestone knocking on doors and doing the uncomfortable job of extracting taxes from the local folks and doing his best to make pleasant of the unpleasantries.
Each reluctant knock on the door was a blow to Earl’s heart. He had a strong love for his king, yet felt the pain of facing every civilian on their own turf …as every king should. The king should understand the complexities of his own hierarchy, and yet feel the voice of the people he governs. It is a sharp edge to walk. Stray but a little…and the puzzle will be shred. But, the king had Earl to do his shredding…and the pieces were tattered and torn beyond recognition. But Earl did his best to persevere. He was a strong and heart-felt fellow, good to his fellow man, and respectful to his king. He was worthy of high praise; he just rarely received it. He was the common man’s man…warm and simple. He was Good Earl, as most knew him. And Earl did his best to live up to his name.
Earl lifted his hand to the old wooden door of the home of an old friend, Bartholomew Smith. As he rapped gently on the door, old Smitty, as they called him, reluctantly stepped to the door and opened it. “Good morning, Good Earl,” he said quietly, not to awaken his household, “It is good to see you, friend.”
Smitty did mean the words he spoke, but felt the usual awkward pang in his stomach that came from both hunger and Earl’s knowing smile. He welcomed Earl inside.
“I cannot linger this morning, Smitty. I am on my usual dreaded mission. You know you are behind on your taxes, still.” As he spoke, he too felt the pang in his stomach and delivered his speech as soft and gentle as possible. It is never easy asking for blood from a turnip.
Poor Smitty seemed to cower under the large and stately figure in his doorway and looked to him with sullen eyes. “I have not worked since my accident in the field…” he said, as he glanced down at his bandaged leg.
“I know.” spoke Earl, with an understanding nod. “I will come back another day…but you mustn’t tarry long. The king grows impatient.” As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and retrieved two small coins. One he dropped into the colorful pouch of the king’s; the other he dropped into the old man’s hand. “Claven needs a hand in the kitchen down at the tavern…” He tipped his hat and smiled at Smitty and stepped from the doorway into the alley.
“Bless you, Good Earl,” he said with swelling eyes. “Bless you.” And he closed the door after him.
After a number of knocks on doors, Earl eventually meandered into a small portion of town known as Flagstone Row. It was a long row of connected housing usually occupied by those a little more fortunate than Earl’s old friend, Smitty. The row of buildings were not lavish but still had some nice touches like window boxes and small fountains. It was a pleasant little setting, well-known to Earl. It was his childhood home. He still knew many of its residents and visited now and then. As he turned a corner and began his purpose, a voice called out to him.
“You need not knock on my door, Good Earl,” shouted the voice of a middle-aged man dressed in clean leather attire, “for I stand attentive to such graces as a visit from the king’s puppet. I see you are still in the employ of Lucky Larry.”
“Draw your sword, peasant!” Earl shouted. “Lest I behead you for treason to the king!”
“Unless your swordsmanship has improved, Great Earl of Flagstone…might I draw a mop…or perhaps a walking stick?” the voice chided.
Earl stepped to arm’s distance of the man speaking and stared into his face with a scowl. Within seconds, the scowls of both men turned to smiles culminating in hearty laughs. With a forceful handshake, Earl said “Dominick! It is good to see you. How have you been, my nearly headless friend?”
“I have been away at work aboard the Sea Dragon, in the Bay of Greenwale. I dare say I shall never eat another crab in all my days!” spoke Dominick, chuckling.
“…away PIRATING, I’d rather believe,” joked Earl. After a bit of small talk and joke-filled bantering, Dom, as he was known in these streets, invited Earl in for a cup of tea. They discussed the comings and goings of Cobblestone and the many facets of crab fishing in the bay. Dom had been gone for nearly two years, and he mentioned the slight difference in the air. “The streets do not seem as enchanting as I remember,” he stated, “and far fewer fair maidens, as well.” He smiled and gazed out the window at the quiet streets.
“Ah,” laughed Earl, “there are still many fair maidens within our fine walls. We have penned them up in preparation of your arrival! We will set them free once you’ve gone, and things are much safer.”
“Touché, my friend” smiled Dom. The two continued their talk for another few minutes until Earl finally stood and prepared to leave. Dom again spoke, “It really has been good to see you, my friend. I intend to stay in your fair city for the better part of autumn. Should you or our fair king need my service, I am at your immediate disposal. You know where to find me.”
“Certainly,” laughed Earl, with a wry smile, “you will be somewhere near the pent up maidens! Until next time…keep your mop handy!” And, as the two friends parted ways, it was good to know that there were still some hearty laughs left in Cobblestone.
~2~
The walls of Cobblestone Abbey were warm against the back of a young monk’s cloak. Jon sat quietly on the stone wall of the garden with quill pen in hand. He would pause now and again to rest his tired grip of the pen and gaze out over the many roses and late summer flowers currently in bloom. The back garden of the abbey was Jon’s favorite place to do his scribing and copying of the old books of the abbey’s vast library. He had copied many volumes himself and had watched attentively, in his youth, while many other volumes were lovingly copied by the hands of the monks of the abbey in much the same way as Jon was now. It was considered an honor to re-scribe a book of importance, and to do so in the beautiful garden setting of the abbey was a very rewarding and peaceful pastime for Jon. He always initialed his books with a small printing of his name on the back cover…Jon.
Today, the overcast weather provided a cool spot for Jon’s work. He was about midway through his copying of one of the most important books of the time. The writings of Tolk were all immensely important works, but his Book of Lore was consulted by virtually everyone from the churches and schools to the king himself. It was a work of both history and prophesy. It was regarded as a gospel of a great prophet, and it was renowned far and wide. Tolk’s writing was always of a rhyming and rhythmic sort, and within his words, great stories were told…and eerie prophesies foreshadowed. Within this book, some of the prophesies of Tal Kator were entwined. Although the Leaflings were mentioned numerous times within that portion of the book, most people merely overlooked the Leaflings as some long-ago figment. Nearly every other word in this large volume was hung upon, studied, and lived by. It was a treasured piece of literature.
Jon had copied this book before. Father Haley had requested one in Jon’s handwriting years ago, not long before his untimely death. A pang of guilt rumbled in Jon’s stomach. His mind flashed back to the night he buried Father Haley and the rest of the “Eight Missing Fathers”. He had never worked harder in his life than that night. There were still signs of his once bloody and swollen blisters on his hands to this day, a decade later. He could remember the cool, clammy soil like it was yesterday, and could feel the pain in his back. His heart had never been the same after that night. He questioned his actions of that night over and over and never fully gained confidence that what he did was right. He did save the abbey a barrage of questions, and moreover, he saved a lynching of the Leaflings. So much death, he thought. Who is to know what was right? But, right or wrong, his actions that night had profoundly changed the abbey, as well as the city of Cobblestone. It seemed everyone now needed proof of everything from unimportant daily chores to the very scripture the monks worshipped. Evidence, thought Jon. Everyone needs proof…proof unattainable.
It did help heal Jon’s heart some to visit the small cemetery he had created for the eight monks. It was only a small clearing with unmarked fieldstones as headstones, and one larger one with four simple words carved into its face. It simply read: Here Lie Great Men. Although ten years had now passed, a tear still rolled down Jon’s nose and fell onto his page. It really wasn’t his fault. The men had had the opportunity to live, but chose to fight instead. But none of that mattered to Jon; he still felt sorrow and guilt over the ordeal and carried it with him daily. He hoped to someday make amends to the abbey for what had befallen it…he just had no idea how to do it. So everyday he plodded along, doing his best to keep his chin up, serving the abbey to his best ability and caring for his mentor…Father Mathias.
Mathias, who was now astonishingly old, was still able to carefully navigate the spiral stairwell. He still made his presence known throughout the abbey. His knowledgeable smile and kind words were the stronghold of the abbey. Yet in these days, faith was aging like the beloved old monk himself. He was still loved, and very much respected; yet people just didn’t seem to seek his counsel as often as years ago. The abbey was far less visited now.
. . . . . . . . . .
Father Mathias slowly approached as Jon sat comfortably on the garden wall. He finally spoke to the lad in front of him, “Your hands are never idle, my good son.”
Jon was humbled when the old monk spoke to him as son. Even though that sort of thing was quite common among members of the monk faith, Jon took great pride in it and always made certain his address to Mathias was always in the form of “Father”.
“Idle hands, Father,” said Jon, “are the hands of the Devil.” He gave Mathias a warm smile and motioned to the wall beside him. “Father,” he continued, “I am copying Tolk again. It is such a shame that some of these pages have fallen out and lost. I should love to see them and copy the book in full.”
Father Mathias gave a solemn look. “I’m afraid those pages were not lost…” he said with a sigh, “…they were removed.” He looked to Jon for his response and received Jon’s astonished gasp. “The good kingship has seen fit to save us that blessing. It has been said by royalty for years beyond account that those pages plagued the city with undue worry. The kings and queens of old had them removed.”
“How does one remove history?” asked Jon with wide eyes.
“I feel you have forgotten some of my teachings,” spoke Mathias. Jon let his head fall with disappointment. It was obvious that the lad was delving into his memory deeply as possible. Bits and pieces of his studies of Tolk began to re-enter his mind.
“Tolk…” stammered Jon, “was in the employ of one of the old kings.” Jon’s head tilted side to side and appeared to be allowing thoughts to bounce around a bit. “…uhmmm…he was scribe for some time. Yes! He was scribe for the king! He was the king’s personal scribe before he went off into the forest to study and write. But how does this relate to history …to my question?”
Mathias’ shoulders seemed to sag with the weight of Jon’s question. “I have delayed telling you many things, Jon…for fear of weakening your faith.”
“I shall never lose faith, Father. I have your words…your example…your love.” He gave Mathias a concerned glance. “I shall wait patiently for you to tell of what and when…at your biding.”
Mathias took a deep breath and released it with a worrisome tone of voice. “Since the good Lord has provided us with such a cool and cloudy afternoon, here in such a blessed place, I suppose it is time.” Jon laid down his pen and stared in wonder at the old man before him. He looked to Mathias and said, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. I shall wait patiently.”
“You need not wait, my son. I will tell of it. You should know. Do not lose faith. Do not lose heart. You are all I have. I will need you in the end.” As he spoke, a tear slid from his eye, much like that of Jon a moment or two earlier. “You know of our king?”
“Of course, Father, he has been a strong leader…a force for Cobblestone.”
“Yes…yes he has,” spoke Mathias cautiously. “But not all of his actions are so stately. He has provided proof unto the people. He states his plans and follows through. He professed to the conquering of the thieves and thugs of the Farfold Marshes…and did so. People can count on the foretellings of that nature. They seek a much sooner faith and receive it through him. He has been a great warrior and savior in their eyes. The kings of old did the same. There is great valor in such, and I do not condemn it. But it has been said among the Literati of old that every precaution has been taken to ensure that those same conditions present themselves in the future. Any foretellings otherwise in Tolk’s work would be removed. Any prophesies would be omitted. Quite simply, anything that did not suit the king and queen during those early days of Tolk was simply removed.”
“What did the other pages contain?” asked Jon, still a bit confused.
“It has been rumored that the Literati of old had read them. They were part of a much larger work of Tolk. They were his own manuscripts. It has been said that all of Tolk’s works were to be buried with him in his tomb to be kept safe until they were needed. They were referred to as the Scribes of Tolk and were said to have great power to he who found them …he who studied them…used their gift of prophesy for good.”
“So…” spoke Jon, with an obvious look of disbelief, “our copy of The Book of Lore has been censored by the royal family…to suit them.” Mathias nodded. “What were those pages about, Father?”
“Few now know. I suppose they were about something the royal family did not want the rest of the world to know. It is said that the king’s copy of the book is still intact.”
“Can you not go see it, Father?” But even as he spoke the words, he knew the answer. The king was not about to allow anyone to view anything that could jeopardize the kingship. Mathias was certain of that long before this conversation had taken place.
“I worry about what the king will do when I pass,” spoke Mathias solemnly. Jon continued to watch Mathias as the old man searched his mind and clinched his hands nervously. “The king once paid me a visit. He and a few of his men requested a tour of the abbey and asked to examine the place on their own. I did not allow it. This did not set well with the king…for kings expect full cooperation. In a rage, he left and commented that someday, somehow, he would come back.”
“What would be his reasoning for searching our abbey? What would he seek here?”
“I fear,” spoke Mathias, “that he may have been in search of Tolk’s tomb…to find the last copy of the Scribes. None of the modern monks have ever found it, although many have tried. In the fifth quatrain of the fifth chapter, Tolk states that In my earthly days, few will know my worth. In my death, I shall be the foundation of the Church. Some say these lines suggest his remains could be buried beneath the Abbey…its foundation. Some say the lines only reflect his impact on the church, or abbey. I have had no luck finding anything that could constitute as a tomb, not even a grave. I have many theories and have studied my writings but have had no luck finding answers. All monks want to be the one who finds the Scribes…the one who brings Faith back to Cobblestone. I think the king would like to be the one who finds it, but I have no intention of letting that rat soul of a king pilfer our halls.”
“Father!” spoke Jon in amazement. “He is our king! You mustn’t say such things…if someone heard? He is KING!”
“You know little of the real king, Jon. It is my fault. I have withheld too many things from you, my son. You are worthy of much better. I am sorry.”
“Father, you worry me,” said Jon. “You mustn’t have fear of my losing faith. I am your humble servant…your friend. I will be by your side until the very end. No stone in my path shall be too large to overturn…not if you are with me.”
“Then you shall hear it all, my good son,” said Mathias with a sigh of relief. “Forgive me for not telling you sooner.”
Jon listened in total silence as Mathias searched his mind for the proper words. It was a relief for the old monk to finally be telling Jon, and yet, the telling was breaking his heart. He continued. “Have you not noticed that our fair king has no queen? He is up in age and appears to have little intention of gaining one. I suspect he will take a wife soon, if only to keep the bloodline, and more importantly, the king line. But he has been no pillar in our society, no example for the young ones. He has many fair women in wait for him. There are those ladies, who by little choice of their own, await his call. He has kept them for years…tucked neatly away in the castle, out of view. There is a constant rotation of women in and out of the castle. It is deplorable.”
“But the king,” questioned Jon, “…his preferences should not discount his leadership…his strength in battle. He has been a valiant king.”
Mathias paused and appeared to be struggling, fighting some urge to speak. At last, he looked long and hard into Jon’s eyes, drew a deep breath, and continued, “Twenty-six years ago…a woman…a gentle and kind and beautiful woman stepped into the halls of this abbey. She looked for counsel. She looked for faith. Her spirit was broken. She had given up hope. She turned to this abbey for help. Her name…was Marie, and her eyes were the most hauntingly beautiful pools I had ever seen. She was young and so very vibrant…yet full of sorrow and despair. Along with Sister Margaret from the orphanage, we took her in, hoping to soothe the sorrow in her heart.”
Mathias paused and took another deep breath. Jon still had no idea where this story was going and appeared to hang upon every word. Mathias continued, stammering, “She…had been… hmmm…in the employ…of the king.”
“Oh, Father, how could she?” cried Jon in dismay, “…not such a kind woman, so tender, so loving?”
“One does not simply say no to the king,” said Mathias bitterly. “That would be treason. She would be hanged before noon…hanged!” As these words slowly sank into Jon’s mind, Mathias began again.
“When she came here…she was…” Mathias fought every word and drew them from deep inside, “she was…was…with child.” He wiped his hand over his eyes, and tears filled his palm. “She had so many questions that we could not answer. Sister Margaret counseled her daily and provided a warm place for her to stay. Marie helped in the orphanage and gardened with the sisters. She eventually regained her self-esteem and became a wonderful and spiritual woman…all the while, carrying the unborn son of the king. She was such a pleasure to be around…so pleasant…so beautiful…so wonderful. All who knew her, loved her and cherished her kindness.” By now, Mathias was bent over his knees with his head facing his clinched fists…speaking…almost praying…and crying. Tears fell onto his hands as he continued to speak as his body shook gently.
As his trembling hands quivered and shook, his voice gently filled the garden with anguish, “Her screaming voice filled the air…the day…the day the newborn son of the king entered this world. The wonderful son of the king was born…and lived! But she…the tender woman we had come to love…did not…”
“But what of this woman?” asked Jon desperately.
“Jon…” sobbed Mathias, “…she was your mother.”
~3~
The parched streets of Cobblestone were baking Jon with the radiant heat from the hot afternoon sun. He stomped down one street, then another, as sweat poured from his brow. His turns had taken him nowhere, other than through a maze of twists and turns in the Cobblestone backstreets. A leather-clad fellow watched attentively from the side street as the angry young monk stomped by, again and again. Dominick wondered what could cause a monk to react in such a way. He had always thought of those men as quiet, refined individuals that rarely left the confines of the abbey. Jon stomped on, and Dom went about his day.
Along with the fury in Jon’s head, many, many thoughts ricocheted from within. Scribes of Tolk…my father, the king…my Mother. Your Mother and Father died when you were young…blah! Lies! Died…how disgusting! Father…oh my Father…he lives! Ha! He lives…yet cares not for me.
Despite the many dreadful thoughts in his mind, Jon’s heart was beginning to come to terms. And not long after his heart came to terms…his mind began to place things in order. What of these rhymes of Tolk? Foundation…of the church?
After many hours of sweltering heat, Jon succumbed to a tall glass of lemonade and rested quietly upon the same stone on which he had sat earlier in the day. His temper was cooling along with his body. He was now somewhat more collected, and the craftiness of his mind was beginning to size up the situation. If I could find the Scribes…set the record straight…bring Faith back to the people of Cobblestone…
Those would all be worthy endeavors, but all were way in the distance, far from Jon’s ability as a monk of this abbey. He was still a young monk, and seemed so very youthful in comparison to Father Mathias. Mathias was older than anyone in Cobblestone but carried himself so lightly and lively. He was an example to all.
Although Jon was still fighting some anger inside, he was also feeling awkward about the way he had let his rage consume him. So, by now, along with his anger, he was now feeling a little foolish and embarrassed. He glanced high up at the tower beside him. It seemed to reach the heavens, with its large stone coverings jutting into the sky. Jon knew in his heart that it was time for counsel with his friend and mentor. Mathias would no doubt be waiting in his room at the top of the stairs and expecting Jon to come forward when he was ready. Mathias always had words of wisdom for him; and their bond grew with time.
Jon’s sandals slapped against the rock surface of the steps of the spiral staircase of the abbey tower. The evening sun was piercing the panes of the stained glass windows of the tower, and it filled the air with warm and colorful light. It was a strange and pleasant light; and it never failed to tingle Jon’s spine as he used the stairs. It really seemed like a stairway to the heavens to him, and he cherished the feel of the whole tower.
Jon approached the old wooden door of Father Mathias’ quarters and gently rapped upon it. The elderly voice of Mathias could be heard through the door. “Come in, my son. I have been waiting.”
“I am sorry, Father,” spoke Jon, timidly. “I was angry, but I did not lose faith.”
“Come forward, my son. You owe me no apology. You have every right to be angry, both with me and the world.” Mathias motioned Jon to take a seat beside him and offered a warm smile. “I need to show you what little I have learned in my search for the elusive Tomb of Tolk.”
Jon was surprised that Mathias had already known what he had been pondering during his angry walk through Cobblestone. He smiled at the knowledge of Mathias and listened closely to the old man’s words.
Mathias pulled from his side table an old and worn leather-bound book. It was his Bible; and it had all the signs of a heavily-used document of an elderly man. Its tattered cover and yellowed pages seemed warm and inviting. Jon had always admired the old Bible and hoped to someday own it when the inevitable time came when he would need it most…when its current owner no longer needed it. As Mathias leafed though the pages, Jon watched quietly and respectfully.
“You remember this old book, do you not?” he asked.
“Of course, Father, it once was Father Genivah’s…the Elder before you.”
“I thought you might remember it,” said Mathias, with a warm and understanding grin of appreciation. “It has served me well.” Mathias caressed his hands over the book’s cover. “I hold it everyday, even when I am not reading it. It is a great comfort to me. It is part of me. I want you to have it when I am gone.” Mathias paused and smiled lovingly at Jon. “You will also receive my ring…” Mathias paused and looked down at the Amethyst ring on his finger, and then looked again to Jon, “…thus, making you the youngest High Elder in the history of Cobblestone Abbey.”
Mathias again paused and watched Jon’s responses. Jon knew that he would someday be an Elder of the abbey, but the office of High Elder had somehow evaded his imagination. He had known he would inherit Mathias’ ring; yet the repercussions for doing so had not entered his mind. The weight of the situation was sinking in on him. This was quite a responsibility for such a young man. Jon was less than thirty years old; and yet, he would now fill the shoes of men who had never served the office younger than at least fifty years of age. It was a time in the abbey’s history that would be shunned by much of society and watched closely by even those who believed he could somehow fill those shoes. The job alone would be quite a task for a young lad, but the political repercussions that could follow would be another obstacle altogether. He would be in constant view of the people of Cobblestone, and his actions would be picked apart by many of the most knowledgeable minds in the city. He would be under much scrutiny. Mathias understood the weight that the lad would carry and took all precautions to ensure as smooth a transition as possible.
“Although nearly every monk to cross our threshold has longed to be the one to find the Scribes, I believe it will be you that finds them.” Mathias spoke with a strange and elusive tone, and Jon’s astonished eyes looked on. “I believe this not just because you are true of heart…and strong of courage…and worthy beyond that of many men. I believe this because I feel that you…you, Jon of Cobblestone…will need it most.”
“I do not know if I possess such strength, Father. I wish to fill your shoes as best I can. I long to save the Faith of Cobblestone…but I do not know if the strength is within me.”
“Perhaps Faith is all that you need, Jon. Perhaps some of what you need is in here.” Mathias handed Jon his Bible and spoke again, “There is more in here than just gospel. There are notes of mine…notes of Genivah’s…and room for your comments as well. Even if you do not solve this ancient mystery, place your thoughts within for he who will someday come. It is all we can do.”
As Jon took the Book from Mathias’ hands, Mathias spoke again, “Copy all of what is written in notations. Gather all of what the Book has to offer and return it. I shall miss it sorely. There are bits and pieces throughout it. Some are loose notes, and some are scribblings within the bindings. Copy them to your Bible and return it…until you can keep it for your own.”
Jon grasped the Bible as a tear slid down his nose. He finally pushed words past the lump in his throat. “I’ve much to do and much to think about.” He smiled at Mathias and bowed. “I shall have it back to you tomorrow.”
As Jon descended the stairwell, the weight of the world followed. But even as his emotions swelled, his determination seemed to grind forward with equal strength. Jon of Cobblestone was inspired.
~4~
The morning sun shone warmly on the front steps of Cobblestone Abbey. A tall figure stood at the door and looked reluctantly at the giant knocker hanging in the center. Go ahead, he thought, you can do this.
The loud knock on the door rattled through the abbey and echoed down the halls. The noise shook Jon fully awake. He lay face down on his writing desk in a pool of slobber. One of the younger monks had already made his way to the door, and Jon listened attentively while wiping his face and hands. He could faintly overhear the voices in the corridor and prepared himself as best he could to meet the visitor as promptly as possible. The voice of Brother Michael soon entered Jon’s room. “Brother Jon, we have a visitor who would like to speak to an Elder. Father Howard is in the rose garden. Shall I fetch Father Mathias?”